Football
Page 2
We can recognize and accept much of this, but it does not mean that there is no place for the thoughtful football fan or for a philosophical understanding of the game. Claims that football is a battle of brute strength for dominance and victory are themselves philosophical, presumably made by taking a step back from the experience of any one game in particular and aiming for a general and abstract account. An interpretation of football is being offered and it is one that can itself be considered and, if there are good reasons, rejected.
As a philosophy of football, this hard view should indeed be rejected. While football is to an extent a battle of strength, because strength is one of the athletic excellences of the sport, that is not all that it is, nor is brute strength the only asset of a good football team. Football is conducive to a number of different perspectives and types of understanding because it is, indeed, multi-faceted. There might well be some individual battles of raw power to be fought during a match – for instance, when jostling for position at a corner kick – but this is only one aspect of the game. It also involves speed, skill with the ball for accurate passing and crosses and, not least, tactical intelligence. A successful coach will have a game plan or even a plan for the whole annual campaign. There are formations to consider, finding ways to neutralize the opponent’s best player (such as when Argentina’s Lionel Messi was always marked by two Icelandic opponents in their 2018 World Cup game), dead ball routines to invent and practise, exploitation of the perceived weaknesses of the opposition, and so on. It is arguable that the failures of successive England teams after 1966 came not because of any lack of strength but because of these broadly tactical shortcomings. Other countries were thinking the game through better than us while we were still taking a blood-soaked Terry Butcher to epitomize the spirit of English football.
Understanding the passion
We need a balanced approach to understanding football correctly: one that is aware of its many dimensions. Only then can we understand why it so thoroughly engrosses us, which it evidently must, given that it is the world’s most popular spectator sport. I do not want to deny that it is a game of passion by prioritizing reason. I aim, rather, to provide a rational explanation of why we can be so passionate about it. The attraction of football ought to be explicable.
How do we explain the passions, then? Passion is opposed to action. An action is something that we do, but the original idea of a passion is that it is something done to us: that is, something with respect to which we are passive. Our passions can be roused and we struggle to resist acting upon them. When your team concedes a late goal and loses the game, you cannot help but feel a deep sadness or even anger. You almost certainly don’t want to feel sad but are unable to resist the feeling. Similarly, the joy of scoring and winning is just something that happens when your team succeeds. It is not a choice.
There are different types of reasons for why football provokes these passions. There is local and national pride: for instance, when we have teams attached to cities and countries. Sheffield United, in some sense, represents the city of Sheffield; and even though few of its players hail from there, many of its fans do. Though not obligatory, many people support their local team. Pride in, and affinity with, a place can thus be an explanation. But I do not think this is the best sort of explanation, even though it might play a role. While I support Sheffield United, I do not pay much attention to the Sheffield Steelers ice hockey team or the Sheffield members of parliament, who also represent the city. It is something specifically about football that rouses my passions, and this is something that can be thoughtfully considered.
For example, one thing that has struck me as a particular attraction of football is just how supreme can be the moment of goal scoring. This is partly because it is a relatively low-scoring sport. When you get a goal, for all anyone knows, it could be the final goal in the game, even if scored in the first five minutes. It might be the match-winner even then, and this is definitely something to be excited about.
Consider, in contrast, a goal for a side that is already 3–0 down, pulling it back to 3–1. Even with time left, this is not quite as exciting as a goal that could be the decisive one. It offers hope, of course, and could be the turning point of a game, but it is only when the score goes to 3–3 or 3–4 that the supreme ecstasy of a goal is felt. I don’t see how a sport such as basketball can ever quite share this, unless it is a rare game-winning basket in the last second. Basketball is such a high-scoring sport that one score near the start of the game can easily pass without raising the pulse at all. Football averages just a few goals per game – some matches have none at all – so almost all goals are important.
It is not just that, however. The rarity of the goal is one thing, but the manner of scoring is also significant. A goal is an uncertainty right up until the fraction of a second at which it is scored. Contrast football with rugby, a sport which I have tried to enjoy but without much success. A rugby ball has to be carried over the try line, and then placed down, to score. As a result, you can either see the scoring moments of a game coming or know that they are not coming. What you cannot get in rugby is a shot ‘out of nowhere’, from 30 metres, when the defence seemingly had everything under control, but which in less than a second is rippling the back of the net. The swiftness of a goal is limited only by the speed of the ball, which can be kicked very hard, whereas in rugby the swiftness is limited by the speed of a runner. Furthermore, we all know that goal-bound shots can be stopped, sometimes right on the line. The goalkeeper has only a small scoring area to cover so can sometimes make up the ground to save a shot in the last available fraction of a second, on the line. Contrast this again with rugby, in which the scoring area is as wide as the field, so if there is no opponent in the area a try can look inevitable for some time. The effect of a rapidly travelling ball, mixed with the possibility of it being stopped at the last moment, is that the realization of a goal being scored is condensed into an instant. Couple that with the scarcity of goals and you have a very powerful and exciting combination. There is a constant tension for which the rare, unpredictable yet instantaneous release constitutes an overwhelming gratification. Is it any wonder that this provokes the passions?
