GOL?

by Umapagan Ampikaipakan

I used to be one of those people who called it “soccer”. Not to be different. Not to be facetious. I just preferred the way those two syllables rolled off my tongue. They weren’t nearly as abrupt as “foot-ball.” Not nearly as harsh. “Soc-cer.” I would say it with an American accent. Just to be precise. “Sock-her.” I would say it with a drawl.

Now I know that it’s wrong. Now I make it a point to correct people. It is a knee-jerk. It is subconscious. It is obnoxious. I can’t help myself.

This World Cup has taken over my life. For the last four weeks, it has imbued itself into every aspect of my existence.

“Robbie Fowler” and “classic world cup goals” and “yellow card statistics” have replaced “great French food in KL” and “iPhone 4 antenna death grip” and “Maria Ozawa naked naked naked” in my Google search history. In my YouTube search history.

It has affected my reading habits. I have never, ever, read a newspaper back to front. Not until now. When in a bookstore, I now find myself browsing through Franklin Foer’s How Football Explains the World, through Gavin Newsham’s Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos, through In David Peace’s The Damned Utd, through John King’s The Football Factory. I could never relate to Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch. Not until now.

I can barely recognise myself. I am like so many religious converts, like all of those born again, holier-than-thou, and morally superior.

Danny Lim has created a monster.

I am picking fights with complete strangers on twitter. With German fans. With Portuguese fans. With Dutch fans. But mainly with German fans. I speak about the subject like I am some sort of authority, like I’ve known these things all of my life. I spout statistics. I belch forth obscure bits of trivia in an attempt to silence those who disagree with me. I sound off. I mouth off.

I am arguing with people in pubs. I used to know better than to disagree with a white guy who is almost three times my size, whose biceps are the same size as my waist. Now I can’t help but point out just how stupid he is for being a Fulham fan.

I get palpitations when the team my team of choice is losing. It doesn’t matter how arbitrary that choice is. And believe you me, it is arbitrary; random, a personal whim. There is no rhyme or reason; no system. Why Spain? Because I like Moro. Because I know Spanish people and they’ve always been nice to me. Because I like how they name their kids “Jesus.” Because the Gypsy Kings make me want to dance. Because Almodovar is awesome. Because I’m gay for Javier Bardem. Because Penelope Cruz is hot.

I used to think football fans were just angry people. Now I realise those are just the England fans.

Now I realise why 22 grown men chasing a ball around a pitch for 90 minutes can be so damn engrossing. Addictive. Because it fundamentally feels good. Because I am a sucker for all of those stories, about overcoming the odds, about superhuman feats, about going to bat for king and country. Because they are nothing if not evocative of so much chest thumping.

Because they invoke certain chemical reactions in my body. Dopamine creates those feelings of euphoria. Adrenaline causes my heart to race. Endorphins create an overall sense of well-being.

It is an excitement that can easily be mistaken for love.

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