Nothing, Everything, and Something: On Watching Association Football
In my Global Sports Cultures course this fall, we’ll devote two weeks to association football. The first, early on, will focus on the issues at stake in the 2006 Men’s World Cup Final between Italy and France, in which French star and captain Zinedine Zidane head butted Italian defender Mateo Materazzi (who, it appears, had made some inflammatory comments to Zidane). Zidane was ejected and Italy won the match on penalty kicks. The second unit, later in the term, will be on what you might call the Legend of Diego Maradona. In other words, we’ll look at how Maradona is perceived and, in fact, constructed by the media, fans (and haters), and artists. Some excellent, thoughtful material has been produced on both these topics. And these materials will anchor our discussions. But I wanted to share some of what I’ll offer my students by way of orientation to the world’s most popular sport.
First thing, we’re gonna call it “football” or “association football.” Yes, I know we’re in America and if I don’t like it I can just, blah blah blah. No, duh, I’m not going to make you call “elevators” “lifts” or make you raise your hand for permission to go the “lou.” Yes, I recognize the confusion since, as Michigan students but above all as Americans, football means something else to you, something much closer to your heart. And no, finally, it’s not that big a deal whether you call it “football” or soccer.” It’s more like a small deal that’s connected to bigger deals. So let’s call this little exercise practice for the bigger deals.
Naming matters. They may in some ways be arbitrary, but they matter because we care about the things named and we care about the things because we’ve got something of ourselves bound up in them. Through names we come to express and shape who we are as individuals and as members of groups and through names we exercise our power to shape our place in the world and the paths of our lives. That’s what the rest of the world (except Americans and those who speak Afrikaans) are doing when they call the sport they love and devote themselves to “football” (or something that sounds like it).
What are we doing—in relation to them—by insisting on calling it “soccer”?
Let that question percolate in the back of your mind this week as you participate in this awkward linguistic experiment and learn more about the sport, its history, and its relationship to world politics. I’m not saying we have to be absolutists or purists about it. I’m not going to correct you everytime you make the mistake. And I’m going to make the mistake myself. But just while we’re working in this class let’s try the exercise and the experiment of adopting the language of the rest of the world and see if that doesn’t start to help us feel a little bit what the rest of the world feels and understand a bit of what the rest of the world understands.
Now, I’m imagining that few of you make watching football a regular part of your sporting diet. I’m guessing that if I asked most of you why this is you’d say something like it’s kind of boring, you don’t like the dives players take, and it’s stupid to have ties broken by penalty kicks. You might grudgingly admit that the players are impressive athletes, and you probably will know someone who (or you yourself will have) played as a kid, and, finally, you probably follow the fortunes of the US men’s and women’s national teams—USA! USA! (who in the world doesn’t love that?!)—every four years during the World Cup organized by FIFA (the International Football Federation).
All of this is the product of a combination of factors (involving corporate media, American popular culture, the structure of sports, and so on) that have, in effect, caused you to develop certain habits, expectations, and attentional rhythms in relation to watching sports. I’m not thinking that two units on football is going to undo all that. But I am hoping that by being exposed to the ways, both painful and inspiring, that the rest of the world cares passionately about the sport—and in tandem with having to call it football—you can begin if not to care about the sport yourself, then at least to have recognized that there is nothing natural or objective or necessary about your disinterest or aversion.
That said, in the spirit of walking that path with you in solidarity, let me just share with you some feelings that I have when watching football. I played it from the time I was a kid through high school, and was a pretty good player. But it is not my favorite sport to watch. In fact, my favorite sport to watch—basketball—is in at least one way about as far from football as you can get. In the average 48 minute NBA game last year, 200 points were scored. That’s more points than were scored by all the teams in any single World Cup tournament in history put together. Now, I must say that the heroic individual goal scored against all odds is pretty stirring.
But that doesn’t happen all that often. So football would seem to hold little promise for a hoops junkie like myself, accustomed to a basket being scored a couple of times a minute.
Still, despite all this, I enjoy watching football from time to time. What do I enjoy? Well, for one thing I like what appears to me like calm. It seems not uncommon for players at times to jog or even walk up the field. I like that. It reminds me that even in the midst of some important tasks it’s important to pace myself, which is to say, it reminds me of the importance of breadth in perspective.
In fact, I see in those islands of calm a demonstration of perspective in relation to some pretty fundamental life categories: time (I’m walking because I’m aware there will be another moment in which all my energy is required), space (I’m walking because I’m aware that the action is elsewhere right now), purpose (I’m walking because I’m aware that the needs of my team require me to conserve my energy), and self (I’m walking because I’m aware of my role in the unfolding action of this match). These are pretty important life lessons. I sometimes lose track of them. And so I find it helpful, and refreshing and reassuring to encounter them in the midst of a football game.
