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A recent Roar article on the best football (soccer) books reminded me of Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby.
Hornby is a multi-award-winning author who also happens to be a rabid Arsenal FC fan. Fever Pitch was a wordsmith’s distillation of 30 years of fanaticism, culminating in the tragic but extraordinary 1988-89 season. I read the book in my 20s and it sang to me.
I could relate it to my own high school years, where my whole outlook on life swung depending on the performance of my team, the St George Dragons. When even Sunday evenings before school week were bearable, indeed enjoyable, if the Dragons had won. On the other hand, if we lost and a mates’ team (inevitably Manly) won, well that was a whole new Circle of Hell that you descended into for the week.
It made me recall a time when if my team won, I would read every single word I could find about them in the papers during the week. If they lost, I wouldn’t even read the match report and might only be brave enough to read anything about rugby league by about Wednesday.
For a bit of high school and a lot of the 90s I generally got the better side of that deal – late 80s aside – and the Dragons were mostly pretty good, even excellent. However, the picture in the attic for supporting the Dragons at this time was the darkness of losing four Grand Finals in 8 years.
It’s an instantly relatable pain for Dragons fans – losing twice to the legendary Broncos side of 1992 and 1993; once to a rampant Manly in 1996 in the middle of their three Grand Finals in a row; and then as a joint venture team to the Storm in 1999, finishing with THAT penalty try in front of 110,000 fans. I’ve said before on this site that I was at that game and the Glenn Lazarus cartwheel after full-time was the lowest moment of my sports-watching life (even more so than Headingley twenty years later).
That feeling came rushing back to me when I attended the NRL Grand Final a couple of weeks ago. Not that I particularly cared who won that match but as we were leaving I walked past a Parramatta fan sitting in the row behind me, probably in his early 20s, who had his head in his hands and was on the edge of tears. As a reasonably articulate person who had felt that kid’s pain so many times before, I should have been able to come up with some words to let him know this wasn’t the end of the world; that if this is the worst moment of your life you will have a pretty good life, that he had a lot to be proud of in his team’s performance this year, and that the team that won will likely be one of the great dynasties.
But the reason I couldn’t come up with anything is that I know from experience there are no words that will help at that moment; no words will drown out the delirium of the opposition fans, no words will fill the emptiness and desolation of that moment.
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In short, mere words cannot change the fact that YOUR TEAM JUST LOST THE FREAKING GRAND FINAL. For committed fans, it’s a pain that only time can heal (maybe).
At this point, I want to let you all know about my Uncle Thomas. He was as big a league fan as I was and we watched a lot of footy together. But there was one key difference – he didn’t have a team that he supported. Sure, he was happy for me when the Dragons won, he went for NSW in Origin and he had a soft spot for the Eels because he loved the way Ray Price played footy. But there was no week in week out team to ride the wave of success or failure with. And for over 30 years, I thought that that was just a weird way to watch sport.
But it worked for him.
Now roll forward to today. For the last three years, I’ve mostly worked for myself at home and this has allowed me to watch a LOT of NFL.
Confession time – I don’t have an NFL team and I’m bloody loving it!
(Photo by Mark Kolbe/Getty Images)
I can watch a sport I genuinely admire, three times a week, without the stress of having a dog in the fight; without the heartache of a last-minute loss or the frustration of one of your team’s players making a basic error costing you a touchdown or even the match. I can watch the game for what it is – an elite athletic contest played by freakish athletes.
I can marvel at the sublime passing skill of Aaron Rogers or Patrick Mahomes, remain in awe of the game management and unbreakable will to win of Tom Brady, and wonder at the effortless throwing power of Josh Allen.
I can thank the maker that I’m not a quarterback in the crosshairs of Aaron Donald or Nick Bosa or Micah Parsons, or a cornerback trying to keep with the Olympic speed of Tyreek Hill or evasiveness of Davonte Adams or Ja’Marr Chase. I can look on in awe and the sheer mix of size, strength and speed of Robert (Gronk) Gronkowski or Travis Kelce.
And I can wince at some linebacker or defensive end playing the role of speed hump for Derrick Henry or Jonathan Taylor or Saquon Barkley. I can also laugh as Carson Wentz or Baker Mayfield throw yet another interception or at Dallas’ ineptitude at clock management.
I can watch the divisional playoff between Kansas City and Buffalo Bills last season and wonder whether, in over 40 years of watching all sorts of elite sports, I’ve even seen a contest to match it.
If that feels like a lot of “I cans” well it is. And it’s a completely liberating way to watch sport.
For the last couple of years, when lockdown gave me plenty of excuses to watch as many games a week as I could, I’ve tried to take that attitude into my NRL watching. The result, again, has been liberating.
(Photo by Ian Hitchcock/Getty Images)
Naturally, I still really want the Dragons to win and will suffer somewhat when they don’t, but I’ve decided that I am not going to fret about good performances by other teams. Just last season alone I enjoyed all the Roosters v Souths clashes (I even went to the recent semi-final), I loved the resurgence and heart shown by the Cowboys this year, I felt genuine pity, even anger, for the Tigers when they were torched by the bunker against the Cowboys, I enjoyed that three week period late in the season when the Bulldogs were the most entertaining team in the comp, and perhaps most telling of all, I didn’t mind it when Manly played well.
This all culminated with me attending the Grand Final, and as a neutral I enjoyed the occasion. I, as always, marvelled at the toughness of elite rugby league players and although I don’t love Penrith, it felt good and right to applaud a superbly drilled and talented side. And I barely thought of the Dragons at all (ok, that’s obviously a small lie).
So where does this leave me?
I will always love my Dragons – there’s been too much time, emotion and energy tied up in that relationship. But I think I’ve learned to love the game even more. Decades later, I can now see what my Uncle Thomas saw and I encourage others to try it.
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