Psycho Sakka
Some of my readers (if indeed I have any) may recently have become aware of a trifling contest being conducted without herald or fanfare in the northern hemisphere . In this rather unimportant event, a mere 32 nations compete in a rather bizarre ritual called 'football', and the winning team gets to take home a gold trophy shaped rather like a syphilitic penis. Since this contest is being conducted by objective, dispassionate Austrians the winner may actually get to touch the cup, unlike that rather bizarre business with the cricket, where the winner goes home with nothing and the English get to keep the trophy. But I digress! This post aims to discuss sport, not the bizarre hobbies of fat people, so I shall discuss cricket no further.
An interesting side note to this completely irrelevant matter is that both Japan and Australia have managed to brow-beat, press-gang and generally bother a small group of extremely effeminate men into going along and showing their faces at the contest. Obviously the Australians got in for nothing, since we are world-renowned gate crashers and in any case we are invited to all sporting events because we are good at nothing else. I don't know how the Japanese got invited, since their team didn't seem to be very good - but I may just be saying this because we beat them in our first match.
In any case, national pride being what it is the Japanese have decided to take this contest seriously, and have had a few events connected with it. I'm sure you are all aware of the sort of event I mean - a couple of hundred thousand people gather in an open air stadium and cheer and yell while their team is comprehensively crushed by smaller and much poorer nations. Perhaps the Japanese know exactly how the British must feel when they watch rugby (or, well, anyone except the kiwis, for whom no country is smaller or poorer).
The locals in Tottori decided to have a similar event, but down-sized to Tottori scale, and having a single Japanese friend I was invited along. This gave me an ideal opportunity to dispassionately analyse the nature of Japanese football support...
... which is pyschotic. The venue for the event was a bar called "club Bridge" (or curubboo burijee as the locals call it), which consisted of a small room the size of an Australian lounge room, and an adjoining band room the size of an Australian backyard. The club had only one unisex toilet, and the front room was taken up with a single couch, a bar, two stalls and a playstation on which I was able to reenact Japan's recent defeat to Australia. I couldn't play in a way which anticipated Australia's subsequent defeat to Italy, because the Playstation didn't have a 'dirty rotten cheating scummy bastard who cries like a big girls blouse' button. Not that I could find, anyway, and there were no Italians around to help me out with their native skill for cheating, lying, pretending to be hurt and crying like babies.
But I digress (again). The two stalls in the tiny front bar were serving a) fried potatoes and b) face painting (Japanese flag only). The second room contained a stage above which hung a huge screen, a set of massive speakers, and most of the young population of Tottori (which is a rather depopulated town). The young population of tottori was dressed entirely in blue (the Japanese team's colours - you may not have noticed them during the Australia game, as they were swamped in green and gold for most of it), several were draped in the Japanese flag (which makes a rather fetching tea-towel!) and many were wearing face paint, crazy hats, and blue wigs. Two men at the front had big drums, one had a whistle, and one had a type of non-electric megaphone. When the Japanese team came onto the pitch everyone linked hands and danced up and down singing "nippon! chachacha! nippon! chachacha!" When the Japanese anthem was played everyone sang along (I kid you not!), and (interestingly) the room went instantly silent when the Croatian anthem was played.
Once the game started the psychosis set in, and for the next 90 minutes there was a constant drum beat, whistling, chanting and bouncing. Whenever a lull entered the proceedings someone fround a way to start a new chant or song, and whenever anything happened (which was a rare event, I might add), the drums went crazy. There was even a drum roll for the penalty kick, after which Kawaguchi-san became the most handsome man in Japan, ever. In between this was the constant pulse of the drums, the screeching of the whistle, the jumping and squealing. It got very hot, there was a lot of smoke, and no-one offered to kill me when they discovered I was Australian (although I apologised for good measure). The common response to Japan's crushing defeat at our hands (well, feet - we're not argentinian yet!) is admiring praise. How strange it is to be in another country and hear disinterested strangers tell you that your soccer team is "tsuyoi ne!" (strong, eh?) while at the same time knowing that your rugby team is weak. It were as if the world flipped on its axis (although at least at the moment we are beating the English in Rugby, so the universe is not quite entirely topsy turvy).
I must confess that even at its peak - the rugby world cup final in 2003 - Australian sporting fervour has never matched this crazy soccer behaviour. Of course this is partly because it is soccer, which is an infinitely more subtle and important endeavour than rugby, but also a mark of what perhaps is a simple truth about the japanese - they are completely and utterly crazy about sport. No finer example can I find of Japanese sporting fervour than this simple fact - their national sport is a fighting art for fat men (sumo) and while in Australia you have to reveal reluctantly that you participate in a fighting art, and brace yourself for the inevitable stereotype, in Japan people admire and appreciate you if you do any sport and especially if you do a fighting art. Women and men alike, the universal response to discovering I did kickboxing is "sugoi ne!" (formidable, eh?); and two of my language teachers are black belts respectively in Kendo and archery - and they're both women! (one of the men is a 6 dan black belt in kendo and comes from a family 3 generations in the sport). Just like being in england, I am able to converse every day about sport (soccer), and just like being in heaven, everyone understands straight away that I want to do a sport and that I don't feel right when I can't. This latter attitude is increasingly rare in Australia, where most people think you're gay if you don't watch sport and gay if you play any sport except rugby.
And best of all, nobody asks any questions about the advisability of my doing a martial art. Yay! Banzai!!!
