Yahoo News My night as a glory supporter was a reminder that sport is universal — and winning is the gateway drug
It was the glorious back-to-back Kawhi Leonard three-pointers in the opening minutes of the third quarter that did it: a sentence that would have been so alien to me two weeks ago that it might as well have been written in another language. But in the moment that the shy Toronto Raptors star began the turnaround that would lead his band of scrappy underdogs to a historic NBA finals win over the defending champions, California’s Golden State Warriors, giving them a 3-1 lead in the series, something deep within me was awoken. Slam it, dunk it and take me to the North: I became a diehard glory supporter. And I feel no shame.
Primarily because neither, apparently, did the real devotees. Over heaving platters of greasy wings in a packed sports bar in Toronto’s West Queen West, a crowd of superfans welcomed me without reserve into their clan.There was none of the usual snooty elitism, which is both tedious and alienating to the newbie. Instead, they enthusiastically explained the basics of the game during timeouts.
As one, we screamed ourselves hoarse at the big screens and spilled shared pitchers of beer over the already sticky floor in our haste to toast each other and the incredible scenes unfolding before us. After one particularly exhilarating run (I’ll just leave that lingo there), a misty-eyed man next to me ripped his own shirt off and insisted that I put it on, revealing in the process a natty tattoo of the city’s skyline etched across his heart: an actual, true disciple who was thrilled to share his team’s triumph and — lucky me — a whole night’s worth of perspiration.
Now that the initial euphoria has passed I remain somewhat shaky, to say the least, on the minutiae of the rules, and I have no intention of diving into the convoluted backstory of transfers, fouls and alley-oops that turns an enthusiast into a bore. A glory supporter I began, and a glory supporter I intend to remain.
Would the win have tasted sweeter still if I’d tracked the Raptors since their infancy? Patiently, loyally, waiting out the years spent in the wilderness and sharing in the anguish? Almost certainly. And there are, tediously, valuable lessons to be learned in suffering through the bad times. But that’s beside the point. Instead, my night was a joyous, rampant reminder that sport, at its best, is universal and, crucially, fun — and victory is the gateway drug.
"One misty-eyed fan ripped off his own team t-shirt and insisted I wear it — I was embraced as one of them"
Happily, this newly awakened passion has an embarrassment of directions in which to be channelled, for we are in the midst of an epic few months of sport, and so far, it’s all going rather well. In football, a draw against Japan tomorrow would be enough to see the Lionesses top their group as they roar into the final 16 of the women’s World Cup. England are also among the favourites to win the Cricket World Cup — and on home soil at that. Even Andy Murray is back at Queen’s this week — not a sure bet for we fairweather followers, it has to be said — with Wimbledon soon afterwards.
But like all good summer flings, the key is to be discerning once the morning after rolls around. Failed to perform? It’s the end of the affair.
The Spice is still so right, 20 years on
Along with every other thirtysomething woman in London who scandalised their school assembly by performing 2 Become 1 (with actions) at 11, I donned my finest leopard print, covered myself in glitter and trekked to Wembley Stadium for a glorified Spice Girls karaoke session this weekend. There were tears, sequins and questionable back-catalogue numbers — and that was just on the Tube ride up.
Some attempts to modernise their Girl Power mantra fell a little flat — a chant of “we know how we got this far/strength and courage in a wonderbra” was a low moment — but the band’s then revolutionary (for us) message has stood the test of time. For a generation, the Spice Girls represented friendship, fun and feminism. It was bliss to be reminded that what felt like a personal revelation was shared by thousands, now all singing together 20 years later.
Zig-a-zig-aww.
*So there's a school in, like, Bradford which has banned pupils from using a four-letter word. No, not that one. And far more offensive than that, you wuss. It’s like, “like”. The head was, like: “When children give you an answer and they say ‘is it, like, when you’re, like...’ they haven’t actually made a sentence at all.”
While I’m not comfortable with the idea of a linguistic jail, I do know the pain of being alerted to infuriating verbal tics and how impossible the habits are to kick. One of mine is to pose as a question something I already know to be fact (“Chicken nuggets are life, right?”), and then be outraged when my conversational partner tries to correct me. But perhaps my most irritating — even to myself — is beginning every other sentence with “So…” Oops.
