It's not hat I hate sports, but

35 seconds left of the game; one single point makes the difference between glory and defeat. Everyone is glued to the screens at the bars, holding the breath as the play starts, the player dribbles, he shoots! The ball goes in the air and…

Wait. Not everyone is glued to the screen. I found out about the finals only because I saw the crowd on the sidewalk outside a sports bar. For the last 15 years, I’ve missed every single World Series, Stanley cup, Super Bowl, The Great Enchilada and the likes. Actually, with the exception of the soccer world cup, I have only watched a handful of sports matches in TV since I finished university in the mid 90’s.

It's not that I hate sports, but the idea of sitting there watching grown up men chasing, hitting and tossing a ball bores me out of my skull. And let’s not even go into “sports” such as golf and curling. Those make dish washing exciting by comparison.

I do appreciate watching clips of great plays: Jordan flying with the ball high on his hand, Ronaldinho dribbling and scoring, Tyson brutally beating his opponent into pulp. I love those displays of skill, athletics and passion. I often stop by a park or a playground to watch either adults or kids playing some sport, it seems to me a postcard of enjoyment, freedom, engaged and active peace. But I can’t bear the idea of cheering for Manchester United, or Toronto Raptors, or caring if Nadal and Tiger Woods moved up the ranking. Not even my local teams Chivas and Atlas. Who cares? And why?

There are of course, rewards to the sports fan. Being one of them the orgasmic climax of victory. The catharsis of feeling triumphant in a reality so immediate, concrete and simple as a ball hitting the net. Pure and raw emotion.

But to enjoy that orgasm you must be in a relationship with your team. And most sports fans would say the joy is the relationship itself, and climax (victory) is an extremely welcomed, but peripheral aspect of the relationship. The main joy is to be a fan, to be immersed in a dimension easily available, where you can experience disappointment, but never rejection. The fan has all the power in this relationship, he can reject, loath and abuse his team whenever he wants. The sense of intimacy is easily achievable via the collective memory of special plays or games. So happy together!

And then there are the sports commentators. Doing their tv show, one hour a day, dressed in suits, with a straight face and an expression of deep thought as they weight the chances of South Carolina to get to the finals given Johnson’s recent injury. I really can not make up my mind if they are blessed or terminally idiotic. And the reason is, some part of me wonders if I don’t get sports right: Maybe sports fanaticism is a diluted version of nationalism, regionalism, xenophobia, racism and similar, more aggressive versions of belonging and bonding.

If that’s the case, sports may be to war and violent raids like methadone to heroin. Channeling those sadly familiar emotions in a controlled environment, where by and large the worst consequences are the humiliation of green team, the waving of flags and verbal abuse of other fans. And of course I know about the hooligans, I know about all the deaths and fights that sports trigger. I did read “Among the thugs”, and have hear the racist chanting in soccer stadiums all around the world. I have been banned from bars in central Europe because my friend was wearing a “Brasil” shirt. But my point is: likely those people were aggressive by nature, with or without professional sports. And that violence could be released in more damaging circumstances. So yes, even if many times sports exacerbates that natural violence, perhaps in most cases it just harnesses it, controls it.

And maybe sports commentators are not the ultimate pointless, ridiculous pathetic human beings, but winged nurses who help deliver the methadone dose right on time to their itching audience.

I recall a few years back watching a bull fight on tv with my mom, the matador doing a pass to the right, to the left, the bull nearly missing him every time as he stood up with incredible grace and bravery, and finally going for the kill, with a stroke of his sword so perfect, so precise. He threw his cape to the sand, standing in front of the bull, just a couple of steps from the horns, exposed, vulnerable and completely confident. The bull tried to charge, his whole heavy body moved, but it didn’t go forward an inch and just dropped dead in the sand, like an imploding building. At this point I realized I had stood from the sofa, and I was two inches from the tv screen, my hearth beating fast, the blood rushing… I’m not addicted, but boy do I know the rush!