The power of the game is less likely to influence society through results than through attitudes and subliminal messages.
"If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same", quoted the closing scene of an episode of the 1980's adorably curmudgeon TV detective Inspector Morse, a staple of English culture if ever there was one. Morse's crossword-setting brilliant intellect was an Oxford University drop-out, unable to fit in with the perennial elitist self-importance of the establishment. His side-kick, Sergeant Lewis, was a northern working class workhorse who in spite of his reservations about Morse's unorthodox approach, revered his boss.
The partnership between these two faces of utter Englishness could be said to have been replicated in real life in the mid-nineties by the comedy duo of Baddiel and Skinner.
David Baddiel
, a Cambridge graduate who had enjoyed box office success as part of a thoroughly mid-class intellectual foursome, joined forces with
Frank Skinner
, the son of a semi-pro footballer who had grown up in a council estate in West Bromwich. The pair hosted an irreverent show full of love for football, and together penned the ditty, "It's Coming Home", recorded in 1996 and which has re-emerged, like a phoenix from the flames of this summer's tournament.
It's been hot and muggy in England for a month. Some are worried about the drought but many more are sporting flip-flops and sipping beer on pavements. 'Joy' is the first word that comes to mind - crowds gather to watch the football, and until two days ago this included the unusual added perk that England were still in the game. (Officially, they continue to be there but nobody who takes the World Cup seriously has ever given much kudos to the play-off for third and fourth place).
It was as if the love-in manager
Gareth Southgate
had managed to create between the members of his squad, and with the press, a camaraderie. The usual mixed-zone type access granted throughout the tournament, in which hacks are kept at bay by barriers resembling cattle guides, were replaced by hang-outs with dart and pool competitions between players and journals, as one example.
No one uttered a single word against team England, and in the land where divisions have been the salient point of discourse since the Brexit referendum two years ago, everyone suddenly seemed united.
Activist and columnist Sunny Hundal expressed it very well: "Not only are many British Asians supporting but far more significantly they are accepted as fellow English fans by the majority, though pockets of racists remain. This is a huge positive and is the way future generations from Asian backgrounds will both see themselves and be seen." Echoing the inclusive sentiment, Anna Kessel of Women in Football wrote: "I like to think that Gareth Southgate's ethos is all about embracing diversity and moving away from the old 'cricket test' mentality. I don't want to wave an England flag personally, especially in this climate, but I yelled my guts out for the England team last night."
But is this new united, community spirited England a long-lasting effect of the power of football? Is it real? And what about the totally neglected women - from the tabloid headlines addressing every 'Englishman' to the absolute negation of the women's England squad who were World Cup semifinalists three years ago, it seems in terms of gender at least there is still a long way to go. There were less women journalists accredited officially by
FIFA
at this World Cup than 20 years ago, for example.
Multi-culturalism and diversity by contrast have been celebrated throughout the month. The St George's cross flag - for years regarded as a symbol of nationalist xenophobes - has been re-claimed as the flag of choice of genuine peaceful football lovers. The team is also a symbol of integrated migratory waves. Even the ditty "it's coming home" has been re-launched, sung in sign language and played by the band at Buckingham palace's changing of guard. Far from a jingoistic jingle, it has brought back the sense of joy the game can provide, rather than the tribal confrontations of yesteryear. "Football did come home - only the trophy didn't" a newsreader proclaimed this morning.
But those of us who have grown up with football joy eclipsing harsher realities, know only too well a football match never alters reality. Personally, I danced in the military-controlled streets of Argentina in 1978 by way of an introduction; on the same street Graciela Daleo, a sequestered activist, had been taken from her clandestine cell to celebrate the nation's victory by her captors, something we would only work out almost 20 years later, when we met to make a programme about football and politics. After the event, things go back to being how they are, like a body of water that has been momentarily disrupted by a single drop.
Which is not to say valuable lessons can't be learnt, and examples taken from the experience. The last time England were so enamoured by football, in 1990, the country was recovering from the previous decade's hooligan troubles, the Premier League hadn't been invented, and the heroes on the pitch were subjected to tabloid scrutiny accentuating a schism between ordinary folk and celebrities which turned out to be harmful for all.
Gascoigne's tears at the time moved a nation, but then, his tragedy unfolded before our very eyes almost in slow-motion. The image of
Gary Lineker
gesturing to manager Robson to "keep an eye" on him has been repeated this summer, with the added hindsight given by Ronson that he was impotent to act at the time: "What could I do?" he said, "he was on the pitch".
Gareth Southgate's figure consoling a bereft Colombian player is a stark contrast. The humanity of that embrace speaks volumes. The power of the game is less likely to influence society through results than through attitudes and subliminal messages. Perhaps we can all start to ignore the false lines that are enhancing divisions and start bridging the divides. Between gender, ethnicity, age, religion and geography and between triumph and disaster. A motto to be printed above every ground in the land.
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