NOBODY REALLY CARED for Equilibrium, the 1984-meets-The-Matrix romp from 2002 set In A World where emotions were outlawed and pitted Christian Bale in a face-off with Taye Diggs.
Bale played a ‘cleric’, who turns rogue from his role enforcing the rule of solemn, unfeeling law. He stops taking mood suppressant (or whatever) pills and he’s through the looking glass.
For a good percentage of that population, however, the medication must have seemed like overkill.
Historically, men have been conditioned to display little to no emotion in daily life. The strong silent type of westerns, the stiff upper lip fetishized by the British war effort. Boys don’t cry. Except, of course, when there was a drug involved.
Regularly that drug was alcohol. Bringing out bouts of anger, uproarious laughter and, of course, ‘I love you, man’. That phrase is now an overused cliche of a punchline when depicting two grown men drinking their fill. A love that dare not speak it’s name in a moment of sobriety.
Sport, however, is the most common drug used to boil men’s emotions to the surface. For that is where, for over a century, men have congregated under the guise of watching the game to be absorbed among the mass of bodies, live vicariously through the fitter men on the field, unleashing guttural roars of support when they do something worth approval.
Or, as Twitter will tell us, spitting derision, bile and invective towards the theoretical other.
Women, traditionally, are far more emotionally resilient and more accustomed to allowing feelings to flow. Where else other than sport could we bank on seeing men singing in spontaneous unity, stripped topless in freezing conditions, hugging, jumping and / or crying floods of tears?
In post-wartime, on and off the field sport was a retreat for men. The terrace, the training ground and changing room were not places for women. This is where men can puff their feathers, kick up dust and rut. They sing the bawdy songs, talk the locker-room talk and feel part of the mob. Hell, until last week it was seemingly ‘okay’ for those within such a group to grab another man by the testicles in the name of good fun. Maybe sport wouldn’t be sport without a little homo-eroticism, just make sure it stays consensual from now on, lads.
However, in these times of social distancing – unless you’re at Cheltenham, of course – what becomes of men when this outlet is taken away?
The Six Nations was both ahead of the curve and lagging way behind in postponing matches until later in the year. The NBA is on hold after a player tested positive for Covid-19. Behind Closed Doors status was being slapped on European football matches all week until they called the whole thing off.
Matches going ahead without crowds were an oddity, that forced us to appreciate the sport and not the spectacle of an event.
PSG supporters on Wednesday organised a farcical ‘protest’ outside Parc des Princes just so their millionaire heroes could feel the love waft through the night sky. How will you react when sport disappears from our fields and screens for the… well, however long it takes?
We’ll be caught looking forlornly at the Subutteo table, glumly trucking a pick-and-go into an unsuspecting bean bag, desperately flicking through Sky Sports channels and shamefacedly settling for some old World Surf League re-runs.
Perhaps you’ll be unfeeling, like John Preston back on his meds, exhumed emotions can be reburied deep or, to quote a far better film than Equilibrium, you could ‘go home, lock the door and play Fifa.’
Try and steer clear or at least find the balance between those urges. Men, look after that mental health in this stretch of time without the usual outlets and venting points in place.
Keep the hands washed and take the time to get in touch with something else that can set the pulse racing. Get in touch with those emotions, get outside, enjoy the quieter streets, catch up on good TV.
Because without sport, we all need something that can both bring out what we’re feeling underneath, or provide an invaluable distraction to pandemic lockdown.
