Sporting life: What’s Messi to me?
Zinedine Zidane, the French superstar footballer of the 1990s and 2000s, was the subject of a beautiful film directed by Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno. Zidane: A Portrait of the 21st Century. The film lasted 90 minutes and followed a 2005 Spanish La Liga match between Zidane’s side, Real Madrid and Villarreal. The camera focused almost entirely on the player himself.
It was indeed a portrait of the man, not just the man as a footballer. It revealed a mixture of extreme alertness, responsiveness, and energy alternating with a kind of relaxed absence from anger. In the last state, Zidane would reveal his subliminal presence through a repeated small gesture, poking his foot into the ground like a grazing, pawing deer ready to scoot to safety should a predator appear. But immediately we also saw Zidane the predator, a leopard stalking a herd of potential victims, each clawed paw poised, calmly ready to pounce.
In a way, the film was prophetic of a deep-seated tendency in the man: near the end of the game, suddenly caught up in a fight, he received a red card and was sent off. A year later this happened again. Provoked by his goalscorer Marco Materazzi, he lost control, headbutted the Italian and was sent off (for the 14th time in his career): as is well known, the context for this outburst was extra time in the 2006 World Cup final.
It was Lionel Messi, the key player at the World Cup in Qatar in November and December last year, who reminded me of Zidane – not for bouts of madness, but for his extraordinary combination of physical electricity, interspersed with passages where he hardly ever gets angry about it what is happening around him.
Messi doesn’t fit the image of the modern professional footballer. Small, with a low center of gravity, he doesn’t look like a great athlete. Because he was very short for his age as a teenager, he was prescribed growth hormone. The family was only able to afford them for a couple of years before his team, FC Barcelona, took over the bill. At 35, he’s old for a top footballer. He has round shoulders (my wife commented that his sloping shoulders are just like mine – I said “two great sports icons” but there was a bit of an injury underneath). He has a wonderful way of lounging around the field, especially in the first few minutes of a game, more like an older man caught up in a frenetic children’s game, or a cat thief casually sheathing a joint before it busts gets in through the smallest of gaps. He’s almost one flaneur, kind of a deck chair with time to kill. But this impression of detachment alternates with an incredible dribbling ability, combined with a wonderful touch, sensitivity and power in passing and shooting. He combines the qualities of a great striker with those of a great playmaker.
I supported Argentina in the final in Qatar. The main reason for my sympathy, for this temporary identification, was Messi. I love his genius, his subtle knowledge of where everyone is, especially his teammates. In the first 20 minutes or so of the game he played several sensitive passes from the inside right position to left winger Ángel Di María. And after all that lounging, he appeared at the right spot in the six-yard box to score – and landed two successful penalties.
But why do we develop a passion for teams or players we hardly know? Why are we devastated when they give away a goal? Why so delighted when “our” team shoots one?
A feature of sport is this type of identification, both among spectators and players. In our mind we become the player, we join the team. We love the beauty, the grandeur of skill. In the case of Messi, like Zidane, we love the shifts from calm detachment to ecstatic involvement.
In hamlet, the player king sobs when playing the role of Hecuba. Like Hamlet, we ask ourselves, “What does Hecuba mean to him, or does he mean to Hecuba?” What is Messi to me, or, to be sure, me to Messi?
It’s all in the imagination. We watch with passionate eyes. We live the game with our current heroes. We celebrate and mourn with them.
Until we switch. When Argentina dominated for about 70 minutes, I began to long for a real game, for a lively France. I also enjoyed France in their close game against England. If the French could pull themselves together and score a goal then there would be a real game and not – what seemed most likely – a now settled result. I started supporting the new underdogs. And they scored! Kylian Mbappe, of course. Before we got much further, they had a second. Now I felt for Argentina again. Could they survive these appalling disappointments? could they revive?
In 1990, Norman Tebbit coined the ‘Tebbit Test’ for being a true Brit: an immigrant becomes British by supporting the England cricket team. I shocked some people by failing this test myself! I normally support the England team, but not always. I might support the underdog (and many of them had their great moments at this World Cup) or the opponent because I admire an individual’s flair or their ingenuity and courage.
Why do we develop a passion for teams or players we hardly know?
We are, some of us, variable creatures with many strands of identification and loyalty. EM Forster famously said, “If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I have the courage to betray my country.” Such people transcend local tribalism. There are downsides and risks in this attitude. We, the variables, tend to ignore or distort our own sense of belonging; maybe we bend backwards to avoid it. We risk disloyalty, inconstancy, even masochism. We can become sentimental, like a parent ignoring the approaching marginalization of their own children while clamoring for suffering children on the other side of the world. Charity, our opponents might say, begins at home.
We are rightly upset when our families and friends are suffering. And yet, and yet. Imagination and empathy have wings; They go beyond the local. We have many identifications; we belong to many actual and virtual groups.
Well played, Morocco and Japan. And well played Messi! I’m glad you won.