Street Style

I was anxious the other night. There I was, bending forward on a couch, watching a TV that wasn’t quite at a volume I could hear comfortably, allowing some mild obsessive compulsive rituals to play out – drawing patterns on my thighs with my index finger and thumb, tapping out rhythms with my foot against the table leg. I was at the local stylessly-renovated Beer Barn watching the Australian football team play a World Cup qualifier against Qatar.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ I vaguely remember thinking, as each speculative Qatari shot from impossible range caused me to twitch involuntarily as it floated harmlessly over the cross bar. The game wasn’t close and had never been expected to be – the Socceroos were clear favourites and didn’t ever look like losing. So why, I thought, did this game have such a hold over me?

Anyone who sits down and thinks about it all might find such an obsession ridiculous. I have no interest in nationalist politics and find the idea of, say, having a southern cross tattooed on my shoulder blade an infantile expression of insecurity masked as national pride. But I’ll wear a yellow shirt, scream at opposition players and become uncontrollably emotional while watching the national football team play.

At the same time I find ways to justify such feelings in order to quieten the more sensible voices in the back of my head. The Australian football team is a positive expression of the success of multiculturalism, I reason. And besides, playing football is fun, so why would I begrudge anyone playing it as well as these guys do? But the voices nag away. Thoughts about hooliganism, overindulged idiot players, the absurdity of prowess at kicking a ball as a measure of national virtue (to paraphrase George Orwell).

Maybe then, there’s an evolutionary explanation for the way I feel. Was it so important for prehistoric humans to feel part of a tribe that the defeat of another tribe in competition could produce such unparalleled feelings of ecstasy and satisfaction? Maybe the caveman who didn’t care about the ability of another caveman to throw a spear accurately was the one who was sacrificed to the gods when the mammoth hunt failed.

I’ll usually make a last attempt to silence the voices by agreeing with them to some degree. I guess sport is the healthiest expression of low-level nationalism – one where nobody dies and everybody knows it’s all ‘just a game’. It’s just a circus that would exist in some form or another anyway, so let’s not take it too seriously.

But the voices never stay quiet for long. Back at the pub, the game ends in an easy 4-0 win and I walk home satisfied, for now, with all anxiety quelled. My thoughts turn to the next game and a hint of fear seeps back … What if we lose? … What then?