“Life and death”, and the quiet hope of lockdown football.
It won’t last forever, but football has briefly remembered that it is just a game.
In a way, football raised me as much as my parents did. It defined and dominated the weekends of my childhood and, as my beloved Manchester City started winning things, it became incredibly easy to surrender almost every day to it during my teenage years.
But throughout my early twenties, I began to fall out of love with it. Initially, I supposed that my dwindling affections were the inevitable result of growing up and having my priorities change, but the sense of ennui ran much deeper. Chronic health struggles diminished my role as a spectator, an increased awareness of the cynicism and corruption within the sport shattered any illusions I had that my participation was valued, and the endless drive of deliberately provocative news coverage exhausted me. And that’s without mentioning the anonymous cruelty and amorphous make-up of ugly social media tribalism. Football might have raised me, but it had become joyless.
After Project Restart’s grand unveiling back in May, I felt incredibly uneasy. The risks to public health were too great; football without fans would be nothing; the urge to restart was driven entirely by a thirst for profit; there was no need to rush back when the 2020–21 season hadn’t been arranged. And so on. I avoided most of Aston Villa and Sheffield United’s 0–0 draw because I still hadn’t resolved my quandaries with the comeback even while it was under way. But after visiting my parents for City’s 3–0 victory over Arsenal later that same night (sitting a good ten feet away from them, being in an at risk group myself), and after checking in and out of the first round of fixtures over the weekend, I started to notice a few changes.
For as long as any fan of the Premier League has been alive, football has always persisted in some form (even through world wars). Despite its inherent connections with class, with politics, and with society, it still likes to posit itself as a glamorous and invincible product that’s separate from, or more important than, matters pertaining to the real world. Beyond FIFA and UEFA’s disgraceful treatment of racism as a near non-issue, an example of this is the often repeated (and often misattributed) quote that suggests football is more important than life and death. It’s a false statement, but its simple and persuasive poetry has been adopted by fans despite knowing its sentiments to be untrue. In 2020, though, too much has happened to the world and its inhabitants for football to maintain such a farcical charade.
At the time of writing, a frightened and grieving world has been forced to barricade itself indoors. Half-a-million people have perished in a worldwide pandemic. Those still living are isolated from members of their own family, even missing the funerals of those they’ve lost. Lovers young and old who reside in separate homes have missed the anniversaries and birthdays of their significant others. Children aren’t attending school, forcing parents to turn their kitchens into classrooms. Cinemas, gyms, high streets, and hairdressers, all closed for months. Reports of domestic violence have surged. To walk the streets is to wander through a scene akin to an apocalypse. Except, of course, in the cities around the world where thousands have taken to the streets, sacrificing their health for basic human rights following yet another racist murder by police. Vitally uncomfortable conversations about racism, both historical and current, have swept and gripped a nation with a white supremacist past and little else on its agenda. And in the middle of it all, even football was finally, albeit reluctantly, forced to stop.
As far as myself and others are concerned, football has avoided the bigger picture for far too long. Punishments for racism barely amount to punishments at all, LGBTQ+ representation in the men’s game remains dishearteningly low, and an increasing number of fans are priced out of watching their favourite teams. And when this new world eventually finds itself resembling the one we knew before 2020, I imagine it will gleefully distance itself once more from the world’s problems. Yet, for this small moment in time, even football hasn’t reemerged as its self-important and frequently brash self. In a way, I’m not sure it could have done — not without showing itself up as transparently corrupt and hollow to the core (something we admittedly know already). Within the version of the game we’re currently laying witness to, a quiet, cautious sense of optimism has emerged: the sport we knew has temporarily been knocked off its perch, and in the cold light of day has gained a little perspective. Turns out, it’s not invincible or above us; turns out, it is just a fucking game.
Of course, footballers are role models and icons to many by default, so we play a part in elevating them above ourselves. But during the chaos and despair of recent months, the behaviour in particular of Marcus Rashford, Raheem Sterling, and, earlier this week, Ben Mee, has seen them use their status for serious good, reminding us that the closest link we have to the globalised and corporate world of football is the players themselves. The trio, among others, have bravely and eloquently spoken out against racism and vile government policy, going so far as to influence government policy during a crucial moment for families in poverty. It’s not that footballers haven’t expressed their personal beliefs to improve the lives of others before, but at a time of great peril — and at a moment where many believe this comeback to be driven by cynicism and TV money (myself included)— their actions have been inspiring and refreshing, and arguably representative of something larger that has made the return of the Premier League such a welcome experience after all.
