Ryder Cup reveals the odd relationship between crowds and sport
Will you ever forgive me if I say that, down the years, I’ve struggled to take golf entirely seriously?
Goldfinger cheated at it for one thing. And, to me, it’s always been the game you play between sports, the regional sales conference of leisure. The confluence of the crusty colonel classes muttering about “the ladies playing too slowly on the 14th” and the kind of cabbie who attaches his licence badge to his golf bag. A defiant gesture to Royal and Ancient exclusivity while playing the municipal links.
It’s played by Americans who inexplicably shout “Mashed pataterrr!” after a tee shot and practice putting in their office. The transatlantic equivalent of ‘the sort of chap’ who practices bat-less cover drives while waiting for the train. Both are comfortable in canary yellow lambswool and the Cameron Modern tartan come Sunday.
But watching the Ryder Cup, as I must confess I intermittently have, the unintentional comedy has continued a pace in the tiffy interactions between the players and the crowd. Mullet mockery, hat-waving, ‘coming after’ the wag by the rope and being paid out at the pin as the putt drifts and a derisive cheer goes up.
On the grim-faced cortege of players and caddies marches. One day there’ll be a proper tear-up. Crowd trouble at golf. Less P.G. Wodehouse, more Dr Johnson’s walking dog, “it’s not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”
All of which fun and games has me thinking about the odd nature of crowds and sport. A volatile relationship at the best of times, combining as it does, great passion, tribalism (the additive and E number of Ryder Cup confrontation, absent when it’s only a matter of individual players), extremes of delight and disappointment and, of course, a pint or two.
With children’s sport, the high-octane mix is enhanced further by vicarious ambition and, often, unrealistic expectations of a child’s ability or a volunteer ref’s judgement. Those who know their kid isn’t that good espouse winless participation and combine an air of unquestionable self-righteousness with the zeal of the crusader. Conversely, those who believe young fella to be the next Jonny Wilkinson or Harry Kane, would make the audition mothers of theatreland blanche.
Others light a fuse on massive collateral damage. “You f*cking little coward!”, I once heard an overmotivated charmer inform his tackle shy son. Somewhere, a shrink cleared space in his diary for five years hence.
And, if you think that’s an excess of frustrated testosterone talking, the number of touchline Mdme Defarges is in equal and direct proportion. Crowd dynamics can be an object lesson in equality.
Meanwhile, affronted golfers might consider their response were they to deal with the wit and wisdom of a Premier League football crowd. Corner takers and goalkeepers run a constant gamut of aggressive obscenity. A brief glance behind the net or behind a throw-in will reveal a flurry of hand movements that would shame a back-of-the bus teenager.
Chants vary between the amusing and the deeply unpleasant. David Beckham infamously had to endure constant sung speculation over Posh Spice’s sexual preferences.
Nor are other sports immune. Australian test batsman Steve Smith looked distinctly discomfited by chants of – to the tune of Guantanemara – “Cry on the telly, we saw you crying on the telly.” While “Same old Aussies, always cheating” plainly irked the entire visiting Ashes squad.
Not that one should feel too sorry for Australia. “Eh, Tuffers, lend us your brain, we’re building an idiot!” was famously levelled at the England spinner Phil Tufnell while stationed on the boundary. Illustrating how old the problem is, so stung was Sir Clive Lloyd by the nature and scale of Australian abuse on one tour that it prompted him to assemble the aggressive fast bowling line-up which then dominated test cricket for 16 years.
An oddity then that Australian crowds are baffled by what they call ‘barracking’ – or cheering. Staying at the same hotel as the Wallabies and the broadcaster on the Lions tour of 2001, the collective amazement at the vociferous nature of the visiting support was undisguised. So much so that they upped amplification and gave away free yellow hats for the Aussies.
These cultural differences are even more pronounced in countries untouched by the Anglo sporting ethic and its Dr Arnold complex.
In football mad Turkey, Galatasaray notoriously welcomed a nervy Manchester United “to hell”. “No way out”, their Ultras chanted as they hemmed the airport. In French rugby, the job of the home crowd is not to provide a respectful and welcoming environment to the visiting side. Au contraire. And their fickle treatment of their own national side – who must not only win but win with élan -is notorious.
Some things, however, are universal. At a match between Agen and Biarritz, the man beside me rose to join in a great chorus of protest at what was deemed over-acting from a Biarritz player. When he had finally finished with variations on “Oh! Cinéma!”, he sat down and asked me what had happened. He was genuinely blind. And, of course, the living embodiment, not just of home crowd loyalty, but home crowd duty.
How all this affects players is variable. England rugby captain Martin Johnson fed off opposition hostility like one of those aliens that grow stronger with each plasma bolt. Eric Cantona notoriously sought out Crystal Palace supporter Matthew Simmons, hurling abuse including that Cantona’s mother was “a French whore”, and treated him to a kung fu kick.
Mothers seem a particular trigger. A youth prop of blessed memory felled a geezer who was mid-way through a touchline tirade which included regular use of the word “slag”. I use the word “geezer” advisedly. Either way, it was a feat repeated by Ireland international Trevor Brennan who climbed into the stand at Toulouse after overhearing someone being less than kind about mum.
Others, however, are less robust. Former England and Liverpool keeper Chris Kirkland fell prey to the constant pressures placed on the man in the number one shirt, not least in the form of ceaseless abuse from fans, and he quit the top-flight game.
All of which does not paint a pretty picture of this sporting life and that is almost certainly false. The crowd is intrinsic. It adds the critical mass of emotion and atmosphere. Is, largely, good-natured and in its ability to bring together is the antidote to the atomisation which afflicts society. To be in a crowd is to be in communion.
That we still fall in thrall to that brief moment of Victorian sporting history which saw public schools claim sport for Corinthian values, martial prowess and muscular Christianity is an oddity. It rarely was then and certainly wasn’t before when everything from field football to horse racing was marked by a generalised rambunctiousness.
For all its joys, benefits, drama and passion, sport was, is and will be as Orwell described it: “War minus the shooting.” And that remains much better than the alternative.
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