The shouts fill the air and I block my ears as best I can.
I try to ignore them, but they are getting louder and louder.
I can practically feel the fist pumping the air even though I am in another room and can’t see it. That can only mean one thing.
“Goal?” I ask, popping my head around the corner for an instant, not even sure why I am bothering to ask. It’s not like I actually care.
“Sorry, babes. Did I wake you?”
It can be three o’ clock in the morning or two o’ clock in the afternoon and my reaction will be about the same. I cannot see the interest in watching a ball being kicked across a field. Kicked, thrown, flung, dribbled, hit, whatever. It all amounts to the same thing for me. I can muster about as much interest in the subject as I can muster watching an ant carry a piece of food across a picnic blanket. It amounts to the same thing really. Well, maybe not. Maybe if the ant were to pass the food on to another ant at one point or another. Then it would be identical.
And yet, I can watch cars go around and around an unending, unaltering track without a problem. Which he just can’t understand. Well, he can. He enjoys watching Formula One just as much as I do (more in fact). What he can’t understand is why I can watch Grand Prix but not football or rugby or cricket or tennis or golf. I have tried to explain this to him, but it just makes me sound morbid.
It’s the crashes that I watch for. The moments of excitement that outshine any of those in football or rugby or any of those games. The shock factor. The not knowing whether this may be the race in which there is a horrendous accident. But, more specifically, the almost certainty that, despite the accidents, people will come out of it relatively unharmed. The miracle of science that has made motor racing so safe that ridiculous crashes lead to nothing more than sprains and neck braces.
It’s not always the case of course, but I find it gripping. Far more so than watching a ball being kicked around a field.