If on a Winter’s Night a Footballer
Why do they do it?
That’s the question I was asking for much of last night. It was freezing, ten degrees Fahrenheit showing on the ice-caked thermometer outside my apartment, and I’d gone to watch my local team, TS Podbeskidzie of the Polish second tier, against Stomil Olsztyn.
The tickets cost little — 20 złoty, or about $6 — but even that, and the offer of a free cup of tea at half-time, was insufficient enticement to the supporters, who could in any case see the game on local TV.
The ultras were there, though in diminished numbers. I counted about a hundred, up in their corner near the electronic scoreboard. The same guy as always was there beating his drum, extolling his cohorts to fill the stadium with noise; surprisingly, it worked, and for a minute you could forget that the fifteen-thousand capacity arena was almost empty. They had their songs, and they had their flags and banners. I wondered when I read the team sheet and saw that Olsztyn were fielding a German, Ziemann, what he must have thought of the one reading ‘German Death Camps,’ draped over the barrier — this being an unsubtle reference to the new legislation the nationalists had managed to bring through parliament. Although my understanding of the chants was vague, there was nothing much welcoming there, no lyrics to warm the cockles of my heart on that cold night.
I was about to take my seat when I noticed how it caught the glare of the floodlights. A closer inspection revealed a thick coating of ice over the plastic. I hunted about for an alternative, eventually finding a free seat with only a thin dusting of ice, readily removed by my glove. This put me in the final row, with a slightly obscured view of the far corner of the pitch — a television gantry extended in front of me, vacant and lonely in the algid air. I wasn’t much concerned with missing out on the action; there was very little of it for the majority of the ninety minutes that followed.
And that’s what got me thinking the question: why do they do it? TS Podbeskidzie were only very briefly in the first league in Poland, the Ekstraklasa, and besides, the club itself had a history stretching back a meagre thirty years. No glory there, nor glorious history. So what had motivated these young men to dedicate themselves to this sport, to say no to all the other opportunities that life had to offer them, to live lives as abstemious as monks — was it all for this?
And what risks they ran in their obscure quest!
For instance, after about a quarter of an hour, Malec went down under a mistimed tackle. The referee waved play on, suggesting that Malec may have dived. Watching TV at home, I would have concurred; but I could feel the cold seeping through my boots, clutching at my toes, and I knew that the ground out there was rock hard. In short, you would only go down if you had no other choice. Malec couldn’t have dived. It would have hurt too much.
Suddenly, a chance for a counter-attack; Olsztyn have pushed too far forward, and Sabala, Podbeskidzie’s Latvian striker, is already calling for the ball. He’s on the shoulder of the last man, and all the home team’s defender needs to do is direct the ball into the space behind. But he can’t do it. He looks up, measures the pass, but then takes another touch, playing it safely to Iliev in the centre of the park. Why, though? I know very well why he. In these conditions, the football takes on a heft that makes it feel like a medicine ball. Kicking tears at your ankle, at your knee, and anything more ambitious than a short pass feels like it could hurt as much as a crunching tackle.
And so the match progressed, confined for the most part to the middle third. Nobody seemed terribly upset when the half-time whistle blew. Like most of the spectators, I made my way immediately to the loos — not because I’d drunk too much coffee, but because that’s where the heaters were. Again I felt bad for the players. So long in the cold, now in the warm — but knowing that in a few minutes they’d be out there again, hoofing that frozen pig skin around. I couldn’t have gone through with it; mine would have been a short career.
The match was heading towards a goalless draw, and once again I wondered what the point of it was. There must be so much existential dread in the heart of a lower-league professional.
On eighty-five minutes the home team won a free kick on the edge of the area, cleared for their ninth corner. The corners had been unsuccessful so far — nobody wanted to throw themselves at the ball, and I could certainly sympathise. But suddenly, one of the Podbeskidzie players was on the ground, there was commotion around the referee, and a long finger was seen pointing at the spot.
Penalty to Podbeskidzie!
A hush fell over the stadium as Sabala lined up to take the kick. Even the ultras held their breath. Sabala sent the ball left, the keeper dived the other way — Podbeskidzie had their goal, and surely the three points were in the bag.
Minutes later the final whistle echoed around the cavernous stadium; we cheered the victory, but then everybody was up and out as swiftly as our frozen limbs would allow. We did, after all, have buses to catch.
On the way back home I began to wonder if those final few minutes had answered my question. Despite all the pain and the suffering, despite there being hardly any witness to it, the players had come away with a victory, and perhaps that was all that really mattered.
The sacrifices were worth it.
