Nick Kiddle (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ksej) wrote,@ 2008-04-29 16:15:00 |
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Why I can't be a girl who likes football
This question arises out of an assumption that my logic went something like: "Boys like football." "I like football." "Therefore I am a boy." The argument is a fallacy; the conclusion doesn't follow from the premises; if that was my logic I'd be in big trouble. Luckily for me, it wasn't.
In fact, it was more like: "Boys like football." "I want to be a boy."1 "Therefore I need to start liking football." You can take exception to the premise that liking football is an essential part of boyness, but you can't fault the argument structure here. If boys do indeed like football and I want to be a boy, it follows that I need to make myself like football somehow.
Now everyone who's met me since 1992 (in other words, the vast majority of readers) will be scratching their heads. Clearly I do like football. Well, I love Scunthorpe United, and that amounts to pretty much the same thing2. I didn't need to make myself like football.
Well, hard as it may be to believe, looking at me now, I didn't step through the turnstile at Blundell Park3 and immediately fall in love. Football fans intrigued me, and the trip up to Scunthorpe was an exciting departure from everyday routine, but what happened on the pitch was a fairly boring procession of things I didn't understand all that well. It didn't help that girls played a strange game called skittleball in games lessons, which meant I didn't have any exposure to football other than watching the Iron.
My sister and I must have tried my dad's patience sorely at games in those early days. We fought over everything, especially who got custody of the programme. It was full of incomprehensible technicalities, but any printed matter was a welcome escape from boredom. The content of the programme could provoke quarrels too: the title of this blog came from one. He sat between us, but that only meant the squabbles went on across him.
I remember sitting for 45 minutes with the ends of my scarf firmly gripped so that I could easily raise it above my head when we scored. Naturally, this meant we didn't score in the first half; at half time I wised up and put the thing round my neck, and I think we scored in the second. Another time, I had a can of drink which I wrapped in my scarf to keep it cool. I was in agonies about how I would join in with the usual ritual if we scored before half time.
Apart from standing up and cheering goals, the only part of the matchday experience I took any interest in was the singing. "What are they singing?" I kept asking my dad. The tunes were familiar - hymn tunes and traditional songs - but the words were twisted into something Scunthorpe-related. Some songs, like "With an S and a C and a UNT" were easy for him to repeat, but he tied himself into knots when the crowd piped up, "Who's your father, referee?"5
It wasn't until Jason White blasted a penalty into the Wembley sky that I became obsessed with Scunthorpe. That was the summer of claret-and-blue cakes and Iron fists all over my rough book, as I tried to ease the pain of shoot-out defeat by immersing myself in essence of Scunthorpe. The obsession faded eventually, but the love remained; it put down roots in my psyche until some people started to doubt that I have any interests unconnected with it. But it wasn't always that way.
1For a standard "transsexual narrative" I should have said, "I am a boy. Why won't anyone believe me?" All I can remember thinking is, "I want to be a boy." Deal with it.
2One of these days, I want to blog about the difference between being a football fan and being a Scunthorpe fan.
3If you're surprised that I first met Scunthorpe United in Grimsby4, you obviously haven't read my userinfo.
4Cleethorpes, for the incurable pedants out there.
5I wouldn't care to repeat it to Andrea either, since the last line is, in my dad's words, "You're a [then they say a naughty word], referee." It confused me for many years, because the only swear word I knew was shit. A shit referee made some sense, but I couldn't see the connection with fathers.
This question arises out of an assumption that my logic went something like: "Boys like football." "I like football." "Therefore I am a boy." The argument is a fallacy; the conclusion doesn't follow from the premises; if that was my logic I'd be in big trouble. Luckily for me, it wasn't.
In fact, it was more like: "Boys like football." "I want to be a boy."1 "Therefore I need to start liking football." You can take exception to the premise that liking football is an essential part of boyness, but you can't fault the argument structure here. If boys do indeed like football and I want to be a boy, it follows that I need to make myself like football somehow.
Now everyone who's met me since 1992 (in other words, the vast majority of readers) will be scratching their heads. Clearly I do like football. Well, I love Scunthorpe United, and that amounts to pretty much the same thing2. I didn't need to make myself like football.
Well, hard as it may be to believe, looking at me now, I didn't step through the turnstile at Blundell Park3 and immediately fall in love. Football fans intrigued me, and the trip up to Scunthorpe was an exciting departure from everyday routine, but what happened on the pitch was a fairly boring procession of things I didn't understand all that well. It didn't help that girls played a strange game called skittleball in games lessons, which meant I didn't have any exposure to football other than watching the Iron.
My sister and I must have tried my dad's patience sorely at games in those early days. We fought over everything, especially who got custody of the programme. It was full of incomprehensible technicalities, but any printed matter was a welcome escape from boredom. The content of the programme could provoke quarrels too: the title of this blog came from one. He sat between us, but that only meant the squabbles went on across him.
I remember sitting for 45 minutes with the ends of my scarf firmly gripped so that I could easily raise it above my head when we scored. Naturally, this meant we didn't score in the first half; at half time I wised up and put the thing round my neck, and I think we scored in the second. Another time, I had a can of drink which I wrapped in my scarf to keep it cool. I was in agonies about how I would join in with the usual ritual if we scored before half time.
Apart from standing up and cheering goals, the only part of the matchday experience I took any interest in was the singing. "What are they singing?" I kept asking my dad. The tunes were familiar - hymn tunes and traditional songs - but the words were twisted into something Scunthorpe-related. Some songs, like "With an S and a C and a UNT" were easy for him to repeat, but he tied himself into knots when the crowd piped up, "Who's your father, referee?"5
It wasn't until Jason White blasted a penalty into the Wembley sky that I became obsessed with Scunthorpe. That was the summer of claret-and-blue cakes and Iron fists all over my rough book, as I tried to ease the pain of shoot-out defeat by immersing myself in essence of Scunthorpe. The obsession faded eventually, but the love remained; it put down roots in my psyche until some people started to doubt that I have any interests unconnected with it. But it wasn't always that way.
1For a standard "transsexual narrative" I should have said, "I am a boy. Why won't anyone believe me?" All I can remember thinking is, "I want to be a boy." Deal with it.
2One of these days, I want to blog about the difference between being a football fan and being a Scunthorpe fan.
3If you're surprised that I first met Scunthorpe United in Grimsby4, you obviously haven't read my userinfo.
4Cleethorpes, for the incurable pedants out there.
5I wouldn't care to repeat it to Andrea either, since the last line is, in my dad's words, "You're a [then they say a naughty word], referee." It confused me for many years, because the only swear word I knew was shit. A shit referee made some sense, but I couldn't see the connection with fathers.
