In truth we are all mad. I have no difficulty in admitting to you that I hear voices in my head. It has always been thus, consequently I feel comfortable both in my madness, and in the further fact that you, whether or not you are able and willing to admit it, are involved in a not too dissimilarly delusional type of existence. The world is mad.
Even the most clinical individual, he who is dispassionate and detached from the world that you and I inhabit, is coming to the undeniable conclusion that something has occurred that contradicts the rational existence, that which appeared so appealing and attractive, a sophisticated lifestyle that seemed so close, so attainable, for just a brief moment in time, now appears confusing, contradictive or even lost, maybe gone forever.
Professional football has always talked to me about the world around me. For a long time I refused to listen. Well, that is not strictly true because the reality was that I was too busy, far too engrossed in living life, to listen to the voice. The life was good. I enjoyed a great profession. I was paid to be a child. I received good money, relative to those times, each week for playing a child’s game and indulging myself in all that entails.
I was taken around the world and accepted by most wherever I was and I was always assisted and encouraged to be in the very best of health. What more could I ask for?
Why did I need to listen to a voice in my head, a voice that I instinctively knew was asking me to question? Wasn’t I already thinking everyday and implementing those thoughts into improving the world I lived in? What is the sense in extending the process into something that at the time was quite unnecessary?
Like every other professional footballer I was told where to be and what time to be there, what to wear, and how I was to behave. I was encouraged, coaxed, cajoled, rollicked and threatened. I was sworn at, pleaded with, fined and indulged.
However, while I rarely extended my thoughts, I did watch. I watched those around me, which in hindsight negated the need to watch myself, which was rather handy as this allowed me to move aside the noise in my head. Watching was good. There was plenty to watch in the world of pro football where huge amounts happen in short periods of time.
In watching others I acquired much information. Now information is also good, but information is not knowledge. It is merely information and is only really of value to the world you are living in. I used this information on many occasions and it was at times extremely beneficial.
I observed how individual managers reacted to and treated people and I utilised this information for personal gain. I was a child reacting to the world about me and ensuring I got what I wanted as much of the time as I could and the talent I possessed to move a sphere around a green rectangle was my childlike charm that facilitated my progressions in this respect and afforded me extended understanding and even protection.
However, there was always that voice. In quiet, insular moments I began to listen. I was initially sceptical, then in turn questioning, puzzled, intrigued and eventually amazed. What I had perceived as a childish, selfish world that sought certain elements of behaviour was in truth a porthole, a window to, how best shall I put it, an awareness, a portal to an inner world that now, suddenly, seemed almost compelling in the way it presented itself to me.
I was confused for some time. I had lost my way and I reacted in an ungraceful fashion. Again, I got away with it, to an extent, because I had a talent that appealed to people.
It was watching the game from Barcelona on Tuesday evening that resurrected the above thoughts. To some extent these sentiments lie dormant, resting quietly in some recess patiently waiting opportune moments to offer me reminders of their existence. On this occasion, it was Didier Drogba who was the medium, the vehicle that ferried the message.
I am not an admirer of Chelsea FC. I find the whole concept at Stamford Bridge uncomfortable and even disconcerting. Amongst the myriad of things wrong with my former profession, the one that rankles most, is the selling of ones soul for financial gain.
I understand your reflection that it is human nature and I tent to agree that we have all at one time or another allowed ourselves to be tainted in the pursuit of money, but even in the throes of these justifications I still found myself articulating less than edifying opinions concerning the completely self-pitying manner in which this man goes about his business, flinging himself to the ground as he does in a manner reminiscent of an overly theatrical acrobat.
It was in the voice in my head that prompted me to contemplate tolerance. It is easy to become part of the deepening divide that the vast financial remuneration modern footballers receive is capable of generating. I was reminded of my childish days and then brought back to this contemporary and increasingly secular world, which provides proportionate amounts of freedom and unhappiness.
Tolerating a modern footballer’s childish antics during a passionate 90 minutes where you want the opposition to win is to an extent accepting Chelsea fans will revel in the disruptive behaviour of their player.
But tolerance is not really a virtue. It is merely me accepting Drogba’s belly flops simply because I wish my striker could do the same. But the voice knew this and helped progress me from tolerance (making the best of a bad job) to virtue (honesty in action) by accepting that in his position I would probably do the same and consequently encouraged not make a judgement generated through passion and selfish desire.
One of the essential therapies for life today understands that too many of our decisions are based on passion and selfish desire.
Professional football has an important role to play in our world. It induces enormous enjoyment, pride and selfish desire all across the globe. In more than a few ways it imitates some of the more disagreeable aspects of society that have elevated money, success and possessions to the forefront of too many minds. In this way it is reflective of the madness contained in the life around it. It has a message that may be worth listening to. Didier Drogba, I love you.
