Sports and God

The morning after England lost to Germany in the Round of Sixteen, the news played a montage of forlorn football fans crying into their beer and smearing their face paint with their heads in their hands. The camera panned to one man who looked up wearily and said, "I don't want to talk." In another scene, a man held a droopy English flag that in blue painted letters said, "Flag For Sale." In commentary, sports broadcasters admitted defeat: "apparently, we're not half as good as we thought we were" and "it's over. We're out. Down and out."

One classic photo captures two fans standing in the bleachers decked out in festive capes, hats, and face paint. Their shoulders are slumped and they're looking dejectedly over at their ecstatic German rivals, screaming, hugging, and kissing in the glory of their victory. The headlines below announce, "We Were Mullered" and "If the Few had defended us this badly, we would all be speaking German now" with an almost masochistic relish.

We departed the hungover, listless city yesterday morning, and Joshua and I couldn't help but wonder if defeat goes down a whole lot differently here in the former British Empire than it ever would in the United States. Had the New Orlean's Saints lost the Super Bowl, we're certain the Times Picayune headlines would have focused upon the referee's credentials, poor calls, or suspect loyalties. Alternatively, there would have been a shocking reveal of an illness, disease, or blight that brought key players to their knees in the hours preceding the game. Perhaps the Sports section would have gladly relinquished the largest headlines to whatever ecological or political disaster was happening next in an effort to share the soured limelight.

In the span of three hours, we managed to see the news coverage in all of its forms: in the morning, as the Naylor-Rolls were preparing for their school day, we watched the equivalent of Good Morning America. With instant and slow motion replay, we relived the more agonizing plays in the match. Fans and critics alike called for the resignation of Fabio, the coach, and still more blinked dazedly at the camera, hoping this was all a bad dream. Once we had said our goodbyes, we hefted our (now lighter) packs onto our backs, and followed Rosemary to the car. On our way to North Greenwich Station, we watched as fans pulled in flags that had hung like banners and confetti from every window and fencepost, and on the subway, we picked up discarded tabloids and newspapers shouting their displeasure in bold headlines.

In February, the Saints and the Colts fought it out in Miami. The Saints prevailed, and New Orleans erupted into a party, parade, and second line all at once. Fans who had followed the travails of the Saints faithfully since their inception wore Brees jerseys and held beers in both hands while they danced to impromptu brass bands and blaring radios. Policemen patrolled the streets with their windows rolled down, giving thumbs-up signs to partiers and celebrators. In the French Quarter, the streets were packed from end to end and side to side. Everyone was dressed in gold and black, and nearly as many were well on their way to inebriation.

The next week, school let out early for a formal parade, and the four mile route was lined with eight to ten rows of fans on either side. When the floats came by, the football players were wearing crowns and Mardi Gras beads over their jerseys, and they threw stuffed mini-footballs, cups, and beads at their screaming, delirious fans. The party didn't stop until Mardi Gras was over, and months later, the Saints jingle still brought people almost to tears.

I know what you're thinking: I've succumbed to hyperbole. But I haven't! This is my purely journalistic eye-witness account! While the period of mourning or celebration may be regionally distinct, the marriage of sports and mass hysteria is not. It's a religion complete with worship, community, and gods, and the devotion it elicits is on par with any fundamental or Pentecostal service. I'm just lucky enough to see it unfold on both sides of the pond.