Let them blow their cheap plastic horns
Athletes and fans are furious about the World Cup's annoying vuvuzelas. But they're also the sound of fandom
A soccer fan blows the vuvuzela trumpet before the start of the 2010 World Cup Group D soccer match between Germany and Australia at Moses Mabhida stadium in Durban June 13, 2010. REUTERS/Ina Fassbender (SOUTH AFRICA - Tags: SPORT SOCCER WORLD CUP)(Credit: © Ina Fassbender / Reuters)There are lots of reasons to hate vuvuzelas, those cheap plastic horns that have produced the World Cup’s massive droning background track. Most people, for instance, don’t really enjoy massive droning background tracks. They’re hard to dance to, and tiring. Just ask anyone who isn’t a Nine Inch Nails fan.
For what it’s worth, most of the players seem to hate the vuvuzela, which they claim makes it hard to communicate on the field. The captain of the French side, Patrice Evra, managed to blame the vuvuzela for his team’s lethargic effort in their scoreless opener against Uruguay — a move that struck me as pretty, well, French.
The television commentators are also in a snit. They can’t hear themselves talk. They miss the distinct crowd noises you get at soccer matches, such as those wonderful ooohs and ahhhs that accompany a missed shot, or the cleansing roar that follows a goal. They probably also miss the really loud burping.
But as a longtime fan — of sports in general and the World Cup in particular — my take on what I’m afraid I must call “the vuvuzela kerfuffle” is pretty conflicted.
On the one hand, the idea of a bunch of Europeans marching into Africa (again) and telling the natives they have to do things the European way (again) strikes me as not just presumptuous, but repellent. On the other hand, the only reason they play soccer in Africa — and anyone who isn’t rooting for the African teams deserves a swift kick in the shin, as far as I’m concerned — is because a bunch of Europeans marched in and told the natives how to do things.
I do cop to being bummed at the abject monotony of the vuvuzela sound. One of the great pleasures of being a fan, after all, resides in the opportunity to participate in a public, if cacophonous, exercise of free speech. I will grant you that “Yankees Suck” lacks something in the nuance department. But at least the message is getting across.
My favorite moments as a fan are those in which a single voice rises up and makes itself known. When my hapless Golden State Warriors played the Miami Heat several years ago, for instance, I was probably the only Warriors fan in the Miami Arena. As such, I took the opportunity to scream at the top of my lungs whenever there was a lull. Which was pretty often, given how sun-baked most Miami fans are. I wanted the players — my players — to know that I was there, and that I had faith in them. And I honestly believe that my vocal support contributed, in some small way, to their victory. Such is the standard psychosis of the devout fan.
Steve Almond's new book is the story collection "God Bless America." More Steve Almond.





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