The Role of the Goal

Some years ago, a friend of my daughter told me about his brothers, who were then in their early 20s. “They’re crazy about the Hapoel Haifa soccer team,” he related with fondness. “They go to every game, no matter where. It’s a huge part of their lives.”

That was their lives? Why was he telling me this? They had nothing better to think about? They must be total idiots.

And then, October 7 happened.

Iair Horn from Kibbutz Nir Oz, was among those kidnapped and kept hostage. When he was finally released and flown by helicopter to Sheba Medical Center, he had a request. Could they fly over Turner Stadium? The Israeli Air Force pilots airlifting Horn were happy to do that for the diehard fan of Hapoel Beersheva.

“When you return from captivity after 498 days, of course you pass with a helicopter above Turner. No question,” Horn said.

The team later filled his hospital room with merch – pillows, flags, whatever they had. They gave him a season pass to all home games for life.

Then, when released hostages Emily Damari and Romi Gonen (Maccabi Tel Aviv and Hapoel Haifa fans respectively) attended their first soccer games after their release following 471 days in captivity,  a ceremony was held in front of the fans. Damari told the crowd that her spirits had been boosted when she heard Maccabi Tel Aviv had won a championship while she was being held. She led the crowd in singing a Maccabi anthem, “From the Day I Was Born.”

Gonen told her team, “Thank you for fighting for me.”

Maccabi representatives presented Damari and Gonen with their jerseys, honoring their strength. “You are heroes – real heroes. Thank you!”

This story brought tears to my eyes. I still didn’t understand why soccer could be so meaningful, but clearly, it was. This is odd because I come from a family that was not athletic in the least. I was chosen humiliatingly last every time for the class baseball team at recess and regularly snuck out when the teacher’s back was turned at the obligatory “trim gym” class at university. My husband still hasn’t forgiven me for bringing along a book when he took me to a cricket game. (Well, it was boring.)

Skip forward a year. It’s a freezing English dusk and in the fading light, I am watching my 9-year-old grandson Daniel (“Dan the Man”) playing football with his local team. It’s not as if the team is doing well; in fact at that point in the season, they hadn’t won a single game. But there he is, tearing around the field, eyes shining, full of hope. I am so proud of him.

Daniel loves soccer. For his birthday, he asked for a subscription to a kid’s soccer magazine. He hangs around in the nearby park, hoping to be asked to join a game. His room is plastered with pictures of players. His team is Manchester City – why, I don’t know because he doesn’t live anywhere near Manchester. Because of his passion, I find myself keep an occasional eye on sports scores, something I never dreamed of doing before in my life, to see how our team is doing.

In spite of that, soccer remains a mystery to me.  I don’t understand the fine points or even the obvious ones. I can see there is some grace and athleticism to it, and the players are cute, but that’s it. I would still rather read a book.

Still, I do get it. There is something deeper involved here than watching a bunch of guys running around a field. One academic study has defined four dimensions to the devotion supporters feel for a sports team: the worship of the team and its players, the ritual participation in sporting events, the community of believers who share this devotion and the search for meaning.

Sound familiar? Of course. Ritual, shared devotion, community and search for meaning are components of religion too.  Many Israelis who attend synagogue on Saturday mornings and a soccer game in the afternoon understand that. Services and games are in some respects similar, minus the kiddush.

In a world where loneliness is common; where religious practice is not as universal as it was; where people yearn for connection and meaning, soccer fills a hole. As Emily Damari put it, “When I was released, I learned about your struggle – the chants, the signs, the prayers. You never gave up on me, Maccabi Tel Aviv is not just a team; it is a family. You have proven it at every moment, and my heart is filled with love for you.”

Who can argue with that?