Watching football in Spain
I was never into watching sports or cheering for a team and it always puzzled me that my late husband would choose to spend three-to-four hours of a perfectly lovely afternoon in front of a TV watching either the Red Sox or the Patriots play. I didn’t understand why people would waste their hard-earned cash on overpriced team jerseys or why they would become outright elated whenever their team won. After all, regardless of the outcome, their lives would remain the same. Nothing would change in their daily routine, they’d still earn the same amount of money, their cars would still need oil changes and their houses new paint, and they’d continue to grow older and flabbier and balder (well, maybe not everyone vis-à-vis the last two) with every passing sports season.
Then the Eurocup 2024 final came around and because football (or soccer as Americans would call it) is the only sport the workings of which I understand I decided to join two friends—and a couple hundred other fans—to watch the match together. Any joint activity beats sitting alone at home on a Sunday night, I figured, and so off I went to a pub where there was so much red and yellow that it seemed a Spanish flag got sick from all the beer that was being consumed. When the first goal evaded the English goalie and ended in the net the pub exploded with cheers, screams “vamos España”, and people around me singing “campeones, campeones, ole ole ole”. To my surprise feelings of pride surged inside me too and I almost joined in the singing completely forgetting I’m tone-deaf and can’t sing.
Spain defeated England 2:1 and while I (thankfully) managed to restrain myself from singing off-key again at the end of the match I wondered what was happening to me. Where did my nonchalance towards sports go? Did that one bottle of cider I drank go straight to my head? Or was the excitement the result of being in the thick of the celebrating crowd? But I’ve watched sports before (even at a stadium) and the most excitement I ever felt was at the thought of the game finally ending. My friend pointed out that rooting for a team brought up feelings of belonging and she was probably right but how did that apply to me? Can I really get excited about belonging to a nation in which I’ve lived a total of 8 years (with a break in between)? After all, none of the teams in the US—not even the ones my late husband adored—produced the same sentiments even though I spent many more years living there, and everything American is still a lot more familiar to me than anything Spanish.
And so as I made my way home from the pub I came up with two possible explanations:
(1) I love living in Spain and this love has somehow morphed into the pride I felt when the country’s team won
(2) A small % of my DNA is Sephardic and you know those pesky genes will always reveal themselves (BRCA I’m looking at you)
(3) Nature plus nurture—or all of the above
Thoughts?
Final call for the personal workshop essay I’ll be teaching August 5-9th, 2024. Only one space is left and you know you want to join! For more info and to sign up go here.