Letter Five | 11/24 | Russ
East London
Dear Lack,
It is just past lunchtime and I am in East London, the city where I was born and spent the first twelve years of my life. After clearing security at the Cape Town International Airport, I wandered around the terminal trying to kill some time. I entered Exclusive Books, South Africa’s main corporate bookseller—it’s very similar to Barnes & Noble—and browsed, as one does. I was hoping to find either a copy of Ruth Ozeki’s newest novel The Book of Form and Emptiness or the new George Saunders collection, but, sadly, neither were in stock. What was very much in stock, however, was Matthew Perry’s memoir, Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing. Surrounding the floor-to-ceiling display (imagine, like, 50 Matthew Perrys looking at you, sizing you up) were various pieces of Friends merch: T-shirts, planners, belt bags, stationary, hats. Our society’s need to capitalize on everything that has ever made us feel good is forever ongoing.
But what does surprise me is how popular Friends is with teens today. The show ended in 2004, and some of my students weren’t even born when South Africa hosted the World Cup in 2010 (let that sink in for a second), and yet they’re avid fans, or claim to be. I regularly see them wearing Friends merch. This really makes me wonder: can a monocultural thing like Friends ever exist again? Will teens in, let’s say, 20 years wear Stranger Things merch? Possibly. But Stranger Things is already nostalgic for itself, nostalgic for its own nostalgia.
As opposed to the moment when Friends was at the height of its popularity, what we see today is the combination of unlimited content but in genre, style, form. We have lots of stuff but very little of it feels new. Hence the popularity of nostalgia as a mode: Stranger Things, The Crown, Top Gun: Maverick. Nostalgia is the crutch on which popular media seems increasingly to lean. This, of course, feeds into the conservative ideology that traditional values and a return to former glory are the answers to societal decay. But what the popularity of nostalgia really highlights is the great dissatisfaction and sadness people feel with the present state of the world. It’s also very easy and cost-effective for companies to recycle old intellectual properties, but that’s maybe something I’ll talk about later.
That’s right Matthew Perrys, you set me off.
As my plane, departing, rose through the clouds, I looked down and saw the Atlantic, a sheet rippling in the wind. You know I dislike flying very much. And, despite my best efforts to remind myself about the structural integrity of planes, the statistics surrounding crashes, and how pilots can very easily avoid turbulence, at the first jolt my stomach sinks, my hands grip the armrest, and I close my eyes, trying desperately to focus on anything but my own mortality (I also realized that continuing with White Noise, a novel that deals very much with the theme of death, was not the best in-flight reading material).
And so—I thought about the World Cup.
I managed to watch all of the Morocco/Croatia match. It started at noon, and kick-off aligned exactly with the middle of the school day. Because of this, teaching proved impossible. And, because we are now two weeks away from the long summer break, I decided to have the stream on in the background while students worked on their end of term research project. It was a thrilling match. Both Morocco and Croatia showed such finesse and guile, and there were several times when I stood up (drawing the attention of the class, who expected me to say something) because a dangerous ball was played into the box. Despite finishing 0-0, it was one of the most exciting matches of the tournament.
Sadly, I was unable to watch Japan/Germany, which is disappointing because of the story I’m about to tell you. Since yesterday was the last school day of the week—as an “American” school we get Thanksgiving off even in South Africa—and the World Cup is in full swing, the school decided to make yesterday a kind of spirit day. Students were encouraged to wear jerseys that represented their favorite team in the tournament. I wore the only international soccer jersey with me: Japan’s, from a couple of years ago. Over the course of the day, several students approached me and asked why I was supporting Japan. Each time, I said something to the effect of: I like the way the team plays. I had a wonderful time when I visited Japan. I think the jersey looks cool. All of which is true. But at the end of the day one of my 8th grade students, wearing a Bayern Munich jersey, approached me and took it a little further. He told me that if Japan somehow managed to beat Germany that he would complete an extra piece of writing, but that it would be written entirely in Japanese. However, if Germany beat Japan, I would have to do the same for him in German. I agreed.
