I made myself comfortable on the sofa, reached for the remote control and turned on the television. Coming up, was a two-hour long soccer feast. A match between two national teams I had little connection to and could therefore enjoy the game without any emotional side effects.
The team in white started with the possession of the ball. After a few short and rapid passes in the midfield area, the ball reached one of the center backs who dribbled the ball casually while looking for a good pass upfield. This was a promising start.
The camera showed the player in close-up. It was someone who I recognized. He was a player for the arch rivals of my favorite team in the English league. I hadn’t known that this was his national team.
The center back made a long pass up to the left wing where his teammate received the ball elegantly. The camera zoomed back in as the left winger tried to get past his opponent on his way up towards the corner flag. My heart skipped a beat. Him too. Were the center back and the left winger compatriots in addition to playing with the same league club? I couldn’t believe my eyes.
These two players annoyed me when they played against my favorite league club. I found them to be arrogant. I couldn’t tolerate them. I hated them. I couldn’t be impartial anymore. As the game progressed I started to hate their compatriots. I started automatically to cheer for the other team. Their opponents. I got annoyed at the referee when he judged foul against my team. Yes, the opponents of my opponents were now my team.
I was in a somber mood when I stood up in half-time and went to grab a cold beer from the refrigerator. The game had been vivid. Both teams had managed to maintain good control over the ball and played rapid passes. They had created many opportunities in front of each of the goals and scored one a piece. On the other hand, I was stiff, my muscles were tense and I had an urge to hit doorposts with my fists. I felt that my team was losing.
When I opened the fridge, a light came on. Actually and metaphorically. The absurdity of the moment became clear in front of my eyes. By hating the players I had ruined for myself the relaxed and enjoyable moment the match had been supposed to give me. What was I thinking? I loathed myself. This couldn’t be healthy. Neither for the body nor the soul—biologically nor existentially—neither for the individual nor for society as a whole. Something had to be changed.
While the players of both teams collected strength for the second half and experts in the studio discussed the first half, I walked in circles around the dining room table in order to calm my nerves and collect my thoughts. I became determined to combat this hatred that got hold of me so often when I was exposed to competitive sports. I decided that from now on I would stop discriminating between soccer teams. From now on I was going to cheer at each moment for the team that was in possession of the ball.