I am of course making an unfavourable comparison of rugby to football here and rugby fans might point out that I do not properly appreciate or understand the excitement of their game. Perhaps that is true, but I might as well be honest that football is my favourite game and for reasons that I think can be justified, as I aim to show in the rest of the book. At the very least, I think the fact that football is the world’s most popular sport is something that ought to permit an explanation.
Thinking to be done
There is thinking to be done, therefore, about the nature of football. And among the things we can think about is why football captivates us so much and produces such intense emotional reactions. My thought about the distinctive nature of goal scoring is, of course, one that any football fan can discern, and I aim to proceed in a similar style. My plan in the following chapters is to consider a number of the distinctive features of football that make it a special game. It has a particular basis and raises some issues that are well worth thinking about, as I will show. My concern will mainly be with our experience of watching football, but not just that. In considering what it is that we see when we watch football, I will inevitably have to consider matters of its fundamental ground. If we want to know what it’s all about, we also have to know what it is. I offer little that concerns the playing of and coaching of football, unless thinking about football in an abstract and general kind of way might assist someone in being a better footballer. It would be nice if that were the case but, while I wouldn’t rule it out, I am not making such a claim here.
Let it be known, in the interest of full disclosure, that my first visit to Bramall Lane in 1980 witnessed an ignominious 2–1 defeat at the hands of local rivals Rotherham United. But there was still enough for me to take from the game that I wante
d to go back for more. The vivid colours of the contrasting shirts against the green background, whose expanse was so much more encompassing than when I had seen football on television, drew my young eye to the fluid and ever-changing action on show as the teams toiled for the two points on offer. Neither fitness nor skill levels were as they are today. Nevertheless, it was one of the most beautiful things I’d seen in my short life, as burly central defenders did their best to negate the ‘flair’ of the scrawny youngsters who, on account of their underdeveloped physique, could run a little faster than the rest. It was a more experienced player, John Ryan – one of a number seeing out the twilight of their careers at an underperforming but seemingly respectable club – who scored the sole consolation goal for the Blades. But what a moment it was: the veteran bringing all his knowledge of the game to bear in trying his luck from distance, calculating that his best chance of scoring was to close his eyes and boot the ball as hard as he could in full expectation that if the shot was directed just a few centimetres above the goalkeeper’s head, that last line of defence would flap his hands around as the ball went by and then jump on the ground when the net bulged so as to show that he was making an effort. To be standing in the middle of the Shoreham End and for the first time to be sharing that beautiful moment of joy and collective release with others all of whom had the same, passionate desire, and were only too willing to celebrate together, opened up for me a new world and a new life.
2
Beauty
The cliché
Football is wonderful to watch. At times, it is capable of beauty. We might as well, then, get the biggest cliché out of the way. Like everything else in football, its origin is disputed, since everyone has heard it and most of us have said it. Football is ‘The Beautiful Game’. The relationship between football and beauty is more complicated than the cliché admits, however. Football is also the ugly game. It’s the game where Luis Suárez has bitten opponents. It’s the game where Austria and West Germany played out an uncontested 1982 World Cup match to eliminate Algeria. It’s the game where there are dull 0–0 draws, where there is play-acting and feigning of injuries. It’s the game of time-wasting. It’s the game of rain-soaked slogs in the mud. Any beauty to be found in football is occasional, at best, and more reasonably should be regarded as rare.
Perhaps rarity is enough, however. It might be worth sitting through several nil-nils to eventually see a 4–3. Ninety minutes of dull and unskilful play could be followed by that one overhead (bicycle) kick that wins a goal in the last minute. The beauty of the latter makes the former a price worth paying. Perhaps there is something to be said for the contrast provided. What makes something beautiful could be precisely that it stands out against the unattractive regular play. The rarity of its occurrence would not undermine football’s claim to be beautiful, then. It could be a precondition for it.
Even if it is the exception, therefore, the aesthetics to be found in football could be an explanation of its success. It is pretty trivial to say that we are attracted to beauty. Any such beauty can be analysed and understood, though. What is its basis? How is the sport able to produce beautiful games and beautiful moments? What are the aesthetic values in football? Further, is the production of beauty an aim of football or its purpose? And how do aesthetics relate philosophically to football? Such questions are the topic of this chapter.
Behind the cliché
Although we are interested in what it is about football that is beautiful, it is not only the game itself that we must understand. There is also the attitude of the viewer to consider since the aesthetic values of the game have to be perceived as such. Clearly it is possible for people to watch football and experience it in different sorts of ways. One relevant distinction is between partisans and purists. A purist has a wide-ranging interest in the sport and appreciates its excellences. Such a viewer will want both teams to play to their maximum potential and will enjoy any aesthetic value in the game no matter which side produces it (see chapter 2 of my Watching Sport). We frequently watch games in this way: for instance, when we are ‘neutral’, not minding which team wins but just wanting to see a good game. This will usually occur when watching on TV, but you can also visit a stadium as a neutral. The purist contrasts with the partisan. A purist is a supporter whose interest is that their team wins. The partisan backs one side and, in doing so, takes a different attitude to football’s aesthetics. For one thing, the partisan would always prefer an ugly win to a beautiful defeat. I cannot think that any exception to this is possible for anyone who remains a partisan. Even a scrappy and dull 1–0 would be preferable to an exciting, end-to-end, 4–5 defeat. Second, while partisans can see and appreciate any beauty created or performed by their own team, they tend not to appreciate, nor even see, beauty created by their opponents. There is no aesthetic enjoyment of the opponent’s dramatic late victory, nor even an appreciation of some fabulously skilled action by an opposition player.
