Football, football, football. You watch your team through thick and thin. Weekend after weekend, peering for your results. All to end up without a trophy, maybe promotion, relegation. Supporting a middling Midlands team, some wins, some loses, some good performances, some bad. It’s about the individual moments. You are never going to have much success, just waiting for those few elements of excitement, happiness, warmth. Another season to look forward to. New players, new look. Hope is the hardest thing. But also, the most exciting. Pre-season. Then it’s more football, football, football. Week in week out, through thick and thin. Home and away. Same old teams to play. Football is very technical nowadays. No fouling, no real tackling. Little nudges, on the edge of fouls, moving bodies into certain spaces, gaining balance and space advantage over competitors. Subtle ways of keeping control of the ball. The fans getting excited, looking forward. Most teams don’t really win. They might win the individual battles, games, but not the big cups, awards. It’s about the communal family being happy. A new year. Hope eternal. New kit. New players. New coach. Same old same old. But there are moments, a point in time where everyone and everything comes together, that last minute goal where shouts of joy and relief splatter your locale, occurring at slightly different moments due to the lag in TV feeds. Arriving home, gently rolling into the driveway just as England superstar Jude Bellingham brilliantly places an overhead kick into the bottom right-hand corner. From despair to joy, emotions raging through. It is the moments that count rather than some beautiful game, the movement of the ball matching heartbeats. Watching your own team is like a completely different sport, every pass, tackle, cross, save coming deep from within rather than distance. Collectively kicking every ball. Hope. As humans that is all we need, the possibility of the future being something better than what is now. Preseason pre-reality.
So, the Olympics provide an opportunity to show the non-futility of sport. Nations coming together across the globe every four years. There is enough distance and distinction between events to create innovative original games, emerging at certain points in history that create a certain resonance. From the first person to run to Ancient Greece. I remember the Moscow games of 1980 where the USA boycott provided opportunities for others on the track and field. Alan Wells. Superstar. 1984, George Orwell appeared in the dystopian city of angels, huge coliseums and Carl Lewis. Korea, Spain, Australia, America again, China and then London, our own games. No better than any of the others. Rebuilding disused parts of the city. Bringing the country together in great hope. People seemed connected towards a common goal. The fighting could stop. But then Brexit. Great wounds blasted open, a country in disarray, shooting itself in the foot instead of hitting a target or clay disc. Such experts in ancient sports. The modern pentathlon. There is such jingoism about our games. Surely they were the best ever. Iconic. But then the world moved onto Brazil, equally as amazing gathering of athletes. Poor Japan had the covid Olympics. Masks, no crowds, deathly silence echoing through vast stadiums. Surely Tokyo should be given another opportunity, the chance to hold them with people present. All that infrastructure, money spent building should go towards something positive. It would clear the world of those isolated memories. The Paris 2024 Olympics concluded, recognised by many already as one of the best ever. Whisper it, even greater than London. Taking the sports to the central part of the city, using its stunning architecture. Having fun. Being totally French. There was such great warmth, emotion, love and enjoyments, people who don’t normally enjoy sport getting hooked into the skateboarding, Australian breakdancing, synchronised diving, speed climbing, BMX. The outlying sports provided with as much focus as any other. A completely non-hierarchical experience. And it has a finite length. Sadness creeps over me as the closing ceremony hands over the baton to LA (again). Surely somewhere else would be appropriate, away from the land of Donald, but at least they have the infrastructure already there. Is Africa generally too hot and poor to be given the opportunity. I mean, football came to Kuwait. A slight regret sweeps over me that I didn’t try to go and be part of the Parisian event, living so close, having lived a little life in France. That was bad planning as the games won’t be coming so near for quite a while. I feel sad that LA wont be the same. Too brash and knowing. The French have a naivety that is instantly charming. Puffing on a Gitanes whiles absent mindedly tossing silver balls into a pit of sand. Who really wants a Hollywood blockbuster. So time for a rest from sport, or let the new football season gradually wash over me, taking me subtly in again. New hopes. New dreams. Players diving around in fake agony, felled by slight clips, trips and fingertips. The Olympics are honest, difficult, a true test of the best. Years of hard work coming to fruition or crunch points, moments where you either succeed or disappear back to obscurity, unable to secure the funding to continue. Dreams shattered. The success of the Olympics provides hope, bringing the world together through excellence. The fittest people in the world all in one place at the same time. The ultimate truth. Sport, sport, sport.
