As many will know; my part of the world is currently knee-deep in the 2012 European Football Championship. As many will also know; I couldn’t care less. I’ve never watched an entire football game in my life, nor a game of any other sport, I doubt. I don’t support any team, I don’t have any favourite players, I don’t feel pride when ‘my‘ country wins, nor do I feel sorrow when it loses. When England compete, and everyone around me is screaming and cheering (or more often, screaming and swearing), I find it hard to understand their emotional investment in seeing a bunch of overpaid Gillette salesman and fancy walking shoe racks with silly haircuts and gaudy tattoos running back and forth, kicking a ball for an hour and a half. I understand that people do love it, and live and breath by it in many cases, so you need not correct me; I’m simply stating that as a person with my disposition, I find it impossible to be so attached to something that I see as so insignificant.
So why did I feel butterflies in my stomach and a quickening of my pulse during the tense moments of England’s recent match that I was forced to watch at work the other day?
Simply. Because I’m an asshole.