On Injury

Injury is an unfortunate, but inevitable part of sport. Some players are lauded for remaining largely injury free through long careers (Giggs) and others are dismissed and mocked for being too fragile (RVP). “How much more could he have achieved if he hadn’t had those terrible injuries?” will forever be a popular topic. The media tirelessly covers player injuries and does so to such an extent that it sometimes seems exploitative. Fans also feel at liberty to express their opinions on the validity of tackles, fouls, timeouts, and trainer summons. 

Tennis and soccer are at opposite ends of the spectrum for in-match injury credulity. Tennis fans are generally receptive to any hint of injury and its impact on the player’s performance. After a slip or fall, it is not unusual for a player to lapse mentally for a couple games and fans do not hold it against a player. Conversely, in soccer we expect a player to get up and carry on at 100% after a crunching (but fair) tackle because soccer players are infamously dramatic. Time wasting and running down the clock are not a factor in tennis, which might account for greater sympathy. 

As is true in any sport, tennis injuries are over scrutinized and given too much attention. Commentators tirelessly wish the injured player well and (generously) attribute poor form to ‘lingering’ this or that. At the 2013 US Open, American Mardy Fish’s heart condition was covered to absurdity. Overindulgent injury coverage is problematic because it’s boring and uninteresting, but mostly because it takes away from live play.

Injuries are something that should be mentioned once and not again. It’s like a friend telling you she’s training for the marathon. It’s good information to know, but please do not share the minute details or give a minute by minute update.

If the player is competing, it’s fair to assume that is not a grave injury and therefore shouldn’t be given so much air time. But have you considered the broadcaster’s perspective? It is in their best interest to spin the fantastical yarn of the injury odyssey. If the sensationalist tone is not kept up, viewers (with their tragically short attention spans) may get bored and start watching WWE or Tosh.0 instead. Injury as entertainment is a distasteful but very real plot line in sports media. 

It is unfair to suggest that a player act against his own best interest for the entertainment value of a match. The dishonor of a tennis retirement is sometimes rooted in perceived gamesmanship or tanking. Djokovic is still haunted by his early career habit of retiring from numerous matches (sore throat was one instance). The idea is that a player knows he is going to lose so he attempts to save face by chalking up the lousy performance to an injury. Tennis players must make this call on their own and suffer the consequences. If an athlete is lambasted for making the right decision for his or her career and health, there’s something wrong with public perception of tennis retirements. It’s like when Gatsby dies. No one cares when the drama is over. They care more about the injury-hype than the player. This attention is paid selfishly because fans don’t want the match to end. If a player appears to be cramping or clutches his stomach the commentators can speak of nothing else. It’s like when there are rumors about an old (and irrelevant band) reuniting. Interestingly, the retirement equivalent in soccer, asking to be subbed off, is regarded without incredulity. 

Fans want to see players dig in and in both tennis and soccer, fans are gratuitously reverent of self-sacrifice. The line between persevering to one’s own detriment and trying one’s absolute hardest is hard for even the player to identify. Soccer players receive the benefit of the doubt when it comes to making the decision to remove themselves from the field of play. The immense difficulty of securing a place in the XI renders the thought that a player would voluntarily elect to be subbed off unthinkable. The ‘sub him off’ rolling hand gesture makes your heart sink for the player. When a player must make the difficult request to be subbed off it is unlikely you will see him in the following match. 

While their decision to self-sub is largely respected, soccer players are sometimes shortchanged when it comes to going to ground. Gamesmanship injuries are so common in soccer that commentators feel at liberty to judge the legitimacy of each foul and more often that not, commentators declare a fair tackle and that the player should have “done more to stay on his feet”.

Herein lies the difference between the way injury is perceived in tennis versus soccer. Since they are few and far between, tennis injuries are treated with a solemnity not granted in soccer. Additionally, with only two people on court and no subs, injury must be dealt with seriously and immediately. The frequency of tackles and diving in soccer means that each incident is received with a level of skepticism. This is not to say that tennis is free of gamesmanship injury.

The halt in play when Victoria Azarenka used an injury timeout to kill Sloane Stephen’s momentum was ten minutes. In those ten minutes Azarenka was able to recenter herself and unnerve Sloane, who had been close to an upset. This lengthy timeout is in contrast to soccer, in which injuries/fouls/treatment are nonstop and par for the course. The stoppage time at the end of a soccer match rarely exceeds five minutes. Add this to the first half stoppage time and you have roughly eight minutes of timeout for twenty-two players.

