It’s that simple; the Pakistan cricket coach was murdered. And I know who did it, too.
We killed Bob Woolmer. We the people, the cricketing fraternity, what ZTV calls the “stake-holders”, the so-called fans. Maybe we didn’t take a gun to his head, burn his house down (as some threatened to do) or “fix” his brake cables, but we killed him, sure as shot we killed that man.
Anyone who has ever wagered his all, if only just for a day or a night, on a sporting result. Anyone who has wagered his happiness, nay his entire being, on a “live score” in all it’s Serif-rendered glory. Anyone who has ever awoken at some un-godly hour, arranged himself in a cocoon of snacks and bevies and let the satellite TV wash over him. All of us who call ourselves the biggest fans of our various teams in our various sports.
Often we read about those among us who take this shit just way too seriously. Those cunts who attacked Dhoni’s new house in India, for example. Or the assholes burning Gerrard shirts outside Anfield, and that dumb-ass who chased down Stuart Pearce the other day. The pressure we put on these personalities, indeed the pressure we force them to put on themselves (not least if you have anything to do with Asian cricket) is almost beyond bearable.
This certainly puts things into a measure of perspective for me. I am as passionate a fan as any, and it’s at moments like this you have to stop, look around and wonder how much of your self and your time (not forgetting your hard cash) you are investing in the strengths, talents and ultimately weaknesses of what is, essentially, a human being.
Let’s remember this, people; It’s. A. Fucking. Sport.