This Unsporting Life

I am not a sports fan. Nor am I a sportsman. In fact, if the word 'sport' is being used to describe something in any way, you can rest assured knowing that I'm not the one being spoken about. I will never be hunted for sport, not because of an innate objection towards being tracked down and killed, but moreso because I fear that it would be an elaborate ruse to sucker me into a game of lacrosse. Upon being called a 'good sport', I punch people in the face as a reflex action because I am unsure as to what they are saying about me. Am I getting my point across here?

It wasn't always the way. Like all young boys, I had my love of sports. It's just that mine was just a brief flirtation, rather than something that turned into a lifelong pursuit. Maybe it was my spectacular failures in a number of sports - AFL, basketball (two sports not generally designed for abnormally small boys to excel in), tennis, Karate, to name a few - that contributed towards the downfall of sporting enthusiasm in my life, or maybe I fell into a giant vat of ovaries, who knows? All I do know is that my level of enthusiasm for sports began to descend around about the same time as my testicles did.

Nowadays, me and sports have an amicable relationship. We exchange passing pleasantries in the hallways, but extended exposure leaves us awkwardly wondering how to deal with the other. To me, sports is that aquaintance you only have through another friend. They're all well and good until you come across them without the mutual friend as a buffer. Then you've got about 3 minutes of conversation before you're looking around the room, wondering just how many floors you'd have to fall if you ran and jumped out of the window.

Luckily, having a job that centres around the news has afforded me a passable, if not mostly superficial, degree of sporting knowledge. I'm constantly armed with a survival kit should I ever find myself caught in the stereotypical blokey conversation - the kind where an inability to talk about (insert popular sport and team) could risk soon spiralling into accusations of having The Gay. Of course, if the conversation moves onto cars, fuck it, I'm painting a rainbow on my chest and slapping on a pair of assless chaps. I'm not willing to suffer through that shit.

But what does this have to do with anything, apart from casting lingering doubts on my already highly debatable level of masculinity? Well, good sirs and sirettes, this has all been a labourious exercise in irony, because I am going to the cricket tomorrow.

Yes, that's right, the kind with the bat and balls, the dry pitch, the keys in the cracks, getting caught behind....Holy shit, reading back on that, cricket is the filthiest fucking sport ever conceived. But where was I? Oh, yes, my delightful hypocrisy. You see, despite my sporting ambivalence, I actually enjoy going to sporting events themselves, as long as I know what's going on and the sport is mildly entertaining. What I mean by that is that you will never catch me at a game of Golf. You can take that 3-Wood to my genitals with great fervor before I do that.

Attending a match of something - cricket the obvious example in this instance - for me, is purely a social escapade. The combination of hanging out with mates, the atmosphere of a large crowd and bucketloads of booze all add up to create an altogether enjoyable day out. Sports partially exist as a means to provide the populace something that they can collectively gather around with friends and get rowdy over, regardless of how much they really like what's in front of them. Honestly, do you really think, centuries ago, that people went to public executions because they were big fans of the death? Fuck no. They were just there to get drunk and yell a lot. They can't be held responsible if their options were slim. Same went for witch burnings. You can't tell me that, with a few drinks in you, you wouldn't get caught up in the whole tide of screaming "BURN HER!!!"

Having likened sporting events to people gathered around to watch someone be mercilessly slain, I feel there's really nowhere I can go from here. Now there's nothing to do but wait til tomorrow. You'll see me at the slaughter, folks!