One (or two dozen) with the boys

There’s a philosophical argument that’s been proposed throughout the ages that sport is a peacetime proxy for war.

Certainly the parallels are too striking to ignore (the blind “us and them mentality”, ordinary men striving together for untold glory, a glorious, but ultimately in the bigger scheme of things, futile triumphs, huge amounts of emotional and physical exertion over the pettiest of grudges, loads of spoils for the victor, etc).

But for me the fraternal aspect of sport is most curious. If you look at men of all ages, sport is central to our fellowship. From the first days waddling about after a football, cheering any contact made with it. Even when we get older and those with skill start to emerge to that social touch league at varsity/work, sport is what binds us as men. Even when all pretence of sporting ability is dropped and any run about is just an excuse to justify the bender that follows.

Good company can make a memorable occasion of any sporting event, be it a Pirates-Chiefs humdinger to Chelsea and Liverpool lumping long balls at each other for 120 minutes. Everyone gets to play expert analyst, master tactician, nostalgia buff, stats guru, passionate radical “ultra”. Views are shared, discussions are forced down each other’s throats and the regular and vigorous imbibing of refreshing golden nectar has been known to assist in this regard.Men like the companionship of other men and playing, watching and/or discussing sport has always proved central.

You can relax, take your mind off reality, and just immerse yourself in the contest with your chosen band of thirsty brothers. It is probably the primary reason old boys clubs exist, for men to have a few over a game with those they identify with, in surroundings agreeable to them.

Indeed, an alternate version of the Good Book would have God creating man, mate and sport with woman only featuring to bring another cold round from the bar or kitchen. And clean up the dishes. Now before the feminist brigade start burning strapless lift-and-hold bras in protest, let me remind them, this is meant to be a humorous piece and not really about you. Besides, next week it will be Bulls supporters. Maybe …

Have you ever experienced how limp and uninspiring watching sport alone is? It may well be preferable to watching with a woman, especially if it’s Brazilian beach volleyball. Is there a greater spectator sport? For that is surely an experience no man should go through lest they be newlywed, a new father, or just forgiven for cheating with her best friend. But it’s preferred in the same way that C-Max is preferable to a Siberian gulag. For anyone but Ananias Mathe that is.

There is something deflating about witnessing a stupendous piece of skill from (insert favourite game-breaker here), turning around to share the awe and being faced with a blank wall or a disinterested dog. Worse still is an unappreciative, albeit prettier other who doesn’t understand why Frans Steyn is playing for the Springboks in Pretoria when he is a Sharks player. One would sooner head to a bar and start a conversation with a virtual stranger on the merits of Jake White’s rush defence, to Graham Henry’s flat attacks, or why Ruan Pienaar’s versatility may end up to be his undoing. Many friendships have begun in such circumstances.

This has sadly, led to the phenomenon of the tavern/pub/stadium bore. You know him: older (why are they always older?), slightly sozzled, big greasy grin as he sidles up next to you. You do your damndest to look away as he says “Hey buddy old mate, the Stormers aren’t going to get too far playing like this, hey?” At which point the urge to point out to him that it’s a football match is quickly tempered by the realisation that he will take it as an invitation to conversation. But I suppose such situations are to male bonding what Michael Jackson is to plastic surgery.

On the whole though, few things define the male experience like that bond of brotherhood forged over heroic exploits (be they one’s or another’s) on a sports field/court. It’s one of those things, like being awkwardly useless around crying babies (vote grabbing politicians aside) that makes us, well … us.

And with that I raise a glass to all bands of thirsty brother’s out there, including that most august men of thirst. Cheers fellas, see you at the game.