An interesting side note to this completely irrelevant matter is that both Japan and Australia have managed to brow-beat, press-gang and generally bother a small group of extremely effeminate men into going along and showing their faces at the contest. Obviously the Australians got in for nothing, since we are world-renowned gate crashers and in any case we are invited to all sporting events because we are good at nothing else. I don't know how the Japanese got invited, since their team didn't seem to be very good - but I may just be saying this because we beat them in our first match.
In any case, national pride being what it is the Japanese have decided to take this contest seriously, and have had a few events connected with it. I'm sure you are all aware of the sort of event I mean - a couple of hundred thousand people gather in an open air stadium and cheer and yell while their team is comprehensively crushed by smaller and much poorer nations. Perhaps the Japanese know exactly how the British must feel when they watch rugby (or, well, anyone except the kiwis, for whom no country is smaller or poorer).
The locals in Tottori decided to have a similar event, but down-sized to Tottori scale, and having a single Japanese friend I was invited along. This gave me an ideal opportunity to dispassionately analyse the nature of Japanese football support...
... which is pyschotic. The venue for the event was a bar called "club Bridge" (or curubboo burijee as the locals call it), which consisted of a small room the size of an Australian lounge room, and an adjoining band room the size of an Australian backyard. The club had only one unisex toilet, and the front room was taken up with a single couch, a bar, two stalls and a playstation on which I was able to reenact Japan's recent defeat to Australia. I couldn't play in a way which anticipated Australia's subsequent defeat to Italy, because the Playstation didn't have a 'dirty rotten cheating scummy bastard who cries like a big girls blouse' button. Not that I could find, anyway, and there were no Italians around to help me out with their native skill for cheating, lying, pretending to be hurt and crying like babies.
But I digress (again). The two stalls in the tiny front bar were serving a) fried potatoes and b) face painting (Japanese flag only). The second room contained a stage above which hung a huge screen, a set of massive speakers, and most of the young population of Tottori (which is a rather depopulated town). The young population of tottori was dressed entirely in blue (the Japanese team's colours - you may not have noticed them during the Australia game, as they were swamped in green and gold for most of it), several were draped in the Japanese flag (which makes a rather fetching tea-towel!) and many were wearing face paint, crazy hats, and blue wigs. Two men at the front had big drums, one had a whistle, and one had a type of non-electric megaphone. When the Japanese team came onto the pitch everyone linked hands and danced up and down singing "nippon! chachacha! nippon! chachacha!" When the Japanese anthem was played everyone sang along (I kid you not!), and (interestingly) the room went instantly silent when the Croatian anthem was played.
Once the game started the psychosis set in, and for the next 90 minutes there was a constant drum beat, whistling, chanting and bouncing. Whenever a lull entered the proceedings someone fround a way to start a new chant or song, and whenever anything happened (which was a rare event, I might add), the drums went crazy. There was even a drum roll for the penalty kick, after which Kawaguchi-san became the most handsome man in Japan, ever. In between this was the constant pulse of the drums, the screeching of the whistle, the jumping and squealing. It got very hot, there was a lot of smoke, and no-one offered to kill me when they discovered I was Australian (although I apologised for good measure). The common response to Japan's crushing defeat at our hands (well, feet - we're not argentinian yet!) is admiring praise. How strange it is to be in another country and hear disinterested strangers tell you that your soccer team is "tsuyoi ne!" (strong, eh?) while at the same time knowing that your rugby team is weak. It were as if the world flipped on its axis (although at least at the moment we are beating the English in Rugby, so the universe is not quite entirely topsy turvy).
I must confess that even at its peak - the rugby world cup final in 2003 - Australian sporting fervour has never matched this crazy soccer behaviour. Of course this is partly because it is soccer, which is an infinitely more subtle and important endeavour than rugby, but also a mark of what perhaps is a simple truth about the japanese - they are completely and utterly crazy about sport. No finer example can I find of Japanese sporting fervour than this simple fact - their national sport is a fighting art for fat men (sumo) and while in Australia you have to reveal reluctantly that you participate in a fighting art, and brace yourself for the inevitable stereotype, in Japan people admire and appreciate you if you do any sport and especially if you do a fighting art. Women and men alike, the universal response to discovering I did kickboxing is "sugoi ne!" (formidable, eh?); and two of my language teachers are black belts respectively in Kendo and archery - and they're both women! (one of the men is a 6 dan black belt in kendo and comes from a family 3 generations in the sport). Just like being in england, I am able to converse every day about sport (soccer), and just like being in heaven, everyone understands straight away that I want to do a sport and that I don't feel right when I can't. This latter attitude is increasingly rare in Australia, where most people think you're gay if you don't watch sport and gay if you play any sport except rugby.
And best of all, nobody asks any questions about the advisability of my doing a martial art. Yay! Banzai!!!
posted by Sir S at 7:57 PM
2 Comments:
I didn't watch the soccer but I managed to get the details by osmosis/absorbing it from the airwaves. As with regards to the Italian match - WE WUZ ROBBED!! Or something. Who knows.
I get the impression that the Oz team weren't all that impressive in all our games, regardless of the all the rah-rahs in the papers. I dunno. I'm still stuck at the "everyone stick your foot in and form a leg-scrum" stage of soccer playing.
The Italians had a very unique training method which enabled them to win/qualify for matches. They are so proud of it, they filmed a bit of it and uploaded onto the net to show everyone why they are the best soccer team in existance.
http://gprime.net/video.php/soccerpractice
The link above would show the world some of their secret and effective training methods.
Post a Comment
<< Home