A Fan of Sports Fans

I’m not afraid to admit that I am not, nor have I ever been, a sports fan. And no it is not my extreme lack of physical coordination that puts me off, nor the guilt from single handedly bringing down any team unfortunate to have me join them… as I am never able to catch a football (sorry Dariusz), throw a Frisbee (sorry Hana), hit with a cricket bat (sorry Dean), or know which direction I should be running in (sorry to all 3). I’m sure if I put in ¾ teaspoon of effort, I could begin to make sense of all the peculiar rules associated with the different games… but it doesn’t interest me, so I don’t. However, what I do find interesting is the fans themselves. Whether it’s a group of people packed into a pub with a pint in hand and eyes fixated on the screen in the corner, or the masses congregating to a stadium to witness the battlefield firsthand, the energy and enthusiasm is incredible and very entertaining to watch. Last weekend, I was fortunate enough to be a spectator of this fervor in full force, but whether it was all for the love of the game is questionable…

Sports and nationalism are, of course, greatly intertwined. A sports match provides a venue for symbolic competition, and the passionate cheering that resounds at a game serves to demonstrate a collective pride in this important aspect of a country’s identity. As it is well known, Rugby is to New Zealand as basketball is to Canada (Dr. James Naismith. Cut a hole in that basket. A Part of our Heritage… okay, I know, I meant Hockey). It is embedded in the national psyche, and is a key element of their culture. Or so they say. When I went to watch one of the biggest international Rugby competitions here in Wellington, it was a very different scene. By different I mean I have never experienced a craziness like it before, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the Rugby.

The event I’m talking about is the Rugby Sevens, a variant on the game where there are seven players on each side instead of the usual 15, making for shorter, more intense matches. The excitement leading up to it descends upon Wellington like climate change critics on a flawed IPCC report. But the excitement isn’t necessarily to watch some of the world’s top Rugby teams (yes Canada was there!!) compete for glory. No no no. It is for the insane awesome party that will claim the city streets and leave ruin in its wake. Now the most important aspect of this party is the costumes, or what they call here Fancy Dress. People will work on gathering their friends, and creating their costumes for months beforehand… it puts our Halloween celebrations and efforts to shame. There were dozens of Buzz Lightyears, I can’t count how many Spartans and Avatars, and one group dressed up as 101 Dalmatians! I had received free tickets to the match on the starting day and so didn’t have any time to make up a costume, which I didn’t think would be a problem…. It was. It’s a strange thing to have a man wearing a bikini, feather boa and heels, walking with his friend Spiderman, make a snarky judging remark about how you’re dressed, and feel deeply embarrassed.

Oh and then there’s the drinking. As I was walking to work at 9:00 on the Friday morning, there were people out on patios with pitchers of beer, and in the case of what appeared to be a meeting of butchers… several bottles of wine. I thought I had somehow got my time zones mixed up and was REALLY late for work. Nope. That’s when it starts… and it doesn’t end until 2 days later. It’s alcoholism under the guise of Rugby obsession. So I suppose what I’m saying is that they are not a nation enamoured with watching men built like trees tackle each other over a ball… they just look for any excuse to throw a crazy party, which is just as commendable a cultural trait as any in my opinion.