Watching football with other males has always been a pastime that I find particularly strange and interesting in equal measures. Watching a game as it happens in front of a screen ever more so. I love the team I support as much as the next man I’m sure. The tension, the butterflies in the stomach, wringing of hands, pensive glassy stares, are all part of my repertoire, and have me recalling some of the more chequered moments of love in my life. I give the occasional yelp at a moment of excitement, even prone to punching the air, pulling my legs and arms aside as if engaging in a tackle, even the occasional cuss is known to escape my lips at a moment when my guard is down. In short I am one of those many vicarious supporters whose desire to be involved is limited by the ability to do so.
But witnessing the reactions to those same others of my species there seems an awful lot lacking in my displaced involvement than theirs. The booing, the yelling, and high-fiving, running around hugging those closest seem a long way from what I would consider a reasonable response from the events unfolding on the television screen. Am I to self-aware to let myself become caught up in the moment as if witnessing some classic Christmas panto? Or am I somehow distant from my supposed brethren, lacking in some of the finer nuances that make a man a man? Shying away from the hula-bolo, maybe my team needs such outpouring of emotion as they loose again, a result not mirrored by the team who warrants such feeling. Or maybe I need to watch these games by myself and on-time, the only conclusion I can come to as I admonish my friend for the bad luck he brings anytime I watch a game with him. For that is definitely another point I have noticed in this my foot-balling history.