Simply put, football in its current form is finally acknowledging (and even promoting) the bigger picture in a way I’ve never seen before. Frankly, it’s restoring my fragile appreciation for the game. Of course, some would rightly argue that it’s impossible to ignore — the games are taking place in eerily silent and empty stadiums, after all — but players and pundits alike have still made concerted efforts to tackle difficult subjects and, where possible, educate, reassure, and alert the viewers at home. “Black Lives Matter” adorns the players’ shirts and will do until the end of the season; Aston Villa and Sheffield United’s decision to take a knee for the first ten seconds of the inaugural lockdown fixture inspired all others to follow suit; Raheem Sterling made a memorable and brave appearance on Newsnight in the wake of protests on both sides of the Atlantic; Sky Sports, in their own imperfect way, have dedicated stretches of their coverage to having productive conversations (as opposed to “debates”) about racism, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the wonderful work the NHS is doing to help us survive COVID-19.
One of the most exhausting aspects of following football pre-lockdown was the constant drive of deliberately provocative content peddled by Sky and BT Sport, whose attempts to stoke tensions between anonymous Twitter accounts felt utterly relentless. But against a backdrop of serious international crises, there has been a detectable reduction in their attempts to pretend that football is more important than life and death. Far be it from me to praise a major corporation for showing a bit of humility for once, especially when their hand has been forced like this, but the modesty and respect paid during this troubled period to the problems facing us all has engendered a much friendlier, more relaxed, and altogether more pleasurable viewing experience. No longer do I deliberately swerve the pre-match build-up to avoid the predetermined #narratives and #controversies, simply because they’re not the big talking point. And if I’d left Sky Sports running long enough after City’s win over Burnley, I’d have seen Graeme Souness, Ben Mee, and Micah Richards all take turns to condemn the racist fly-by that took place during the match.
The amiable nature of the coverage has also been reflected in my Twitter timeline, where the picture is one of people too grateful for football’s return to get too bothered about VAR or offside decisions. We always knew football wasn’t that important, but we’re currently living through irrefutable proof of that fact; it pales in significance to the lives which were both lost and fought for during a turbulent spring period. With the backdrop of international health anxiety, depression, racism, police brutality, and nationalism, football has returned as something of an old friend. It’s been a long time since it felt like pure entertainment to me — something to partake in at my leisure, or discuss with my family and friends. When I visited my parents for City’s games against Arsenal and Burnley, and when my favourite football podcasts resumed their normal programming, I was hit by the wonderful feeling that we’re all too busy embracing a semblance of normality to care too much about the ramifications of the results of each game. I am aware that Arsenal fans might feel differently if you asked them.
It’s not that we took football for granted before, but its true function had long been distorted by aggressive competitiveness and unchecked greed. In the United Kingdom at least, association football began as a recreational activity for workers, engineers, and church attendees who couldn’t resist the urge to kick a ball around. Over time, the sport’s popularity paved the way for the grotesquely rich to do with it as they pleased, but in this ever so brief of moments we’ve collectively remembered the community spirit that birthed the sport in the first place. I used to dread talking about big matches, but debates over whether Brighton’s Neal Maupay should have been sent off, or whether Phil Foden is the future of English football, are a relief now. Confronting and embracing our negative emotions is a vital skill, but sometimes a distraction is necessary. Frankly, it’s a relief to talk to my friends and family about something that’s not a worldwide pandemic for the first time in four months. It’s a sign that people are slowly recovering from the most fundamental of shocks to their systems.
As Lisa Simpson might correctly point out, the Premier League still embodies all the awful things it did before. The product remains, hidden as it might be at present, and it will return to its former self in time. And once the calendar is back to normal and the World Cup in Qatar is under way, Waylon Smithers will be there to gleefully exclaim about its new hat and we’ll be at each other’s throats over offsides and VAR decisions. But that’s all the more reason to treasure this current manifestation: one that is imperfect, but one that has begun to understand — even in a small way — the full impact of its importance in society and culture. If this period of downtime has instigated vital conversations amongst those of us on the ground (chiefly the fans and the players) that change even the slightest elements of the sport for the better, then it may well have all been worth it.
To continue with the ‘Lisa vs. Malibu Stacy’ analogy, perhaps the future will resemble something like the very end of that Simpsons episode: Lisa rationalises that, while the rest of the world remained infatuated with the mass-marketed and sexist Malibu Stacy, her own idealistic doll resonating with even one child justified her ultimately futile efforts to change the world. So, when life returns to normal and unfettered capitalism runs amok once again — not just in football but in society at large — those of us bemoaning a lack of lessons learned might find something in the small, barely noticeable changes we’ve picked up during lockdown. Given that it is a permanent reflection and representation of ourselves as a species, football will inevitably display the worst of humanity once stadiums are open again and the bigger picture of inequality can be ignored. But in those moments, I’m going to try my hardest to remember this short period, when football showed itself to be capable of highlighting prejudice, taking itself a lot less seriously, and showing me a version of the game that I could fall in love with once again.