For example, I was present when Eric Cantona scored a famous goal for Manchester United against Sheffield United in the FA Cup, chipping the goalkeeper precisely, the ball dropping just under the bar but not so low that the retreating keeper could save it. But I was a Sheffield United supporter and, far from giving me aesthetic pleasure, the goal ruined my night. I might even have hurled shameful abuse at Cantona as he celebrated in front of me. Had I been watching this as a Manchester United supporter, and probably even as a neutral (discounting the fact that neutrality is not often adopted with respect to Manchester United), I am sure I would have seen it as a very beautiful goal. I can also remember how Sheffield United’s Brian Deane once scored a similar goal in a league game against Liverpool, and that was certainly a goal I found beautiful.
It seems, then, that we are capable of taking an aesthetic perception of some of the phenomena in football or of declining to take such a perception. The distinction between the partisan and purist is not the only way to illustrate this. A gambler who has a bet on the result of a match might have no interest at all in football aesthetics. If he has a bet on a 1–1 score, the last thing he will want to see is a ‘beautiful’ last-minute winner to make it 2–1. It is unlikely he would see it as beautiful at all. Nor is it a coach’s job to appreciate any aesthetics that come out of her team’s performance. She wants to see the team win and, in watching it play, is looking entirely at what it is doing, or not, to increase the chances of that happening. If she wants to enjoy beauty, she can visit the art gallery. At work, her job is to deliver favourable results. Of course, she might still prefer a beautiful win to an ugly one, since she wants to please the fans and her employers. But she will share with them a preference for an ugly win over a beautiful defeat. So hard is it to win games of football, I rather think that aesthetic considerations do not enter the equation at all, perhaps with the exception of post-match interviews, when coaches are encouraged into more philosophical reflections.
In suggesting that a viewer has to be in a distinctive kind of position in order to take an aesthetic perception of the sport, I do not, however, want to suggest that beauty is entirely in the eye of the beholder as a purely subjective phenomenon. Mozart’s music is beautiful whether someone chooses to listen to it or not, as are Frida Kahlo’s paintings, even though there are people who don’t understand them. It is still worth considering, then, what the features are of the thing itself that are able to provoke in us a pleasurable aesthetic response. This can be done for football.
Another fallacy would be the view that if aesthetics were an objective matter, then everyone would agree on what is beautiful and what is not. As the empiricist philosopher David Hume argued, however, standards of taste can differ from person to person. This does not mean aesthetic judgements are arbitrary or ungrounded. Some people have poor taste. It is clear that, on the whole, there is a tendency for people to agree on what is beautiful (say, a Van Gogh landscape) if they see it, and what is not beautiful (say, a bucket of sludge). Football adds another dimension to aesth
etic appreciation in the case where the partisan declines to take an aesthetic perception of their opponent’s works. This is a distinctive feature of the oppositional nature of sport, but it could be compared, for instance, to a rival of Mozart’s refusing to enjoy his music or, worse, Nazis refusing to countenance Jewish art.
Given that the beauty of football is not merely subjective, then the way is open for an account of its aesthetic properties, the idea being that there are features of the game itself that are beautiful. What can we say about these aesthetic properties? One thing I want to argue is that they are multi-layered. Some aesthetics are to be found in individual actions, where the human physique and its capabilities are on display, such as when a player performs a Cruyff turn or Zidane’s even better version, or Gareth Bale scores with a bicycle kick in a Champions League final. Other aesthetics are to be found in more complicated events, combining a number of different elements. Consider Brazil’s fourth goal in the 1970 World Cup Final, which many consider to be the apotheosis of futebol arte. It wasn’t just the movements of the individual players that we enjoyed. It was the whole combination: the way the ball was passed up from the left side of defence, moved diagonally across the pitch and then laid off by Pelé for Carlos Alberto to run up and smash the ball in. And there is a third level of aesthetics to be uncovered. This is the beauty to be found at a tactical level, concerning position, movement and fluidity of the whole team performance. It takes a trained eye to see this and appreciate the high-level aesthetic properties that the team can produce. Anyone can get a sense of when the team is playing well, though. Even if a team is not winning, you can see when it has cohesion, when the team is playing at a high tempo, when there always seems to be a spare player to receive a pass, and there is always a covering defender for any attack. These are signs of a well-organized and well-functioning team. It might take expert analysis or a coach to explain exactly why a team is playing well, and to understand the subtle tactical arrangements that have produced it, and perhaps only then is the full aesthetic appreciation possible, but it can still be there even to the untrained eye, as when I enjoy Mozart even though I cannot explain exactly what his music is doing and why it sounds pleasant to my ear.