The first time I saw current Borussia Dortmund striker Erling Haaland, back in his Salzburg days, I thought, “That kid looks like Brock Lesnar’s “before” picture, or maybe his teenage son.” I’ve called him “Baby Brock” ever since. Today, I tried to show somebody what I mean, only to find that there didn’t seem to be any photographic comparisons available. So, once again, it falls to me to make things happen:
The Millwall incident was fairly minor in the scheme of things. But the furious, even demented response to it is incredibly revealing. It confirms that there is a chasm-sized gap between the elites and ordinary people. And it confirms that the woke elites will brook no dissent whatsoever to their divisive agendas of critical race theory and woke re-education. I predict more booing. I hope there’s more booing.
For roughly 350 years, since the birth of liberalism as a political philosophy, those whom we might generally describe as intellectuals in pursuit of progress have understood themselves as opposed to the oppressive nature of state, church, and even culture itself. The phenomenon that some are calling “woke capitalism” seems to be the paradoxical result of this pursuit, in which a small minority of dissidents protesting in the most harmless way possible have to somehow be portrayed as the heirs of this oppressive legacy, still in power, still threatening to reverse progress. A couple thousand fans booing a ridiculous empty gesture at a sporting event is a threat to life and liberty, but a wealthy football league threatening to use the invasive power of surveillance technology to punish them (for breaking what law?) is just the poor, scrappy underdog trying to protect himself. St. George has become a pathetic spectacle, skewering tiny lizards and lashing out at anyone who dares to suggest that they aren’t fire-breathing monsters, or, furthermore, that he is actually becoming something of an oppressor himself. What will it take to bring a moment of crushing self-awareness to this old warrior? Or is it too late, and he’s just doomed to decline into violent senility?
There seemed little likelihood that they would put up with this new performative gesture going on not just once, but months and months after the event that kicked it off. Football grounds, even after decades of gentrification and rising ticket prices, are not always genteel places. They are places where strong views are held about peoples’ failings, real or otherwise, with crowds who do not always keep their opinions to themselves.
And so, as the months dragged on and the strange new ritual seemed impossible to shrug off, the day was always going to come when the clubs reacquainted themselves with their supporters. Sure enough, on Saturday that happened, and the inevitable, predictable thing took place, at the home of one of the less genteel of football clubs: Millwall. At the start of the match between the south London side and visitors Derby County, both teams went down on one knee as is now their custom — and as they did so, many of the supporters began audibly to boo.
So, yes — for those of you unacquainted with the world of English soccer, games have been going on since the leagues restarted over the summer, in empty stadiums. Throughout that time, it has become a new ritual for the players to take a knee for a moment in solidarity with BLM after the opening whistle. Only just this past weekend, tiny numbers of fans were allowed back in certain grounds. As the man said, the Millwall supporters made their feelings known about this new ritual of virtue-signaling. The feculent, inbred world of football journalism, from the Guardian to the Daily Mail, was united in its horrified denunciation of these savages who dare to show such impiety toward the new state religion. It was suggested somewhere that CCTV might even be used to identify the “offenders,” who are apparently deserving of punishment under new anti-blasphemy laws. I smirked and thought, “Good for them.”
Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of characters among the booing ruffians whom I would find loathsome (the same rule applies to pretty much any assemblage of five or more people). But for all I know, maybe many of them were booing at what could reasonably be seen as the unwelcome imposition of American political obsessions into English sport. I know if I were English, and even tepidly patriotic, I’d be thinking, “Why do we have to imitate whatever the stupid Yanks are doing?” Either way, the strident condemnation, the determination to crush even the smallest display of dissent, doesn’t give an impression of strength or confidence. It shows insecurity and weakness, a recognition that if anyone other than carefully-chosen media elites is allowed a voice, things could get out of hand in a hurry. Maybe there are racists among the jeering masses. But when the non-racists are a bunch of tongue-swallowing cowards, well, you take your heroes where you can find them.
Eric Cantona has added to his long list of unique and bizarre speeches after collecting the UEFA President’s Award.
The former United forward was on stage ahead of the Champions League draw in Monaco to receive the award, which “recognises outstanding achievements, professional excellence and exemplary personal qualities”.
Dressed in a rather casual shirt, jeans and flat cap and sporting a familiarly large beard, the 53-year-old began by quoting William Shakespeare’s King Lear: “As flies to wanton boys, we are for the gods.”
The audience, including Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo and Virgil van Dijk, looked on perplexed as Cantona continued: “They will kill us for the sport.
“Soon the science will not only be able to slow down the ageing of the cells, soon the science will fix the cells to the state and so we will become eternal.
“Only accidents, crimes, wars, will still kill us but unfortunately, crimes, wars, will multiply.
“I love football. Thank you.”
If women, who are simply not as good at soccer as men, want to make as much money as male soccer players, then women, collectively, must become so good at soccer as to produce a *greater market interest in women’s soccer*.
— Christopher DeGroot (@CEGrotius) July 8, 2019
With the result that they make as much money as male soccer players. If you want equal pay, perform equally. (I notice that fewer men than women seem to have trouble with this simple principle.)
— Christopher DeGroot (@CEGrotius) July 8, 2019
There is no a priori reason why the sexes, or the races, should perform equally in all domains, as if the world were not an endlessly diverse place, or as if it were answerable to people’s delusional moral sentiments.
— Christopher DeGroot (@CEGrotius) July 8, 2019
Almost everyone who read about this topic from mainstream press sources came away with the impression that the women’s teams were being treated unfairly in the World Cup despite the numbers clearly telling a different story. That’s a problem with the press, not discriminatory pay.
