Fan-Hate and Hate-Hate

 

“It used to be the case that fans of Auburn University’s football team would gather after victories at Toomer’s corner in Auburn, Alabama, to throw rolls of toilet paper into the historic oak trees there. The trees have been removed. Not because Auburn University wanted it that way: Harvey Updyke, a fan of the University of Alabama’s football team – Auburn’s hated cross-state rival – poisoned the trees in 2010. Updyke was caught when he called in to a local sports radio show to brag about the deed. He was charged with criminal mischief, desecrating a venerated object and damaging agriculture. Although he initially pleaded not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect, he later made a plea deal in which he pleaded guilty to criminal damage of an agricultural facility. He served six months in jail, and was released in June of this year.” (Author: Joshua Shepherd – link to full article below).

When I read this article from Oxford University’s Practical Ethics blog at http://blog.practicalethics.ox.ac.uk/2013/11/the-morality-of-sport-hatred/ , I knew that I had found a kindred spirit and a subject that would resonate with Almanackers.

My hate list is too long to remember, let alone cite in full.  So I will keep it to 2 recent candidates to show how the distinction between fan-hate and hate-hate can oscillate over time.

I hate-hated Hayden Ballantyne.  This is not a small club to join.  But he was just so pushy, and aggressive, and annoying that I couldn’t help myself, M’Lud.  This was ludicrous because everything I hated about HB was totally consistent with Phil Matera, who I loved when he was the only forward option my Eagles had for several seasons.  When I thought about what really annoyed me about HB, I got the unnerving feeling that it was his extraordinary work ethic and commitment to extract everything from his limited physique.  He maximised every limited opportunity given.  I had squandered many over the course of my life.

Conclusion: I genuinely hated him because he reminded me of my personal flaws.  Of course I didn’t need to publically admit this.  I could blame it on his purple jumper and the lack of discipline that led to frequent suspensions.

Then a funny thing happened last season.  It became very clear to me that Ross Lyon had scared the living death out of HB and that he was now a totally focussed team player.  In the final at Kardinia Park he would run into every fracas with his chest bulging and his hands tied to his thighs with the invisible tape of discipline and fear (of his coach – not the opposition).

I started to secretly admire HB.  Not that I could say this within earshot of the Avenging Eagle, who would not collect a winning Lotto ticket if it came with a Fremantle postmark.  I started to think that we had walked a similar journey where our passions had constantly got us into trouble, but we had achieved some focus from this bitter experience.

Then came the Grand Final and HB failed spectacularly, playing undoubtedly the worst game of his career.  I was glad for many reasons.  I reflected on the cricket grand final where I shouldered arms to the third ball letting it take out my off stump, the week after my career top score in the semi final.  Or the Kadina golf club championships where I won the competition on the Saturday, and then could not feel my hands in the match play final on the Sunday when the cold front storms swept in off Spencer Gulf.

HB and I were shame-bonded in mutual humiliation and humility.  Just another life lesson to not get ahead of ourselves.  But it is a long road that has no turning.  We’ll both be back.

My other candidate is James Hird or LJ (Lord Jim) as I snidely refer to him at every opportunity.

I loved Hird as a player.  He was so elegant.  Like a classical god he seemed to effortlessly outmark taller and stronger men.  Like a chess master he could see the options three moves ahead of any mortal player or fan.  Then flawlessly execute the coup de grace’ with a raking 50 metre pass to the team-mate alone on the opposite flank.

Then he did it against my Eagles in the last quarter of a game that the Bombers had no right to win.  And he didn’t just finesse away our rightful win, he rubbed our noses in it with exultant celebration that seemed to revel in his own genius more than team victory.

He had become, in short, an arrogant prat.  The most contemptuous of beings in my moral lexicon.  I hate-hated him with a passion.  Overnight.

Hird was Narcissus seeing his reflection in a pool of water, and so entranced by its beauty that he is forever unable to lose sight of it.

The years that followed reinforced my hatred of Hird, as the ‘Chosen One’ mocked the ‘Prodigal Son’ metaphor in his return to “save” his benighted club from languoring in its mid-table misery.

Then joy of joys, this year his imperial over-reach and overweening pride manifested in the Drugs Scandal that overtook the Bombers.  While he steadfastly refused to concede that he could possibly have done anything wrong.

Nothing could shift Narcissus’ gaze from his own reflected beauty.  But at least I could finally adopt the role of Nemesis, the rival who had led Narcissus to this fate.  I take personal pride in having led the booing of Watson and Hird the night they came to Subiaco.  Other Eagles fans seated nearby looked at me strangely as I rose with a banshee scream as the Bombers ran onto the field.  They thought I had gone mad.  But in a season of team misery we all have to get our jollies where we can, so I feel sure that it was my personal commitment that encouraged 30,000 fellow sufferers to join me in pitiless condemnation.

So what am I to make of all this in the rational light of post-season days?  Two things.  Firstly like HB, that it says more about me than it does about LJ.  Hird was given every natural gift and made the most of every one of them.  Premierships, Brownlows, strong captaincy and now ruthless coaching leadership.  I think I detect the sin of envy, like a stye blinding my vision.

I fan-hated Hird initially because he had single-mindedly made the most of his bountiful gifts.  How dare he remind me of my own squandering by comparison.

But again, joy of joys, I was right.  No humiliation, not even 12 months disqualification, can blind Narcissus to the ever-narrowing vision of his own glory.  And Joshua Shepherd’s article (cited above – it is great reading for the reflective sports fan) gives a moral justification to my growing hatred.  Unfairness is one of the reasonable causes for sustaining hate-hatred.

Long may my hatred of the Purple Scum (leavened with unspoken admiration that makes it only sport-hate) reign; while my righteous indignation toward the Red and Black Scum will continue unabated for seasons to come (hate-hate that knows no bounds).

 

OK, I’ve opened the door.  Who do you sport-hate and who do you hate-hate?  Names will be accepted, but your reasons will be cherished and reverse psycho-analysed.

 

Thanks again to Bruce Berglund and the great people at New Books in Sport ( https://www.facebook.com/newbooksinsports ) who regularly lead me to these gems of international sports writing.