“Amateur football, like life, is about the gaping hole between dream and reality”
I read this quote somewhere, some time ago. I can’t find it anymore but I find myself thinking about it quite often. Sometimes it feels like the answer to my attempts to figure what on earth it is that draws me so much to football.
I always believed that one has to be a certain kind of romantic to partake in something as abstract as following a group of 11 men who kick a ball on a field every weekend.
But perhaps it’s amateur football where the biggest romantics are found: from players to staff to fans. Stripped of profit motives, spectacular play, big crowds and elaborate tifos, one finds themselves faced with loving football in its purest form.
And there is a lot to love about it.
Groundhopping allows you to visit places you would never visit otherwise and meet people you’d never think you’d have something to talk about with.
And there is beauty there.
It’s the journey to an unknown neighbourhood, town, village.
The graffiti, the broken seats, the run-down track, the ragged pitch and the view behind it.
The view of the flats, the fields, the sea; of a lake, a mountain, a train passing by.
It’s a right-back who looks hungover, a coach shouting at him, a referee who might be taking his job too seriously.
It’s two old men catching up, a group of teens discussing evening plans, a kid from the academy team wearing the shirt with pride.
A nervous mother, an upset father, a bored girlfriend.
A dog invading the pitch, a neighbour watching from the balcony, a baby crying, a man shouting a curse you’ve never heard before, a kid banging an improvised drum.
I could happily go on forever…
Participating in such an abstract ritual is almost like a way of resistance against the cynicism of reality.
Amateur football is a celebration of life.
Football is life.