Grace Malko
Growing up, some of my fondest memories were waking up to the smell of bacon and the distant drone of an English Premier League soccer game on TV. I would lazily drift down the hallway, half-awake, the din of my dad whisking pancake batter and the muffled British-accented commentary over the game acting as a sort of homing beacon. Ever since I can remember, my dad and I have watched Arsenal games together almost every weekend. Yes, it is a bit peculiar that we cheer for a soccer team from London that plays over 4,000 miles away from our home in Atlanta, but thanks to my dad’s affinity for early 2000s Arsenal legend, Thierry Henry, we have been all in ever since.
There are various theories about sports as an outlet for rage or anger, but I think our outlet is something different: something at once more pure and much more dangerous. Our outlet is hope. My dad has taught me a lot of things in my life, but one of my favorite lessons has been to embrace disappointment.
“It’s the hope that kills you.” That is the phrase my dad has always used every time our team is doing too well and will inevitably come crashing back to reality soon. Arsenal has not won the Premier League in over 20 years, but the team has come tantalizingly, even miserably close the past two seasons. Part of the enjoyment comes from always being on the edge of our seats: we never know if we will experience “the depths of despair” or “the heights of ecstasy,” as commentary legend Peter Drury would put it. Last year, in the depths of a terrible mono infection, I watched former Arsenal player Reiss Nelson score a winning goal in the sixth minute of added time to keep the team’s title hopes alive. My dad and I made such a commotion that my mom came running into the room; she thought someone had gotten hurt. It is moments like those: jumping around the living room screaming, possessed by last minute goal joy, that I used to justify the sadness of witnessing our beloved team lose the league title at the end of the season. It felt like at least for every moment of sadness, there was a moment of exhilarating joy to look back upon and appreciate.
However, real life does not seem to bestow moments of joy and disappointment as equally. True disappointment is one of the hardest emotions to deal with, at least for me. When it is in response to something I really care about, it can become all consuming. Sometimes, even the moments of joy are not enough to compensate for the feeling of loss. I feel like I need something more concrete to cling onto besides momentary glimpses of bliss. Every once in a while, something truly does disappoint me, and I ask myself “Why? What is so worth putting myself in this situation?” After a month of nights tossing and turning in a dorm that still feels lonely sometimes and gradually accepting a life devoid of weekly Arsenal games while preoccupied with Yale life, I think I have an answer.
The most important and longest-lasting moments of joy were the moments of connection along the way. I never regretted any of those early mornings spent watching soccer on the couch with my dad. Despite the absurdity and irrationality of 11 men kicking an inflated leather casing dictating my mood for the day (or week… or month…), those mornings were when I felt the most at home. That was where I belonged. This team, and the relationship it fostered between me and my dad, is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.
Two seasons ago, the team adopted a new unofficial anthem, “North London Forever,” that it started playing just before kickoff at home games. Every single home fan in the stadium knows the words. This year, I got to fulfill my dream of hearing the song live at a game with my dad. As the opening guitar chords of the chorus began to play over the loudspeakers and 50,000 people from every walk of life joined in song, I realized why it was so meaningful. This was a perfect example of a group of people who irrationally made themselves so vulnerable to disappointment by something they have absolutely no control over, but what it had created was an almost overwhelming sense of identity and belonging in the air that night, completely irrespective of the result on the field.
Getting your hopes up and embracing disappointment is about the things that happen along the way. We stumble and we fall flat on our faces, but that is what ultimately brings us together because we experience it together. The point is to feel something. The point is to be overjoyed when it goes how we thought it would and disappointed when it does not. The point is to be heartbroken over and over, even if it is for something as silly as a soccer team, because along the way was where we found love and connection.
In large part thanks to this weekly ritual, I have become a person who easily gets her hopes up. It is still terrifying and devastating; at times I still question if the disappointment is worth it. I love the advice that the father in the movie “Call Me By Your Name” gives to his son after he gets his heart broken: “Right now, there’s sorrow, pain; don’t kill it, and with it the joy you’ve felt.” My dad’s advice is wise in its own way. After a game loss, he would probably say something like, “Oh well, there’s always next year. Time for a sad nap.”