Because It Is Bitter
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his hear in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good friend?"
"It is bitter—bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
—Stephen Crane
During my childhood, years divided between Argentina and Spain, I possessed a personality trait that kept me from being able to fully enjoy fútbol. Throughout the rest of my life, my father would remind me of this fact. Bearing the heartache of the losing side was difficult for me, the human suffering on display at the end of games, or worse, tournaments.
The pain of players, coaches, fans, so evident on their faces, body language, in their tears and sobs, became mine. The mirror neurons of children are not yet dulled and calloused by systems of oppression; I suffered with the losing side and for them, my joy for the winning side I had been rooting for, eclipsed by the opposition's sorrow. The price of winning came at a cost my heart couldn't reconcile. I wanted everyone to win.
Oh, but how we change.
As I got older, a gaining understanding of historical and political injustices added color to my lens, so that I relished fútbol moments that symbolically corrected past, current or ongoing global wrongs: Argentina eliminating England, Mexico humbling the US, Barcelona quieting Franco's Real Madrid, Costa Rica dominating the world. And I suppose I still enjoy the disgrace of those who deserve it, but past my midlife, I do so with much less enthusiasm, believing that the participants are merely trying to live out a certain humanity, and that they are only symbols who represent the guilty and whose culpability pales next to that of the engineers of shit of this world.
But the story of my heart's transformation becomes uglier.
As a player today, I thrive on administering misery on others. The agony of others is a fuel. The Stanford prison experiment warned that when individuals are placed in roles of control, even the most committed anti-authoritarians are capable of carrying out cruel abuses onto the undeserving without qualm. During a competitive game, I turn into the biggest tyrant. And to assuage some of the shame that this brings me, I will tell you that this only works when I believe the other side merits torture, if they've proven to be shitty people, or wronged me or others.
I want to watch you fall to your knees. I want to see anguish in your eyes. I want us to make sure you know you feel less-than. The more I see you break, the more my motivation to continue to administer humiliation grows. Your collapse and unraveling is pleasing.
What has happened to my heart?
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his hear in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good friend?"
"It is bitter—bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
—Stephen Crane
During my childhood, years divided between Argentina and Spain, I possessed a personality trait that kept me from being able to fully enjoy fútbol. Throughout the rest of my life, my father would remind me of this fact. Bearing the heartache of the losing side was difficult for me, the human suffering on display at the end of games, or worse, tournaments.
The pain of players, coaches, fans, so evident on their faces, body language, in their tears and sobs, became mine. The mirror neurons of children are not yet dulled and calloused by systems of oppression; I suffered with the losing side and for them, my joy for the winning side I had been rooting for, eclipsed by the opposition's sorrow. The price of winning came at a cost my heart couldn't reconcile. I wanted everyone to win.
Oh, but how we change.
As I got older, a gaining understanding of historical and political injustices added color to my lens, so that I relished fútbol moments that symbolically corrected past, current or ongoing global wrongs: Argentina eliminating England, Mexico humbling the US, Barcelona quieting Franco's Real Madrid, Costa Rica dominating the world. And I suppose I still enjoy the disgrace of those who deserve it, but past my midlife, I do so with much less enthusiasm, believing that the participants are merely trying to live out a certain humanity, and that they are only symbols who represent the guilty and whose culpability pales next to that of the engineers of shit of this world.
But the story of my heart's transformation becomes uglier.
As a player today, I thrive on administering misery on others. The agony of others is a fuel. The Stanford prison experiment warned that when individuals are placed in roles of control, even the most committed anti-authoritarians are capable of carrying out cruel abuses onto the undeserving without qualm. During a competitive game, I turn into the biggest tyrant. And to assuage some of the shame that this brings me, I will tell you that this only works when I believe the other side merits torture, if they've proven to be shitty people, or wronged me or others.
I want to watch you fall to your knees. I want to see anguish in your eyes. I want us to make sure you know you feel less-than. The more I see you break, the more my motivation to continue to administer humiliation grows. Your collapse and unraveling is pleasing.
What has happened to my heart?
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