It's four minutes until the game begins
and I quietly excuse myself to the bathroom. There's something of a
movement now, but some have been silently resisting for a time now.
To be fair, I'm not sure when I began avoiding the event, but it's
been a gradual escalation, year after year, season after season.
I know, avoidance is not protest, it's
a base, cowardly unact, but when one is uncertain about the full
expanse of one's disquiet, and unable to compress the entire
experience of discomfort into an easily digestible sentence, one
can't confront. Even with a full dissertation, I wouldn't be able to
discuss the topic there, with them. They'd hear a poorly worded
premise and shout down the justification, as they do when any
attempts to correct their misunderstanding of penalties. The same
pummeling enacted on different teams, can't result in a different
outcome. Bias erased your mind's ability to distinguish between
unequal action and reaction, and warped your sense of time, so you
always assume your team took the first punch.
This selective memory, on full display
by a multitude of colorfully regaled fans, worries me in places I
can't describe in private company. My feet feel heavy on the solid
steps as I ascend to the concourse. If they can't distinguish truth
from fiction here, then their impenetrable imaginations can be
applied elsewhere, reflecting on serious topics of world shaking
significance.
It's oddly empty upon the concourse,
considering seven thousand fans have packed themselves in the arena
to cheer for well muscled youths as if their identity depended on it.
A single, thick wall stands between me and a collection of blaring
speakers, and the sound is significantly muffled. It fades further
as I enter the bathroom.
Here, a few men remain as the music
begins to swell from outside, but they rush to the exit to observe
their common convention. Solitude reigns supreme, a solitary
existence for only a few minutes. Though separated from the playing
field by two walls, the bathroom is not entirely silent, a helpful
boon as I listen for the composition's coda.
Though the ritual lasts only two and a
half minutes, it seems like a perpetuity, and suddenly I notice
movement near the other entrance of the bathroom. By the stalls,
another body awkwardly exudes anxieties. He hasn't noticed me, and I
don't intend to pry, but I'm drawn by a connection which unites us
against a crushing social institution.
Observed from a distance, the man
framed against the white tiles, altered into off white by grim and
compounded by grey mortar, is older than I, with a weathered face,
wrinkled and worn. He stands, fluffy fleece sweater, and hat in
hand, which he twirls unconsciously. It is an endorsed hat for the
away team, in pristine condition, as if bought this night, or as a
gift and rarely worn. He too seems attuned to the distant melody,
positioned near the entrance way to hear better, scuffing his shoes
against the sticky linoleum as he hides from family, friend, or the
anonymous audience.
At last, my staring impinges upon his
consciousness and his head turns toward me, while his body shrinks
against the grimy wall. I offer in return to his anxious glances, a
faint smile, a movement of the mouth, in which I try to convey our
camaraderie. We are escaping the overbearing authority of the
assembled crowd, not rocks resisting the relentless sea, but like
crabs, burrowing into the sand to avoid its swell. But something in
my offer of fellowship spooks the man, who with a quick glance at his
watch, walks out of the room, the music resounding.
In search of this soul I exit as well,
and hear the rising voice renewed, crooning of forts defended and
deadly explosions. Though the first stranger has vanished, another
liberated soul hesitates by the vender's stall, contrasting her
freedom with those still enthralled. With the toe of her left foot
she rubs her lower leg as she leans, as nonchalantly as she can
allow, against the stadium's rough cement wall. Wearing jeans and a
crimson hoodie, she sways gently side to side with the music, while
one hand casually plays with an object in her pocket. Her eyes,
can't be seen, with her hood pulled low, but I feel certain she's
aware of anyone on the concourse, affecting unawareness of her
surrounding, a useful alibi considering her rejection of the status
quo. Though I wish to speak, my approach would be as fruitless as my
previous foray. Instead, I return to the stairs leading to my
section, for already the singer is asking his rhetorical question
which no one heeds, as millions heard in unawareness.
The passionate sound smacks at my soul
as I reenter the seating area, and a vision greets my eyes: of heat
and dirt, dust and debauchery, blood and sweat, cheering crowds
composed of high born noble and crass commoner debasing themselves,
reveling in the persecution of the other. Foul insults, they
wouldn't dare to teach their children, invectived against young men,
offered all the advantages unworthy to their profession, just playing
a game. Something about the bright colors they wear, bifurcating
these youths, as uniforms do universally, erasing the birthright of
unity.
Do they seek honors, payment, the
adoring, shrieking crowds, or the joy of crushing the enemy? These
feature are emblematic of all uniforms, regardless of their
significance. Attempting to reject them is never fully successful.
I march down the steps as if condemned
to endure the field's brutal nature for myself. And though I am
able, halfway down, to turn into the aisle, we all find ourselves
coerced into the abiding, irrational, and appalling conflict.
Offering my apologies, I squeeze past a few bystanders and collapse
into my seat.
“That was quick,” said my neighbor,
and I'm only able to offer a tired chuckle in reply.
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