Don’t Tell Me How to Have Fun

The World Cup game was still on; Canada was losing 1-0 to Morocco (they eventually lost 3-0), and the restaurant had reached that familiar stage of sports-watching anxiety where logic starts quietly slipping out the side door. Nails are being bitten, people are playing armchair coach and player, and anxiety is building as Canada tries desperately to tie it up in the closing minutes. So far, so good. 

A few regulars – including me – were given restaurant swag before the game, including caps with the restaurant’s logo, as a thank-you for our ongoing patronage, which was a nice, unexpected gesture. Then, because Canada needed a goal, several people at our table and nearby tables decided it was time for rally caps.

You know the move. Hat turned inside out, backward, sideways, or whatever version of magic the moment apparently requires.

Fine. Have fun. Turn your hat into origami if it makes you happy. But it’s not for me and I resisted two requests to put my rally cap on. No thanks.  

Then I was told I was being too quiet during the game.

That is one of those little things that gets on my nerves quickly, and not just because of this particular game. It is the assumption that everyone has to enjoy something the same way. If you are not loud, animated, shouting at the television, wearing the hat, chanting the chant, doing the group bit, or performing enthusiasm in the officially approved manner, someone decides you are too quiet and not having fun.

Or worse, that you need to be corrected.

First, let’s be honest: rally caps look stupid.

I say that with affection. Sometimes looking stupid is part of the fun. Sports fans have painted their faces, worn foam fingers, put cheese on their heads, dressed as Vikings, and showed up shirtless in freezing weather. We all accept a certain level of ridiculousness when sports are involved.

But I still reserve the right not to participate.

Second, I do not follow the god of good luck.

I am not superstitious. I do not believe a hat turned the wrong way in Buckhorn, Ontario, has any influence on a soccer game being played in Houston. I do not think Canada’s game will improve because nine people at four tables in a restaurant perform a textile-based ritual over their foreheads.

If Canada scores, it will be because someone makes a good run, a good pass, a good shot, or Morocco makes a mistake. It will not be because Bob at table seven flipped his hat inside out.

Third, and this may be the bigger point: don’t tell me how to have fun.

Just because I am not saying much does not mean I am miserable. It does not mean I am bored, nor am I judging anyone in the room. It does not mean I need to be pulled into the noise to validate the room.

Some people enjoy games by yelling, playing coach and referee, and decking themselves out in their favorite country’s colors. I tend to watch. Maybe it’s the journalist in me that says don’t show bias (at least externally). Maybe it’s just who and how I am. 

I can be having a perfectly good time while saying very little. In fact, sometimes I have a better time because I say very little. I am watching the game, taking in the room, enjoying the absurdity, filing away blog ideas, and quietly laughing at the human comedy of it all. That counts.

There is also the alcohol factor. A few people have a few beers and get louder, looser, more animated, more willing to be silly in public. That is fine. We are in a restaurant watching a World Cup game, and that is to be expected. This is not a religious service. Nobody expects total silence and perfect posture.

But I am not drinking. My inhibitions are still right where I left them.

So what feels hilarious and freeing to someone after a few drinks might feel forced and uncomfortable to someone else. That does not make either person wrong. It just means we are experiencing the same room differently.

And that should be allowed.

The strangest thing about sports culture is how quickly “we’re all having fun” can turn into “you must have fun exactly like us.” Cheer this way. Wear this. Stand up. Yell louder. Care more (what is the measuring stick for how much you care?). Prove you’re into it.

No.

It is a game, and I will enjoy it how I want to, thank you very much. 

A wonderful game, maybe. A tense game. A meaningful game for the players, coaches, and fans who have followed every step of the tournament. But still a game.

If Canada wins (they lost), it will be great. People will cheer, high-five, celebrate, and talk about it for years. If Canada loses, everyone will still have to go home, pay bills, do laundry, answer emails, and figure out what is for dinner tomorrow.

The result matters in the moment. It does not define us. It does not define me. 

That is where I think some people lose perspective. They confuse volume with passion and superstition with loyalty. They confuse performance with enjoyment. If you’re not wearing the country colors, they ask why. I usually come back with one of two responses: “I didn’t feel like it.” Or, “I don’t need to wear the colors to support a team; I’m fine with not wearing them.”

I do not need a rally cap to prove I am enjoying myself. I do not need to shout instructions at professional athletes in another country – though I do sometimes say something to the TV, but at a conversational level. I do not need to act devastated or ecstatic on command.

Let people enjoy things in their own way.

If someone wants to wear the hat inside out, great. If someone wants to yell at the referee, go ahead. If someone wants to sit quietly, watch the game, sip a non-alcoholic beverage, and occasionally make a sarcastic mental note for a future blog post, that should be fine too.

The whole point of fun is that it stops being fun the second someone starts assigning rules to it.

So no, I will never wear a rally cap. But I am watching the game and enjoying myself.