The beautiful shame

CONTRARY to popular belief, prokaryotic single-celled bacteria and archaeans are not the most primitive life forms on earth. Football hooligans are. In case you’ve just crawled out from under a rock, a football hooligan is someone who joins similarly brain-damaged amoeba disguised as human beings to whip each other into a frenzy for the purpose of “voicing” their displeasure at any enemy, real or imagined.

The Gooners of Arsenal FC; the Zulu Army of Birmingham City FC; and the lesser-known Pyromaniac Armies of Orlando Pirates FC and Kaizer Chiefs, who walk around with boxes of matches in their pockets to ostensibly “liberate” stadiums, come to mind.

Well, the day after the second leg of the CAF Champions’ League final between Egypt’s Al Ahly and our very own Orlando Pirates, I had an epiphany that shook me to my boots. It occurred to me that I’m quite the football hooligan — not in the classic sense. My head might be clean-shaven most of the time, but I do not have any tattoos, nor do I own a pair of Doc Martens.

But I do partake in a subtler form of football hooliganism: cyber hooliganism.

The phenomenon of supporting any sports team resides in the same part of the brain that houses the propensity for joining gangs, whether they be the 26s or the 28s, the Bloods or the Crips, the Democrats or the Republicans, the ANC or the DA.

The act of declaring, “I am a Liverpool supporter” is tantamount to declaring, “I hereby choose to blindly follow Liverpool FC into the unknown future and I will not allow facts such as Manchester United’s, Chelsea’s or Arsenal’s domination of English football for two decades to get in the way of my loyalty.”

Put more simply, it is an act of declaring oneself an impregnable fortress of unreasonableness. But it’s a beautiful thing, the same way we all consider patriotism a desirable thing (“I believe my country is the best”, despite all the evidence to the contrary).

Now, back to the Pirates massacre at the hands of Al Ahly. Again, unless you’ve just crawled out of a cryogenic chamber after

I didn’t grab a baseball bat; I logged onto Facebook and left vile cyber-graffiti on his wall

five years, you will be aware that throughout Pirates’ march towards the final, we were urged by the Buccaneers, the PSL, Safa, other club chairmen, the honourable Minister Fikile Mbalula and other government types to all support the Bucs as they set out to make the country proud.

I totally agreed with this call — but only in my head. I was able to rationalise it and even chastise some of my fellow Kaizer Chiefs gang members who seemed to waver. But deep down, I couldn’t help the gnawing unease at the prospect of the Bucs gangsters earning yet more ammunition for taunting me the next time my tail is up after a successful Soweto Derby for Chiefs.

“Maybe you should gloat once your team has two stars on their jersey”, is a refrain to which I have been subjected for 18 years.

Nonetheless, I talked myself into supporting Pirates, even donning a Bucs jersey for the viewing of the final at a mate’s house. It was a painful experience.

And then something wonderful happened: that dreaded disease called hubris infected my Pirates friends in the days leading up to the final. Chiefs lost a league game to lowly Ajax Cape Town and, man, were they vicious in their taunts. That’s all the excuse I needed to unleash the evil lurking in my dark heart. I grabbed my rosary beads and prayed for my enemies to be struck down.

If you’re thinking “how grown up of you”, please don’t change the subject. Well, history will record how the almost-actually-mighty Bucs went down 3-1 on aggregate.

I imitated a cartoon villain, rubbed my hands in glee and went into full hooligan mode. No, silly. I didn’t grab a baseball bat; I logged onto Facebook and visited Fred Khumalo’s page to leave vile, disgusting cyber-graffiti on his virtual wall.

I did not stop there. I visited the walls of my worst tormentors, including Msizi Nkosi, Siyanda Ndawo, Ntokozo Biyela, and regressed to my six-year-old self, sticking my tongue out, yelling “Nye nye nye nye nye nye!” all of bloody Monday morning.

And then that Windhoek-advert voice inside my head went: “Dude, what are you doing? You have a grown son, for crying out loud!” And so my good sense returned and I put my tail between my legs and walked away whimpering, like a mutt caught peeing on the newspaper.

I wish I could tell you this is the last time I will engage in this behaviour. Tragically, I cannot give such unrealistic assurances. All I can offer in my own defence is that I’m not alone. In a few months, the general elections are coming. Let’s see if you won’t be wearing your virtual Doc Martens yourself, attacking each other with baseball bats.