Its' Over
Updated: Jul 26
So, it’s all over. I mean the World Cup. Gone with it will be the question I kept being asked and the shocked response to my answer:
So, you’re watching the World Cup, right?
No, I’m not a follower of soccer. In fact, I have no interest in sports whatsoever.
But you’re English, you must enjoy soccer.
No, and surprisingly, I come from a family of soccer enthusiasts. At the end of WWII, my dad was picked to play soccer in Egypt for the British army. My eldest brother played rugby at grammar school. He was a keen soccer player outside school and eventually became a successful PE teacher. My brother Terry, in his younger days enjoyed playing goalkeeper. Even when our local team, Stoke City, saw the return of Sir Stanley Matthews, one of the greatest soccer players in the history of the game, return to Stoke, I was not inspired to become a soccer fan.
Of course, Mum never discouraged her husband’s and elder sons’ fervor for the sport but for me she summed it up: What’s the interest in seeing 22 grown men kicking a piece of leather about?
Though I never remember being interested in physical games, I suppose my specific disinterest in soccer started around the age of 10 in primary school. Mr. Ernest, our class teacher, decided to teach us the basics of the game. Apparently, it’s more than just kicking an object around. There are rules and the players have specific positions. He took a piece of chalk and on the blackboard drew a chart of a soccer pitch to which he added stickmen to represent each of the players’ positions. Besides the goalkeeper, the only one I can remember to this day is ‘right-winger.’ Then we put on our boots and shorts and marched down to the nearby public recreation ground, or the Rec, as we called it.
We were each given a position and told to stand on the spot that matched that which we had seen on his blackboard diagram. Mine was on the right wing. Eventually, the sound of a whistle pierced the air, and all the small boys went into motion, but not me.
During his lesson, Mr. Ernest, had not discussed the whistle or what to do when one heard it. Thus, I just stood there waiting for instructions. What was I supposed to do, especially if the ball came anywhere near me? I had no idea.
Mr. Ernest, himself a keen soccer player, was not impressed and bawled something not too complimentary to me and sent me off the pitch. This skinny, 65lb, shy kid was so embarrassed he quietly swore to himself that he’d never don a pair of football boots again. I have kept that promise to myself to this day.
Only a year later, I was off to a local all-boys grammar school, Longton High School. Though this was 1959, the school had been founded in 1760 during which time it had taken on many of the traditions of an English boys’ school. The spirit of gentleman, academic and strong on the games field was very much alive. Soccer was not taught or played in any form. After all, football is the game of the proletariat while rugby is the game of gentlemen. At least that attitude still existed as the sun was finally setting on the British Empire. How was I going to avoid playing rugby and taking part in those gym classes where there was a fine line between exercise, physical cruelty and abuse? You’ve guessed. That’ll be another story.
Now, I do have a confession. Because of prompting via a Whatsapp message from one of my old friends from that school who well knows my aversion towards sports, I ended up watching the game with England v France and it was quite entertaining, partially because my friend, Ken, and I were constantly texting each other during it. Then, I watched the final. I was not so intrigued. Neither was Ken. However, those extra-time minutes proved quite exciting. The “entertainment”, awful.
Those who seriously wonder why there are those of us who don’t get excited about a few men or women kicking and throwing a piece of leather around might want to read the article provided on this link:
Same here my friend.
Couldn’t care less!