KICK OUT THE JAMS
The Springfield arena erupts in excitement as the match begin Mexico and Portugal begins. The ball is kicked back and forth across the field. Back and forth, back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And. Forth.
After a total of five seconds, the crowd's roar fades into an uneasy silence. From the back, Homer Simpson moans, "Boooring!"
This scene is from episode five of season 9 of The Simpsons, the greatest TV show of all time. And because it is the greatest TV show of all time, it is therefore the voice of knowledge and reason. That scene perfectly dramatizes our–and by this I mean, the entire Filipino nation-- collective sentiment towards soccer. Er, football.
Why do we have a blind spot for the sport over which the rest of the planet goes absolutely mental–a sport that freezes all urban activity, sparks orgies of dancing and drinking? How did we reach a point of blissful insulation from all that madness? And it's not even an issue of culture and economics. Football does not discriminate: it holds in its sweaty thrall both the digital, antiseptic developed nations and the fly-strewn, mudcaked Third World. From G8 member-countries to banana republics, from centuries-old monarchies to socialist democracies to communist dictatorships to terrorist-harboring theocracies, the insanity escalates come World Cup time. Too many essays have been written on how football approximates the level of religion in countries like England and Brazil. Religion, in fact, is too weak a word.
But what's up with us? The rest of the planet, too, adores Baywatch and all the Die Hard movies. But why aren't we nuts about football? For many Pinoys, FIFA is that thing you use for smoking pot. Why is it that we view football the way Sam Milby views his leading ladies–which is to say a general absence of enthusiasm?
Is it our tragically short attention span?
Yes, we're guilty of that, so sue us. Maybe we're stupid and unsophisticated in some ways, but we probably know that life is too short for a sport that takes twenty-five years to score a goal. Other complaints include: the field is too big, the camera is too far. The socks are too long, and too many guys in mullets and dreadlocks. The whole stage sounds like a goddamned beehive, with an insane metallic droning. But maybe the biggest complaint comes from "ending" bettors: not enough scores.
"No, you don't understand. You watch it for the skills!" defended a soccer fan, whose tastes I generally put into question because of his fondness for smooth jazz. I suspect that some football fans I personally know profess to like the sport in the same way that they swear to like an indie band who's not really good but has a certifiably artsy-fartsy "snob" cred.
There are only three kinds of people in the Philippines who watch football: guys who used to play the sport back in school and who therefore have a sort of understanding of its dynamics and intricacies. Suffice it to say, these are usually expensive private schools and these are guys who punctuate their sentences with "pa-re." Guys who actually play the sport, who are either a.) professional athletes who may either be from the Panay Island or one of the two hunky Younghusband brothers. The third is the expatriate, usually drunk at the hotel bar shouting "Oi!" while waving his beer glass at the giant TV screen.
Yes, I am fully aware that I'm grossly generalizing, and that there are some kindhearted organizations who are preaching the gospel of football to slum kids. These are also the same people who say that Filipinos should be learning the sport instead of basketball, which does not suit us because we are a nation of dwarves.
But it's not as if we never had a golden football legacy. Once upon a time, one of the world's all-time greats is a Spanish-Filipino, Paulino Alcantara, (1896 —“1964). Born in Iloilo, he is the highest goal scorer in the FC Barcelona's history with 357 goals in 357 games.
In the club's website, he is on the list of mythical players. "His characteristic deceptive appearance made him popular with the fans to the point of being the first star of the club in the golden ages of the twenties, alongside Samitier, Zamora, Sagi, Piera and many more," says the writeup.
"His ability to hit the most powerful of shots crossed frontiers on the 30th April 1922 when, in a game between Spain and France, he hit a shot so hard that it ripped right through the net. For many years after, children from Barcelona would recall that moment and would wish to do the same as the man from the Philippines." Here's the awesome part: he left football to study medicine.
Maybe, ultimately, it's because we are not, in essence, team players. Which explains why we adore Manny Pacquiao. But you may say, "Ay, but basketball is a team sport! And we're psychotic about basketball!" True. But let us examine: do we really like the team, or is it the individual players we adore? Three hundred years in a convent, fifty years in Hollywood (or whorehouse, depending on which wit you listen to). We like NBA-style basketball, which is mostly a series of fancy, gravity-defying, bone-breaking drives to the hoop–all that defense, that passing is mostly just pretext for your dazzling Jordan-esque maneuver. Which is not the same as that of Europe and the rest of Asia, where they play in a patient, systematic method, with lots of passing and perimeter defense. They're also demonic perimeter shooters. And speaking of the NBA, ex-New York Knicks coach Jeff Van Gundy, annotating game 6 of the NBA Finals, vented when the subject of the World Cup arose: "Hate it. Hate it. Hate it."
Hey, to each his own. The rest of the planet loves football, we like NBA and karaoke. The world moves in strange ways. A Manny Pacquiao title bout is our World Cup–time stops, criminals stay indoors, and Sunday variety shows go on vacation. A certain culture's love for a sport can only grow organically–no amount of marketing campaign can make us love something we do not play on the streets.
But enough about that. I have to excuse myself. Game 7 na ng Boston-Lakers.
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This is a Crazy Planets is available in newsstands, bookstores and supermarkets nationwide for only P195. For more information, click here.
Artwork by Warren Espejo.