The next thing may sound like it contradicts the first. I like the rhythm, in a football match, of long stretches of what seems like nothing, punctuated by instants of what seem like everything. Because isn’t that a bit like life as well? Let me explain with an anecdote.
Close to twenty years ago I took a class in Zen Buddhist Meditation at the temple on Packard Street here in Ann Arbor. When I arrived for my first class, one of the assistants greeted me at the door and asked me to take my shoes off. I wasn’t expecting it, but it didn’t surprise me since it fit with my preconceptions. But, as I begin to sort of wrestle off my left shoe with the sole of my right foot, he gently stopped me, invited me to sit down on a nearby bench, and to pay attention as I took my shoes off, first one, unlacing, using both hands, and then the other, unlacing, using both hands. And to pay attention as I placed them, carefully side by side, laces now tucked unobtrusively into the tops of the shoes, in the place reserved for them. Now I was surprised, and a bit perplexed. I also felt a bit ashamed, as if some longstanding clumsy oafishness on my part had suddenly been exposed to me and to the world.
By way of explanation, the assistant explained that 99 % of life is made up of things like taking your shoes off, mundane things—we see them as necessities, or transitions, or delays, or interruptions—that we do on the way to the “important” things that actually only make up 1 % of our lives. We expect ourselves to perform at top capacity for those important moments and activities: to be fully present and prepared to think, feel and act in graceful concert.
But we haven’t given ourselves a very good chance to do so if we haven’t trained ourselves in presence, if we haven’t cultivated in ourselves the ability to be fully absorbed by and responsive to the needs of every present moment. Paying attention during the 99 % of our lives that seem unimportant is, among other things, a way to prepare ourselves for those things that happen less frequently and carry greater emotional impact: the career-changing professional opportunity, the wedding, the birth, the death of loved ones, our own aging, illness and imminent death. Seems like football players get this. Or at least, when I watch, I’m reminded of it. And it seems I can never get enough reminders of or practice in that.
Now, as a spectator, it can be harder to maintain that focus that football players have throughout the match. But, when I can manage to absorb myself in the long stretches of what looks—to my basketball eye—like nothing, I find, well, something. Maybe not everything. But something. And, moreover, I find the ways in which that something that previously looked like nothing is actually seamlessly connected to the parts that seem like everything. Suddenly, the continuity of action that used to just get in the way of me getting more nachos or going to the bathroom for fear I’d miss something—everything!—becomes a riveting lesson in the dynamic, complex web of cause and effect that makes up life.
Who is to say, in that flowing river of action, where exactly the beginning and the end lie? Do you suppose that something has ended when a goal is scored? Do you think the players on the pitch feel that way? Who is to say what was important and what was not important in the combination? And who is to say what was necessary and what was accidental? For, it’s not that it suddenly appears that every thing led perfectly and inevitably to that outcome. I can see all kinds of little chance wobbles and bounces and deviations as destiny runs its course. At any moment, it seems, it could have gone a different way. But there it is. It went this way, and who is to say?
Then, when I stop looking at what is in fact something as if it were just a barren nothing between rare and precious everythings, then that something reveals beauties and charms of its own. These may or may not have value I can perceive in terms of their relationship to, say, the scoring of goals. But, in this absorbed state of attention, they possess an intrinsic value. The arc traced by this player as he loops behind a teammate, while another teammate charges, straight, down the far sideline, the tap tap of two short passes, the ball tumbling along carelessly, before rocketing off the foot of a midfielder to sail, sail, sail—as bodies rearrange themselves in anticipation—before landing, corralled by the foot of a striker, who manages this even while keeping an eye on a defender closing in fast and hard.
This is something. There is something in this. Something that is valuable in itself. And something that is valuable because of the way it is also nothing and everything and so temporarily collapses the hierarchical structure I’ve made of the world. Sometimes, don’t get me wrong, this makes me anxious and stressed out and annoyed at the sport. Like I said, it’s not my favorite sport to watch. But sometimes, the result is not the chaotic rubbled heap of ruined projects and plans (or at least not only that), but also serenity and the enjoyment of seeing possibilities playfully popping up at every turn. That it can provoke this effect at all, in the face of the combined force of corporate media interests, American imperialism and, not least, the inclinations and aversions marking my own personality, is a testament to its power.