If injuries were as common in tennis as they are in soccer matches, it’s to hard imagine that players would be allowed such long timeouts. Skepticism and cynicism account for why injuries are either respected as authentic or vilipended as false. Tennis retirements are are considered throwing the towel in, but in-match injuries are treated as legitimate. Soccer is in the opposite–unless you ask to be subbed off, you’re just another whinger. 

Fans wouldn’t have such strong opinions about injuries, sub-offs, and retirements if coverage didn’t focus so operatically on them. If injury news were relayed simply as fact rather than as entertainment, all parties would be better off. But as long as gamesmanship exists, so too will injury fodder. 

William Richert's Third Party Vendor Outfit

I ordered a movie called Aren’t You Even Gonna Kiss Me Goodbye from an Amazon third party vendor assuming it would arrive in a sanitized package with a printed receipt. The movie stars River Phoenix and is directed by the author of the book on which the movie is based: William Richert. My doorman handed me a padded manila envelope. Inside was a handwritten note, a copy of another Richert movie, and a DVD that was as homemade as anything I’ve ever seen. The printed DVD cover that sits between the plastic case and the transparent sleeve was a pixelated photo printed on non-glossy printer paper. Richert, or his assistant, must burn the DVDs and print the sleeves individually as orders trickle in.

The manila envelope had a return address in the top left corner--Richert's home or office address. The idea that this copy of the movie has been burned for me personally, and not mass produced in some Chinese factory, was so quaint as to be touching. When I opened the DVD case and saw that Richert had inscribed a message to me, I had a visceral reaction I can't explain. 

Having not yet watched the movie I ordered, the only association I had with Richert when I saw his note to me was his character in My Own Private Idaho, Bob Pigeon. Pigeon is an updated version of Shakespeare's Falstaff in Henry IV. Richert's Google search result confirms that his role in the Gus Van Sant movie is what he is best known for in the entertainment world. My Own Private Idaho is an excellent movie, but it has not reached a large audience and Richert is a relative unknown. My reaction to Richert's acknowledging my existence was not about celebrity or remote star stricken-ness. This was no brush with fame. 

Did you ever have a physical piece of something you could only love in the abstract?

Richert’s handwriting was a letter from Bob Pigeon. It was a note from Falstaff himself. Receiving the note was sort of like when you’re a kid and you go to Disneyland and seek out Mickey’s autograph. It’s not that you believe the guy in the costume is really Mickey—it’s that you have a personal and tangible connection to the character.  It’s the reification of something fictional. And what was a one way relationship previously now has a lane running back toward you.

I love My Own Private Idaho in the way that you only love a few movies ever. I read every review, essay, and interview that was even remotely related to the film. I watched James Franco's alternate version of movie in which he compiled unused footage into a sort of elegy to the late River Phoenix My Own Private River. It is the sort of movie that makes you feel you must watch more movies--to discover more things that make you feel this way. But it's a futile search and an inevitable disappointment because there are very few movies that will have the impact--and a number of factors have to align for the impact to be felt. You have to be at the right stage in your life, watch it with the right company, and be in the right frame of mind. My post-life-changing movie, movie watching binges have never produced the intended result (otherwise I would be constantly watching movies and having revelations).

For me, movie obsessions die hard. I've watched countless bad movies because they involved an actor or director whose work elsewhere inspired me. I watched Gone Baby Gone, starring Casey Affleck, because he was a supporting character in Good Will Hunting. I hunted down a used copy of Full Metal Jacket Diary to see what Matthew Modine had to say. Every single Vietnam War book I've read is because of Apocalypse Now. I wrote a term paper on the parallels between the Odyssey and Coppola's The Godfather. I watched Stand By Me on repeat one for a week then I watched the entire River Phoenix canon, which led me to order Richert's Aren’t You Even Gonna Kiss Me Goodbye.

So you can see how William Richert's knowing who I am could inspire an unidentifiable feeling. He knew my name, even if just for a second, and that made my world smaller. He sent me his other movie, Winter Kills, and that means he appreciated that I sought out his work. Right? Because Winter Kills is available on Amazon for $24.88 if you want the DVD (Amazon itself, not a third party vendor) or cheaper if you stream through Prime. This is a guy who just wants to share his work. 

It's hard to remain emotionally uninvolved with objects of affection--whether they be fictional characters or whatever it is we refer to by the name 'film'. I don't imagine I would have had the same reaction if I had never seen Richert play Pigeon. Had I not, I would have found his personal note a nice gesture and nothing more. I've been to book signings and the inscriptions are a nice souvenir. But really those signed flyleaves are the cultured equivalent of a Disneyland tee shirt, a high brow Hard Rock Cafe tumbler. 

