In Fever Pitch, Nick Hornby acknowledges that his fixation with Arsenal is such a part of his identity that to many friends and colleagues, to hear to the word Arsenal is to think immediately of Nick. When you self-identify with a club, you inherit its glories and legends, but also its crimes and infamy. And when you walk down the street wearing your club's jersey you are, for better or worse, subjecting yourself to appraisal by strangers.
Anyone who has worn a jersey in an environment where strangers must exist together for extended amounts of time (at an airport, in a theme park line, on a train) will have experienced the jersey inspired conversation at some point. It begins with thoughtful eye contact that is more serious than accidental. Then comes the "can I address you?" eyebrow raise, the perfunctory pointer finger directed at the jersey by way of explanation, and the pregnant pause you must take before speaking to a stranger to indicate that this isn't something the speaker often does.
Once conversation ensues, there is an unofficial assessment to decide whether both parties are at the same fandom level. You might be deflated to find out that the stranger is just a dabbler who knows the marquee players. Or you might be delighted to realize that someone else feels as strongly as you do about the dire need to quit switching Azpilicueta from left back to right back to left back ad infinitum and just keep him at right back where he belongs. There is momentary closeness and you reflect that you are glad to have worn your jersey today.
There are certain phases in life when people grow close and then part ways. In the intervening years you grow, change, and possibly put on weight. Then comes your ten year high school reunion. And though your classmates look nothing like they did a decade ago, they expect that you will look as if you were just let out of fifth period and vice versa. They have in their minds an image of you that is hard to let go--so they treat you as if you are someone who ceased to exist ten years ago. You find that it is difficult to assert your present day persona, but easy to slip back into the role prescribed for you. You do what's easy.
This is what it's like when a stranger strikes up a conversation with you about the jersey you are wearing. You play into the role of ever-hopeful Liverpudlian, ars gratia artis Gunner, or possession-obsessed Cule. It's an interesting experience to have your personality associated with, and distilled down to, that of a club which has been formed over hundreds of years. It can be flattering, delusional, and completely off-base at once.
In May 2014, I was wearing a USMNT jersey in Philadelphia. As I crossed the street a guy with the same USMNT jersey enthusiastically greeted me. In that "Hey!" was shared excitement for the upcoming World Cup. In August 2015, I was wearing a Real Madrid jersey at Arthur Ashe stadium. I watched Rafael Nadal unravel at the US Open and cheered for his opponent Fabio Fognini. Most of the crowd was behind Nadal, including three Spanish speaking girls behind me. In response to my enthusiasm for Fognini I heard one of the girls say something in a disdainful tone about a certain "Madridista". My little sister, eight years old at the time, was wearing a Chelsea jersey at a hotel. The doorman excitedly asked who her favorite player was, clearly a supporter himself. A grown man found kinship with a child over something as trivial as a jersey. I have a hundred stories like these where a jersey has inspired friendship, eye rolling, curiosity, or a line of questioning designed to determine whether my support was soi-disant or bonafide.
Imagine wearing some other facet of your true identity on your sleeve and having strangers approach you based on the tidbit of information. Some of us wear things of this nature: wedding bands, religious accessories, military uniforms, medical bracelets. And then there are the image and status items we don with the express desire to be seen as a particular type of someone: cowboy boots, mohawks, ripped jeans, Nirvana tees, fake glasses, flannel shirts. The difference between the two categories (which are often conflated) is that the former has a greater sense of authenticity while the latter is meant to inculcate style. A wedding band means you're married--wearing cowboy boots by no means entails that you are a cowboy. The jersey falls somewhere in between.
Yes, there is a certain continental appeal attached to being a soccer supporter over, say, being a hockey or baseball fan. But no, you do not believe you are a professional footballer. The trend element can render the jersey as inauthentic as a non-Lumberjack flannel shirt wearer and land someone in the second category described above. But there are, of course, fans who have no other motivation than to support their club. Wearing a jersey is both an active and passive act. You are presenting yourself in one way. The world is viewing you in another. Sometimes the two views overlap.
Obviously, what a stranger makes of you based on your attire should not inform what you choose to wear. This is a grade school lesson. But in cataloging a few of the unexpected jersey based interactions I've had, I've reminded myself that we all crave ways to identify and categorize other people. While assuming certain truths about someone based on their club of choice is different that judging their watch or car, it is still a base desire to equate one small detail with a sweeping generalization. Sharing a facet of your identity outwardly creates an opportunity to be oversimplified. To acquaintances especially, your club ties may be your defining factor. You will become flatter in their minds, but you will exist where you may have been a shapeless mass before. Is it worse to be flat or shapeless?
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