I shouldn’t be amazed, but somehow, as I see article after article repeating trendy nonsense about a gender pay gap in professional soccer, I manage to find a little bit of untarnished innocence deep down inside and say, “How can these hacks be so ignorant and/or dishonest?” Likewise, while watching the final yesterday, I heard the Nike “Dream with Us” commercial at halftime and was actually taken aback at the social-justice propagandizing. “Can you be the generation that ends gender inequality?” “Or will you show that champions in your sport can also look like you?” “What other maudlin, progressive, hashtag platitudes can we stick in here to make you gullible leftists forget all your reflexive, anti-corporate posturing and buy our athletic wear?” Aren’t they supposed to be at least a little subtle about it? Don’t people feel insulted by such blatant pandering? Will I ever become cynical enough to stop asking such rhetorical questions?
The Women’s World Cup in soccer should be a cause for celebration, as the game’s best female players get to show off their talents in front of bigger crowds than most of them have ever played before. But it’s apparently impossible these days for players—as well as coaches, commentators, journalists, or even spectators—to enjoy a major sporting event without filtering the experience through the prism of resistance politics. And so, this edition of the Women’s World Cup, taking place in France now and continuing through the first week in July, has turned into a festival of resentment and grievance.
Too numerous to catalog in their entirety, the complaints have piled up: the women aren’t paid enough; the male-dominated media don’t pay enough attention—and, conversely, too many male reporters are covering the games; the commentary is sexist; the commentators engage in too many stereotypes; the greedy men who run international soccer don’t care whether the women succeed. It’s difficult to watch a broadcast, read a game account, scan a blog, listen to a podcast, or read anything on social media about the tournament without being reminded of all the injustices these athletes and coaches are enduring. One journalist even described the games an “act of defiance.”
Well, yes. As with most things, the games themselves are enjoyable; the commentary about the games is almost entirely worthless, which is why it’s best ignored altogether. It’s a shame that the usual culprits are determined to push a zero-sum gender-war narrative, because the women’s game will generally suffer for the comparison. I’ve been watching this summer’s tournament, as I did four years ago. As always, it’s refreshing to see the absence of the diving and flopping which mars the men’s game, and the overall surfeit of good sportsmanship is wonderful (notwithstanding Cameroon’s embarrassing display of petulance during their defeat to England this week). On the other hand, I can’t remember the last time I saw such a lopsided blowout between professional teams as I did during the U.S.A.’s 13-0 humiliation of Thailand, and there’s no getting away from the fact that the women’s game is noticeably slower and basic errors are more prevalent (on the other other hand, today’s Netherlands-Japan match was as thrilling as any you’ll see, a game where it was truly sad that there had to be a loser). I have no ideological axe to grind; the reason I only tune in to watch women’s games every four years is that I simply don’t have time for more than that. With limited temporal and attentive resources to spend, choices have to be made, and I prefer to watch the more exciting, competitive games featuring the best athletes. At any rate, I think all reasonable people can agree that identity politics ruins everything.
Liverpool beat Barcelona 4-0 (4-3 agg) to qualify for the Champions League final for the second year running. #LIVBAR https://t.co/ngYjq5Z0cH
— Twitter Moments (@TwitterMoments) May 7, 2019
Jurgen Klopp said before this game that if Liverpool had to fail, then they should at the very least “fail beautifully”. This was the footballing equivalent of having your cake and eating it: winning beautifully, doggedly, and when nobody gave them a chance.
Few would have thought this possible at full-time in Spain, even fewer when Mohamed Salah and Roberto Firmino were ruled out of the second leg. But Klopp did, and he is quite a persuasive character – as his players proved in, somehow, beating Barcelona 4-0 here. Doing so not only guaranteed them a Champions League final berth, but also a place in Anfield history. They are men behind its greatest ever European night.
Nights like this are why I love this sport, this club, and this manager. My God, what a game.
This writer – this intense thinker who perceived that everything was Sisyphean, who proclaimed that the only way to live was to revolt relentlessly against meaninglessness – loved a mere game. Loved it with as much intensity and consistency as he loved anything. Why?
Consider this: what could be more absurd than 22 people chasing a sphere of inflated leather around a rectangle of grass for 90 minutes, and believing that the amount of times said sphere crosses a couple of painted lines is a matter of the most profound importance? In any sort of rational analysis, football is fundamentally ridiculous. A flurry of imaginary meaning.
But in the absurdist analysis, human striving of any sort is fundamentally ridiculous, and all meaning is at bottom imaginary. Zoom out until yours is the long view of the cosmos, and there is no essential difference between chasing a football and chasing a career, or a first home, or the eradication of racial injustice, or your soulmate. All of our huffing and puffing will exhaust itself and be forgotten, in time. To find meaning anywhere, Camus thought, required approaching life with more than cold reason. It required filtering reality through different states of being.
This seems unnecessarily cerebral to me. Owen makes many interesting points about why “a mere game” can have such a hold on our attention and energy, but he never mentions the simplest one: it’s fun. Fun is too banal a concept for analysis, I suppose. Even our pets intuitively understand fun. If my cat could talk, I’m sure he’d say that it’s just plain fun for him to jump up, skitter across the garage floor, and start batting a pebble around for a few seconds. Writers and thinkers tend to be dreadfully serious, which means they dare not risk looking frivolous by suggesting that some things simply are as they appear; they stand on their own merit without any need for theoretical scaffolding. Games are meaningful in a different way than careers and relationships; they’re not all competing in a zero-sum fashion for the same goal.