The reason I was unable to watch the match was because I was coaching. It was our practice, and we’ve come a long way since our 7-4 defeat to begin the season (this doesn’t sound so bad, except for the fact that I coach basketball). The end of practice coincided with half-time. Germany were up 1-0 after Ilkay Gündoğan scored from the penalty spot. The student with whom I made the bet came up to me and told me he was looking forward to my letter. You will understand my smug satisfaction at the final score: 2-1 for Japan, who managed to score two goals in the second half. I look forward to that extra piece of writing.
I was unable to watch either the Spain/Costa Rica or Belgium/Canada match closely because I was hosting a Friendsgiving party. The matches were on in the background, so I was saw two of Spain’s seven goals, but as you can imagine my attention was on other things. From what I could gather: the young Spanish squad are very good, Costa Rica struggled immensely, Canada were the better side in their match, Belgium underperformed and were fortunate to get three points.
As for the Friendsgiving—what a lovely celebration. I wish you could’ve been there. How lucky I am to have hosted an event for fifteen people, none of whom I knew five months ago. I hope, whatever it is you’re doing, that you at least have plenty of leftover turkey for your sandwiches.
I want to end this entry by talking about something you mentioned in your last letter. To quote: “There is not more beauty in professional soccer than amateur soccer, and the social bonds constructed in the latter case are just as strong, or stronger, than the former.” I couldn’t agree more.
During this trip to East London, I have no doubt that I’ll visit the Hamilton Sports Club, known as “Hams” to members and rivals. Hams is a unique building. The main entrance leads to a ballroom that is still used for wedding receptions and other “events,” although I’m never quite sure what they are. The ballroom is connected to a bar that serves as the club’s hub. There are four floor-to-ceiling fridges stocked with beer, cider, wine, and mixers. To the left of the fridges are the bottles of vodka, whiskey, gin, and brandy. Although there are a few tables and chairs inside the bar, most of the members sit outside on one of the twenty-odd wooden picnic tables. From there, the facilities that make Hams a sports club come into view: the two rugby/soccer fields, the cricket nets, the bowling greens, and the tennis courts.
When I arrive with my grandfather, I’ll make the rounds, say hello to every member in attendance, listen once again as my grandfather introduces his grandson “from America.” And then the stories will begin. I’ve heard them so many times before, but they still make me smile. The details often change, the names of the people involved are never consistent, but I know when to laugh, and really the stories are genuinely funny. There was the time my grandmother pulled into the club with her Mini Cooper, didn’t pump the breaks quite enough, and crashed into the fence surrounding the tennis court. Or the time my grandfather, well into his fifties, played in a cricket match and dove to his right, eyes focused on his outstretched right hand, ready to make a “brilliant” catch, only to have the ball embed itself in his left hand, which was facing the other direction. Still counts.
More than anything, the stories of Hams are a constant reminder of my father’s childhood: when amateurism was sport culture and even those who played for the provincial team could still be counted on to grab a beer at the club. The bonding possible when playing sports for their own sake is something I always longed for. But for you and me, who grew up in the era of professionalization, an era where kids are oftentimes conditioned to play a single sport with the hopes of some future financial gain, this type of experience seemed like an impossibility.
But then I think of Bad Lads A.C., the amateur club we were both lucky enough to play for. At the end of your last letter you asked me what I’d like you to spend time writing about. I have two ideas, the first being your experience playing for Bad Lads and/or your current team. The second is about the upcoming South Korea/Uruguay match and how your support of the South Korean team ties to your own identity. No matter what, please do remember that I have financial stakes in the match. I’m sure you’ll agree that the potential monetary gain I stand to achieve from the outcome of Uruguay’s performance in the tournament is the most important thing about our shared World Cup experience.
I plan on writing about Bad Lads next time. Missing you.
Happy Thanksgiving,
Russ