To win, befriend the hooligans. To befriend the hooligans, follow the fun.
What is the purpose of sport?
- Fitness?
- Camaraderie?
- War minus the shooting? (Orwell’s opinion.)
Today, I experienced my first real-life British rugby hooligans. A dozen of them, in St Andrews Rugby hats and shirts, had packed into the tram before Partner and me. We boarded their car, met by the keyless strains of “Wonderwall.”
Then another song. Then a chant about a man who wants to go to the pub (yay!) but the pub is closed (boo!) but there’s another pub (yay!) but they don’t serve beer in pints(boo!) they serve it in buckets! (yay!), but the bucket has a hole in it (boo!) but it’s in the top (yay!) and so on.
At the first stop, the doors opened and I called out, “Come on in, there’s plenty of space!” The rugby fans laughed. A few stops on, I was singing along.
Then a family boarded with a ~16-month-old baby in a stroller. There wasn’t quite enough space. The doors closed on the front stroller wheels. And reopened. And tried to close. And reopened, hungry jaws attempting to devour the stroller.
Terrified at the prospect of being eaten, the baby began crying. One of the hooligans began shushing the others. The rest joined in, more as a game than from any knowledge of the baby: a dozen drunk men playing the Quiet Game. They fell silent enough to hear the crying. Someone started up, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star…”
The only time comparable to a dozen rugby hooligans singing a baby to sleep was 20 years ago next month, when a beer line of Colorado cowboys sang my mother happy birthday. Both were very kind and affectionate, and both very drunk.
When “Twinkle, Twinkle” ended, one of the hooligans asked how the baby was doing. Not great, it appeared. So someone said, “Oh, right: It’s a French baby!”
They began “Frère Jacques” instead. The baby’s ~3-year-old cousin loved this.
Whatever the purpose of sport, neither Orwell nor I would have guessed: lulling babies to sleep on French trams.
Julian Wise 