running feet

running feet
Running feet. These aren't mine.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

F is for football

I sometimes consider myself to be a fairly rounded individual. I've got a lovely family, an interesting creative job at an NGO, I've travelled the world, I've studied at three different Universities and got a couple of degrees, I'm even trying to learn the guitar.

So I sometimes wonder just why I've spent quite so much of my life (both childhood and adult) concerned with watching/talking about/thinking about football? Clearly it's the opium of the masses, clearly worrying about the 'performances' of eleven millionaire child-men is a fool's game, and clearly I willingly allow myself to be infantalised by continuing to buy in to the never-ending merry-go-round that is the modern sport (see video below).

And still. At it's best the game can produce moments of balletic grace and beauty*, and the enduring appeal I guess is in trying to reproduce such moments. I'm playing my regular game tonight with a bunch of middle-aged friends, and for an hour I'll hopefully be in the state of concentrated 'flow' that comes rarely in everyday life. And my addiction will be fed once again.

*I was sitting about five rows from the sideline, level with Kanoute for this third one.

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