Forgiving Tiger, Terry and You

Stars sometimes fall to earth because they're, well, they're just people. Surely this is a tired topic. But I feel compelled to weigh in, as a fellow person who has often taken a hard look in the mirror and at photos tagged with my name on Facebook and not always loved what I've seen.

For now, let's leave lucrative brand sponsorship deals aside, wherein it's all about a lilywhite reputation, which is generally fictitious anyway.

There's a more complex question to consider: what is the tacit social contract between public figures we admire, and us? Do we expect wholesomeness? Moral rectitude? Perfection? People to model ourselves on? Or might we learn to admire people in whom we can see some of ourselves? In ancient Greece, even the gods were, well, human.

The behaviors of athletes, actors and politicians that so outrage us are nothing new. It's just getting harder to cover it all up. In a world of ever-eroding privacy, embarrassing photos on social networking sites, and the uneraseable public memory that is the internet, I wonder whether an era of forgiveness could one day dawn.

Go on: let your eyes roll. How utopian and naive of me, right?

There's an interesting idea I came across recently, a suggestion that our obsession with celebrities and their exploits is in itself a kind of cover-up. A distraction from much darker stuff that's being committed by the invisible super-rich and super-powerful who sit in the air traffic control tower of contemporary society. Why get worked up over what's going down in the back reaches of the Amazon, or in the back offices of Westminster, when you can freak out over Chelsea captain John Terry having a good old fashioned affair?

Here in the UK, the buzz around removing Terry from his role as England captain has almost too-obvious parallels with the current feeling about our Prime Minister. We aren't happy with the status quo of government. We don't know when an election will be called. Until then, we express our collective (and perhaps justified) political frustration through the metaphor of sport and celebrity. Similarly, the revelation of Mr. Woods' exploits offered a welcome distraction from growing economic disparity, bank bonuses, and Wall Street returning with alarming speed to its old and dangerous ways. Some would say that this is exactly the point of sport and celebrity. To provide a collective emotional outlet.

But a collective emotional outlet doesn't solve the real problem.

I'm not saying I condone what these gentlemen have done or not done, nor would I necessarily choose to pay them (or any human being, for that matter) exorbitant sums to represent my brand. But they're guys with big egos who happen to be really, really good at something to which the rest of us aspire. So marriage (and maybe best mate-ship) aren't among their gifts. So what? That simply puts them in the company of Zeus, Athena, and their ilk. Still worthy of awe. It's just a different kind of awe.

This leads me to think about the oft-reported stories of those unfortunate university grads who have lost out on jobs because of supposedly character-revealing photographs and/or videos that circulate through social networking sites and were viewed as part of a background check by Human Resources. Those of us of a certain age read these everyday dramas in the freesheets and shake our heads, thinking, geez look how stupid these kids are. It's the contemporary equivalent of "in my day we listened to music -- today the kids just listen to noise." IE, perhaps we're a bit out of touch.

Because isn't having some over-the-top fun -- even at the expense of our dignity -- part of how we become well-rounded people? The same is true of making big mistakes. Even marriage-destroying mistakes. Depending upon how we deal with the fallout, making mistakes can be one of the most powerful ways that we learn and become who we truly are.

Already, a younger generation is prepared to overlook certain aspects of its peers' multimedia data shadows. Because hey, silly stuff happens and generally gets photographed and uploaded. There's a difference between what's criminal and what's embarrassing.

Idolising -- or even just hiring -- flawed individuals requires a shift in cultural context. And this may be exactly what's emerging from a generation that takes ubiquitous connectivity for granted. Thus, if technology won't let us forget and move on, if we can't untag every unsavory moment captured in digital media and consigned to servers in perpetuity -- and increasingly, our every moment, unsavory or otherwise, IS sitting on a server in perpetuity -- then we might have to rely on our cultural and ethical values to do the forgetting. Or even better, the forgiving.

Learning to love football.

I figured it was time. To find out just what the emotion and fuss around professional sports is all about. I'm into emotion and fuss. Also, apparently, sports are big business. I'm into big business too.

Until now, it's all been over my head and honestly, I really haven't cared. I've just never been a sports fan. Sure, as a kid I enjoyed watching ice dancing during the winter Olympics. As an adult, my heart beats a little faster when I watch Serena do her thing in centre court. But beyond that, sportsfanship was the domain of manly boys and bullies. People who were, you know, coordinated, had physical prowess on the kickball field and therefore didn't get picked last every time. Me, I got picked last.

Fortunately, times have changed and so have I. For one thing, I'm nominally British now, a status which entitles me to a number of special privileges, from socialised healthcare to calling it football instead of soccer. So I've decided its high time I get more involved in my adopted nation's passion. Soccer, which is to say, football.

And, as in all new endeavors I undertake, I've found myself a coach, an advisor, a mentor to guide me through the process.

His first lesson -- my first step on the road to fandom -- was deceptively simple. "You must adopt a team."

Easier said than done. First of all, the very term "adoption" is loaded for me. You see, I am adopted. As are my brother, sister, and every family pet we've had. Adoption is serious stuff. Big commitment. Love, even. The family-dysfunctional kind.

But a lesson is a lesson, and so adopt I would. After all, I adopted a nation-state. Why not a team? And so I did, this weekend.

So many factors to consider. Where I live. (Think globally, act locally.) The philosophy behind the team (who knew that teams have philosophies?) The ownership of the club. The cultural diversity of their players. Their performance on the pitch. (I love pitch performance. I did spend years in marketing.) Their ranking in the Premiere League. Their sponsors. And most importantly for me, their brand reputation. Let's face it, even I know which team brands signify that you're a tosser, a toff, a hopeless cheer-for-the-underdog type, or a pretentious arriviste who's a bit too shiny shiny. Such is the power of brands.

You are wincing at my overconsideration and near-paranoia, because you, of course, already are a sports fan.

The thing you must consider is that for most people, the team that is theirs -- the team that is yours -- is an intuitive and obvious thing, like breathing: you support the Yankees because you support the Yankees. Your parents did (or didn't.) Your friends did (or didn't.) It was the first game you went to. It was just an organic part of life, right? You didn't have to think about the brand, because you were probably a kid. And the brand was simply sold to you. You didn't have a fully-formed life that your team needed to fit into.

I do. Hence, all these considerations. What if I make the wrong choice, adopt the wrong team?

Well, like anyone we adopt, we deal with who they are, and they transform us.

I will tell you right now that I have some mixed feelings about my choice. I can't say I've had a love-bond with my team yet. I may need to go see them for real in order to do that. I'm not even sure I'm ready to tell you whom I've chosen.

On one hand, they're the obvious choice for me. On the other hand, it's a bit embarrassing because they're the obvious choice. I'm not sure how I feel about what my new team says about me. Or what I'll go forth to say about them. One thing's certain: my choice proclaims that I'm a toff-wannabe and frankly a bit of wanker. And now I've given it away.

Still, I can report, even this early on in my journey to sportsfanship, that it's already fun to have something mindless and non-earth-shattering to follow in the news, something physical and strategic and narrative and alive to learn more about, to get worked up about, to care about... and ultimately to share with others.

I think I might be beginning to get it.