The Weekend That England Failed Itself Again

What a weekend of sports, and losing.


A bunch of us went to watch the Twenty20 Cup between Warwickshire Bears and Gloucestershire Gladiators at Edgebaston at the weekend. I've only been to a cricket match once before in my entire life, and that was last year, at the same place when the Bears played some other team.

This time, however, we managed to get great seats. They were right in front of the wicket, and the sun was shining brilliantly at us, I got an amazing tan, and of course, a refresher course on understanding the ways of cricket – I've always thought cricket was a thoroughly boring and tedious game, but yknow I'm actually beginning to appreciate it. The Twenty20 match is great for cricket appreciation for beginners – the bowlers go for more whacks and the pace is so much quicker. Just a quick summary for the uninitiated – both teams take turns at bowling, and the whole point is to accumulate as many points as possible in the limited number of 20 overs. Gloucester Gladiators went first and got a total of 188 points. Warwickshire Bears then came on and they really underperformed in the first half, like they did last year. But in the end, it got really exciting because they quickly caught up towards the second half. Whenever they got a '4' or '6', the crowd went crazy, and some sort of pop-ish music would start playing and people would get up and start dancing on their feet, waving their placards to celebrate the points. It was actually really funny sitting and observing the different ways people cheered. I've also concluded that without England's chavs, there would be hardly anyone left to cheer for England. For all their faults and social consequences, England's matches would be deadly silent without them.

Indeed, they sing and cheer with such gung-ho that it often doesn't take long before it starts to get really grating on your ears, and your nerves. There are some times that they aren't so bad, like at the cricket, but some other times I wished I had a dumb-gun which I can point and shoot at them, that will automatically make them quiet for the next hour. Anyway, the cricket. We [the Bears] were down to the last ball, and if they hit a 4 or 6, Bears would have won the game. But they came so close... only to lose out at the very last minute. Exactly the same way they did last year. It was kinda depressing witnessing their lost two years in a row... but hey, I don't think I'll be around next year to see if luck turns around for them. Managed to take some pics of the grounds and the action.


We got so silly drunk by the end of the game, I even joined in the lame mexican waves that made its way across the stadium, and the short dancing spurts of celebration when everyone lept to their feet if a ball flew out of the boundary. We went into Birmingham to club and thanks to a mate who wore inappropriate trainers, we ended up in quite a crap RnB club, which was still dancable [there was a very nice DJ who played all the songs I requested] but I soon gave up from tiredness and drink. Can you believe the taxi back was 42 quid?!




*

We prepared ourselves for another day of drinking [when I say drink, I meant I actually had only one pint of Magners which lasted me the whole game while the guys downed close to 10 during the whole period we were watching the match] and had, annoyingly, to find ourselves a pub to watch England v Portugal in last minute because the pub we arranged to go to was filled with those noisy chavs I spoke about. The sniggering and shouting was seriously doing my head in – I wanted to get up and tell them to shut up or give them a smack on their head [disregarding the fact that EVERY one of them was larger than me] but G said, what's the point, it'll take so long to sink in their thick skull the game will probably be over by then.

So we trooped away and found ourselves a nice pub garden to watch it in, which was a bonus. And then there was the match, which was again disappointing in performance – but did have its good moments when I really thought things were looking up. Then of course, the sending off and the penalties. One bad mistake, one bad decision and a few lousy penalties and England's fate was sealed. Lampard has been consistently shit this season. The last match they played was the first he actually had some shots on target. I have no idea why Sven let him take the first penalty. The psychology of winning the first penalty is so important. But Sven's probably secretly plotting for England to lose, what with falling into the fake sheik trap and all that and being disgraced.

When Ronaldo pelted that ball into the net, someone in the pub actually shouted ha! He missed! before realising that the whole Portugal team was fucking estatic with joy for a reason. A huge, incredibly acute silence suddenly descended on the pub. It was really, agony. Not just where I was watching it. Even outside, the cheering stopped. It's like time stood still for that few seconds after the ball went in and all of England's dream of reclaiming the Cup on the 40th anniversary of their only win evaporated along with the muggy heat of the day.

People around me started crying, some kicked the chairs, some threw their pints down. Several minutes later, everyone spilled onto the streets and sat on the pavements numbly, while a group of lads started kicking a ball around mindlessly.

It was national mourning. And a cloud of desperate disappointment, and the air of losers, pervaded the air.

I sat there surveying all in front of me, and even though deeply disappointed myself, I wondered about the amazing ability of such human, constructed, events to influence the emotions of people at such a massive level. Surely every pub in England [except maybe, the Portugese-run ones] must be in tears... I couldn't imagine the same scale of national pride, and disappointment, existing in my home country. Maybe it's something that comes with time, but being proud to be English, is very different from being proud to be Singaporean.

I watched on, musingly, and wondered if we would ever reach that stage.

Having watched two sides lose in two different matches in one weekend, I've concluded that it's not so much about the winning, or losing, but the fact that the game is still there. The years will come and go, and the next World Cup will come around, and all of a sudden, the loss four years ago will be but a distant memory and a country's hopes will be revived again.

In the words of a guy, Tom, whom I met at the weekend,

"Hey, I'm fucking gutted about England. But yknow what? I'm going to look at the material side. I'm still a millionaire, and more people will probably come to my club tonight because they want to cheer themselves up, and I've still got a pretty amazing bed to sleep in tonight... so it really don matter in the long run."