There are many reasons to become depressed about the state of football: when the England defence start faffing about yet again; when Spurs are being Spursy; when Man City, with the so-called best manager and team in the league, get stuffed by Sporting Lisbon (and Spurs). But then I pause, and smile. I think: “Well, at least football has given us a lot.” We should be grateful.
It’s largely agreed that it was the English who created the beautiful game, and formalised it back in 1863 when the FA was formed and the rules were established. Now look where the sport is: it’s a global phenomenon.
I also like to think how the language of football has integrated itself into the English lexicon more broadly: a game of two halves; back of the net; giving someone the red card. The long arm of these expressions reaches far and wide, too, from business and politics to the everyday, and, of course, football.
Such words have also been translated into most foreign languages while retaining a clear relation to their English origins; take, for instance, the Spanish words fútbol and gol. Foreign words for “penalty” and “club” often bear close similarities to their English counterparts, too. Recently, I was in Europe and noticed how crowd-controlling “stewards” had the very word on the back of their jackets. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had pinched the word or bought a load of old high-vis jackets from England.
I like that all around the world so many clubs have English names, like Newell’s Old Boys in Argentina, Spain’s Athletic Bilbao, or the Grasshopper of Zurich. Then think of all those Wanderers and Corinthians and Juniors and Athletic clubs across South America. The clubs’ names are now so established that perhaps their fans don’t realise the English connection.
It’s strange that AC Milan still does not go by the Italian Milano, and that Genoa is not Genova – in other words, that these clubs stuck to the English spelling. Oh, does it not make you proud that the football chants that are heard on the terraces around the world sometimes carry the tune of English songs? I am certain that when the melody of “Yellow Submarine” or “Hey Jude” is belted out in honour of their club, younger fans assume they are ancient local folk tunes.
Even the names and ethnicities of the players are wonderfully bemusing. When Alexis Mac Allister arrived at Liverpool, I assumed he was Scottish; he is, in fact, Argentinian. Spurs’ Destiny Udogie is of Nigerian descent, although he plays for the Italian national team. And though I had hoped Bayern Munich’s Alphonso Davies was a relation, he actually captains the Canadian team and was born in Ghana.
While watching matches, it is often the commentators who give me the most pleasure, especially Ally McCoist. Whether it is the tamest shot, half-hearted header, or limpest throw-in, he is almost guaranteed to greet it with delight: “Tell you what, that was incredible”; “That was unbelievable”; “I’ve got to say, that was smashing”; “The wee fellow is magic, he really is.”
“Go on, Ally,” I hear myself shouting. “Don’t give up now – you can’t have run out of clichés.” I rarely listen to any studio chat before a game or the half-time analysis – I have enough of my own banal comments. At half-time, I go for a wee, or another bottle, or into the garden to chat to my tortoise. Compared with Alan Shearer, my tortoise always provides decent commentary.
I’m sure McCoist is aware that he is just rabbiting on most of the time, though with a delightful enthusiasm. I’m equally sure that Shearer sees himself as a deep, serious, portentous and philosophical thinker, though he is really just stating the obvious.
McCoist makes me smile when he tilts his head and puts on his geography-teacher face. If you look hard, you can always find joy in football.
[See also: I started pottery. I knew I’d be rubbish]
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