PUB stand up for real sportsmen

A SPORTS presenter contributes nothing to sport. He is just the space between the first and the second half, he is merely the indrawn breath between one race and another, he is nothing more than the barley water at the change of ends. And yet . . .and yet it is not too fanciful to say that some have changed the way in which we look at sport, changed the way we think about sport, changed the way we feel about sport. By comparison, a reporter has it tougher, as you will read with the adventures of Dancing Brave, who sought to interview a rogue sports fan, who felt he knew everything and more about sport, somewhat like that chap not too far from you as you read this. Just look at him hard now and imagine. At first glance, Stan seems to be like any other sort of bloke in a bar. In T-shirt and jeans, his beer in front of him, he surveys the other drinkers with a sort of lordly contempt, apparently at ease with himself and his surroundings.

But there’s something different about him. He sits with his legs slightly too widely splayed to be entirely comfortable. And when he drinks, he vulgarly smacks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He has never played sport at any level other than against his sisters. For Stanley is not quite the same as other men. He is, in fact, an unreconstructed bastard. As I approach, Stan stands up, thrusts his waist forward and shouts a sequence of seemingly unconnected chants. “Come on, put ‘em under, guys. You’re gonna get your head kicked in.” He then turns to me. “What you looking’ at, then? Want to make something of it?” I point out that I am here to interview him and offer to buy him a drink. He asks for another bottle of beer but, when I bring it, I notice that he glances enviously at the lager that I have bought myself.

I ask him about Fans In Aid Of Sport, the organisation for which he is self-appointed spokesman and whose umbrella body is known as PUB. “PUB speaks up for the ordinary bloke, the sort of guy who gets forgotten about these days, even though it is his money at the turnstiles that has most of these neverseecomesee sportspeople where they are now.” His idea of a good night out is going down to the nearest drinking hole with his cohorts after the match, getting a few down him, maybe take in a quick takeaway, then on to a club. If he gets lucky, “it’s a quick bunk-up — and no sleep-over,” said Stan. “Protection for Unreconstructed Bastards — that’s what PUB members are standing up for — when we can stand up at all, that is,” he added. It seems a simple enough proposal.

I ask Stanley whether PUB has a manifesto that prospective fans could view and read. “No shopping together at the supermarket, no changing the kid’s nappies, no ‘Isn’t it my turn to cook tonight, I thought I might rustle up a pelau?’, no finding a bit of time for us so that we can talk about our relationship, no waking up every morning feeling guilty, no blabbing together at Carnival, no sneering at men on The Jerry Springer Show just because they done the manly thing and slept with their wives’ sisters, mothers, brothers or probation officers.
“No taking a responsible attitude to life insurance policies, no foreplay, no ‘Shall we go Dutch on this one, love?’, no listening to drippy songs by Michael Jackson about the pain of being a man, no ‘Shall I pop down to the Hi-Lo for some Breeze Automatic with in-built fabric conditioner, a few sun-dried tomatoes, oh, and don’t we need another packet of tampons?’, and no bloody holding hands in public, especially at sporting events,” noted the eloquent Stanisclaus.

Stan looks around him like a man ready to fight over these basic PUB principles. I ask him what it was that had prompted him to speak up on behalf of unreconstructed bastards in sport. “Open any paper, read any book, and all you get is how nice and reasonable and understanding modern West Indian sportsmen have become. Our sportsmen are building careers on telling the world about how caring they are, but they are not winning anything for Trinidad and Tobago. That Alloy Lequay — I used to think he was all right, but suddenly he’s joined the male sensitives, warbling on about how he’s done this for cricket and that for cricket, all because the last elections was real close and his group finally face real competition. It is a wonder we don’t hear about him doing the shopping and washing as well as having a career.” I wonder out loud whether there was something special about hockey these days. “Don’t talk to me about hockey, it’s a game for sissies as the women in Trinidad are so much better than the men.
 “As for football, it is all High-low-hang-Jack’s fault; he was the one who started it all. Thanks to him, you can’t even go to a football match these days without it being the expression of some inner turmoil of the personality, especially the way they managed to botch up the over the hills Brazil match. Then there’s this new guy in charge of the West Indies Players Association — Mr Commitment, he calls himself, but he is not alone, in swimming and athletics the same ethics apply,” Stanley laughs bitterly.

“All of them could write novels, such are their fairytales to sportsmen, Some of our sportsmen are not backward either, one could even present himself as a man in his twenties who could actually fall in love with a woman on one day and then he’s back as the guy who really enjoyed getting married, who’s not ‘commitment-phobic’ at all, who likes nothing better than his lovely domestic life. “Some of them are so self-adoring they will write autobiographies about their wedding-day and how happy they are now that they are committed to family and not Trinidad and Tobago sport. Because, deep down, modern guys are just really nice, and really are not concerned with the no money to be earned in representing your country instead of your overseas club.” We sit in silence for a few moments. It’s true, I realise, that for years women in sport have brought children up on their own, or fallen in love, or have got married without feeling the need to write boastful novels or feature articles about how special and sensitive and brave they were to do it all. “What is it about modern men that has suddenly made them so dewy-eyed and self-praising?”