#IssuesAtStake: Gathering of the cheating sissy boys

As a former sport writer and lifelong sport fanatic, I cannot wait to embrace the upcoming Soccer World Cup in Qatar.

But not for the reason readers will assume.

As far as I am concerned, the beautiful game is the most boring on the planet, its only merit being the snooze fest it offers in front of the telly, instantly curing insomnia.

A sacrilegious statement I know, fully aware of the verbal abuse and social media condemnation I shall be subjected to by soccer fanatics with murderous thoughts.

I won’t be the least surprised if some of them crowdfund a hitman to teach me a lesson – a final one. Soccer fans are extremely emotionally enhanced, many of whom fling themselves off buildings or slitting their wrists with rusted coat hangers when their teams lose at the World Cup, so anything is possible.

But it is what it is. As a sport junkie who even becomes captivated watching the world darts championships or the Umhlali tiddlywinks championships unfolding, I obviously feel compelled to show great enthusiasm for the world’s most popular game.

I have really tried, but after 15 minutes or so watching prancing namby-pamby types with fountainhead hairstyles endlessly kicking the ball to-and-fro without any scoreboard activity guaranteed, I simply topple over on the couch and snore like a buffalo. The essence of sport enthrallment is, after all, ongoing tension-building scoreboard fluctuations and fast-paced tactical manoeuvring.

I must confess, with this year’s World Cup looming, I considered therapy to analyse my obvious mental disorder regarding soccer.

But working on a tight budget and the knowledge that too many psychologists need psychologists, I opted for self-analysis instead.

Yet, no manner of early morning ‘om’ chanting to harmonise my chakras, feng shui or whatever has so far modified my shameful ‘soccer-ism’.

Hopefully, the Sport Human Rights Commission don’t get to hear of this.

Then it hit me. The underlying cause of my malady must be my total loathing of cheating to claim victory in sport.

And that is what football has become. It is the only game where cheating is, for all practical purposes, sanctioned.

Sissy players flying through the air like missiles and then thrash about the turf in fake excruciating pain when an opponent’s boot reaches closer than a metre from their shins, are intolerable and inexcusable.

Are all soccer referees shortsighted, turning a blind eye to the obvious illegal milking of penalties?

How does the soccer fraternity live with themselves claiming glory in this manner.

Impressive though is the frail little ballerinas’ miraculous self-healing powers, mending their broken limbs in an instant when the ref signals “play on”.

In any other sport cheating gets you a life ban and personal dishonour.

Thankfully rugby, played by real men, has largely been spared this disgrace… well, until two weekends ago when cowardly mustachioed Australian garden gnome-cum-scrumhalf Nic White collapsed “paralysed” when brushed by Faf de Klerk’s fingertips.

He should be banished from the game before he further spreads this reprehensible trend.

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