The
Phenomenology of Ball Games
Rugby
is to soccer what Anarchism is to Marxism. Marxism is all head
(ideology) and
feet (marches of history, and March 1871, the Paris Commune’s
‘all for one and
one for all’) and no hands. While Anarchism is
full bodied passion, dangerous to know. But, when given the chance,
settles
down into the pastoral where harmony based on mutual understanding and
tolerance
minds the sheep. Anarchism is joyous, looking out rather than in,
unlike
Marxism which is in a constant state of self-examination. Show-trials
are the penal
outcome as in soccer when a penalty is awarded the ref’s
withering crooked
finger is pointed at the offending side. Punishment makes its world go
round. In
rugby the finger is flourished towards the winner, a just reward.
My
Anarchist’/Marxist analogy, I know, is a game, a mind one.
But one justifying
factor stands out. Marxism lends itself to standardization
internationally (which
is why it won the great ideological battle between then in the second
half of
the 19th century). Anarchism defines itself
within self-contained,
communities. Soccer is a world game. Rugby is limited to ex-British colonies,
where Webb-Ellis’s
‘run with the ball’ sport’s
culture freed schoolboys to break the received
rules, a Light Brigade charge form of football.
My
mother decreed that soccer
was how British squaddies passed the time in garrisons, between massacres. It was
forbidden to play, though I
wasn’t tempted. Nevertheless my father, who fought the Black
and Tans, said I
should go to a game and judge for myself. In Cork we didn’t
have much of a team
locally, and television required visiting a family that showed English matches in
black and white and he wouldn’t have approved.
When
I moved to Wembley in
England I consulted Shocker, my all-knowing college half French friend
and main
source of intelligent conversation (his not mine). He told me that
soccer is a game
that could be played with a Turing Machine (a robot devised to the
break
wartime codes without understanding how one got there). ‘The
decyphering was to
anticipate the result, after ninety minutes play often a nil nil
draw.’ Shocker
added with a wicked smile, ‘Goal scoring at best was the
painfully delayed outcome
of constipated peristalsis. It’s no accident of baptism that
the current number
one player in the world is a Brazilian called Kaka (merde in
French)’.
I
went to a few professional matches and it seemed to me the lowest
common
denominator of time-wasting. Shocker had called a scoreless draw a fini
fanny
en berne (French for the OO bottom at half-mast of the fat
lady in seaside
postcards). Mistakes seemed to be made all the time, and when punished
by free
kicks it was belted wide or over the bar. There is something deadly
predictable
about a round ball. An oval one lends itself to the unexpected. I was
not
fortunate enough to see a great player like Eric Cantona until years
later. The
boredom made him do astonishing things, that refs didn’t
understand and
whistled him. When I went to Brazil and discovered lack of facilities
and
equipment redeemed the game. Poor boys got on with playing on beaches
and
forest clearings, fabricating handmade alternatives when leather balls
were not
affordable. The purpose of the sport was better understood than the
rules.
Cantona knew that. He was brought up in cave dwelling on a Catalan
mountain. Football
came down from pre-Columbian times, before the International Football
Association existed. And it wasn’t just fun.
Teddy
Roosevelt in came across a footballing tribe in the Amazon (Through
the
Brazilian Wilderness, 1914). The same Nhambiquara chronicled
by Rochette
Pinto a few years later and that Levi-Strauss studied just before they
went
extinct in the 1940s. Amiable people who pilfered shamelessly and could
turn
nasty with strangers without apparent reason. Nasty meant they would
kill you.
The ball, a rubber-coated coco-nut, was headed between teams. Players
seemed to
Roosevelt to be able to play for days without the ball touching the
ground. He
learned that the sport had been with the Nhambis as far back as the
elders
could remember. Pre-history was Rochette Pinto’s opinion.
Albert Camus, as a
goalkeeper for Algeria, could mock his teammates as morons with
abbreviated
career because of brain-damage due to headers. He was wrong. The
Nhambis maintained
the exercise hardened the poll into a helmet to protect them in battle.
Though
it has a long way to go. I learn that David Beckham Academy in London
takes on
teenagers for long weekends at three hundred and sixty-four pounds a
head, and
he makes five million annually from those who can afford it. The cost
per pupil
would keep an average village in the Third World in clean water and
bread for a
year. What happened to giving back something to the sport? Eric Cantona
has
championed beach soccer on the less prosperous West Mediterranean
coast. The
proles of local teams have begun to beat premier league professional
ones in
the French championship. Marx would be gratified. But, of course, the
best
players emerging will be snapped up into the money game. And it will be
less what
Eric has in mind. The heads will go soft.
Coda
The anarchism of rugby makes
it a game whose character reflects the community more than, say,
soccer. But
the indigenous is not cosily conservative.. A good team is in a
constant state
of family quarrels, and plays on the edge of breaking up with the friction which keeps the
flame of
competition burning. But the arrival of strangers who aclimatise can
broker the
infighting. This has happpend in Ireland
in recent years and has made it the second best team in
the world. For
example, Hansen, Aki and Gibson-Park have become more Irish than the
Irish
themselves.