The note from Richert wasn't an interesting piece of trivia, or a funny outtake, or a deleted scene. It didn't illuminate my understanding of My Own Private Idaho or make me love it any more (I couldn't possibly). What the note gifted me was a tiny piece of history that mattered to me. It was no different than taking a pebble from the beach after one of those days you know you'll remember your whole lifetime.  

Judge Me Not For the Color of My Jersey

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?

An American in Futbol

At the Exploratorium in San Francisco, there are a number of interactive exhibits on social behavior. One such exhibit is spread throughout an entire gallery. It's a simple setup. On a waist-high post are two oversized buttons--one red and one blue.

There are four or five of the posts spread around the gallery, all within shouting distance of one another. A large screen is divided into two halves and keeps track of how many times the red button is pushed and how many times the blue button is pushed. For each time you press the button, you get one point.

Kids and adults begin to push the buttons, unsure of what it will lead to. When they realize that hitting the buttons make their "team"'s score go up, they press rapidly and begin to communicate with strangers pressing their same hued buttons. Observing someone furiously invested in hitting a button compels bystanders to adopt the same behavior with the adjacent, rival button. The other posts begin to populate as red and blue teams are self-formed. The team members--strangers who have never met, some young children, some grandparents--urge one another on loudly.

You now have pairs of people standing side by side, slamming buttons as if their lives depend on it. The button pushing is to no end. The scores, it seems, would continue to go up infinitely. The spectacle is something to behold. The exhibit is supposed to remind us how easily and arbitrarily rivalries and teams can form.

There is nothing fundamental about which team you align yourself with. Essentially, which button is open? Which stranger is yelling more loudly in your direction? That alone is the criteria for team selection.

It's unromantic to think this way, though. We like to think we pick our clubs because we identify with them on a meaningful, even spiritual, level. We pick them because we share values, beliefs, and overarching ideology. We pick them and they pick us; it is a symbiotic relationship. Ideally we are born into our clubs, in which case, they were part of us even before we came to be.

Not everyone is brought into the world with a vested interest in one club over the others. And so we each have a story of how we transformed into the crazed, delusional supporter you have before you today.  Americans with European football allegiances are especially interested in "how did you pick your club?" stories since so few of us have generations of supporters in our families. I'll tell you mine.

In the suburbia where I grew up, my little brother played in a league where each team was named after a well-known professional club. I could easily have picked Ajax or Inter, but Chris made Chelsea so I rooted for Chelsea U-8s and then I rooted for Chelsea FC.

We like all kinds of origin narratives--football partisanship is no different. We like to know how our favorite bands form, where did our parents meet, what was your first job, and so no. We love to impose and derive meaning from coincidence and happenstance. It's a thrill to imagine that there was something fated about the selection of our clubs as there must have been with the selection of our soulmates. Whatever path (the more circuitous the more destined) led us to our fandoms is proof that we belong. I refuse to believe that Chelsea's coming into my life was anything but part of the master plan. If Chris had been cut from Chelsea he'd have played for Aston Villa. Where would I be, then? Certainly not a Villa supporter.

There is a more deliberate purpose to our real and imagined origin stories. In our heart of hearts we tell ourselves these stories with the hope that our origin story will be our children's. I have no dad and granddad who held season tickets in the Shed End. Instead, I have youth Princeton soccer. And so shall my daughter and her daughter after that. And, for them, there will be no questions of belonging because I will gift to them the greatest facet of identity within my power--baby photos clad in Chelsea jerseys.

And after a certain number of generations the story will become myth and it will be as good--nay, better--than the hooligan grandfather I once yearned for. In mining for these ulterior motivations in myself, in facing what could be a nihilist view of first generation club selection, I am actually strengthening the bond I have to my club. Martin Sheen said, "Love is not a sweet thing, but a terribly painful endeavor because it requires total honesty." If he is right, I certainly love my club.

The choices we make, not our inheritances, are what form our identities. Isn't that what the sorting hat taught us? It is the old, and wildly misconveyed, adage: blood is thicker than water. That is, the blood of the covenant (given voluntarily) is thicker than the water of the womb (from which you are birthed unwittingly).

I can't speak for all Americans, but I have a dread fear of being 'found out'. I loathe the label 'poser'. Would my Chelsea support stack up against someone who doesn't have to wake up at 7 AM to watch the match? Against someone who attended their first FA cup match at age five? I, like my forefathers before me, am determined to give my children what I didn't have: freedom from the tyranny of neophytism. What I have lacked, I will provide.