Epictetus, The Handbook 43: Right Amusements

. . . It is not necessary for the most part to go to the games; but if you should have occasion to go, show that your first concern is for yourself; that is, wish that only to happen which does happen, and him only to win who does win, for so you will suffer no hindrance.

But refrain entirely from applause, or ridicule, or prolonged excitement.

And when you go away do not talk much of what happened there, except so far as it tends to your improvement. For to talk about it implies that the spectacle excited your wonder. . . .

—Epictetus, The Handbook, Chapter 33 (tr Matheson)

I grew up in a town that amuses itself, and distracts itself, through the exploits of four major league sports teams. The front pages of our newspapers would regularly glorify their victories and bemoan their defeats, while the stories about corrupt politicians, businessmen, and lawyers were usually reserved for the smaller print.

Common sense seems to give way to blind tribalism when it comes to sports in America, much as with the Circuses of Rome, or the Blues and the Greens in Constantinople, or Celtic versus Rangers in the Old Country.

When I moved to the South, the teams changed, but people still danced to the same old tune. Instead of hating the Cowboys with a vengeance, I was now expected to worship them as American gods.

Epictetus isn’t shunning the games, in whatever form they may take, because he’s a killjoy. He’s rather warning us about how easily mass hysteria can numb our sound judgment, and how dangerous it is to succumb to mindless passion.

The only major sporting event that has ever inspired me has been the FIFA World Cup. I made England “my” team from early on, simply because I was always moved by the romance of their incredible victory in 1966. I learned quickly that my personal preference was, according to some, worse than all the world’s worst heresies, blasphemies, and idolatries rolled into one. My Irish friends thought it a betrayal of the Cause. My German friends told me their loss in 1966 was only due to a vast political conspiracy. A fellow I knew from South America stopped speaking to me altogether, because football and a war in the South Atlantic were exactly the same thing in his mind.

My father would always frustrate me when we watched a game together. While I would jump around in ecstasy or roll around in agony, depending on the fortunes of my chosen heroes, my father would simply admire a good play, regardless of who played it, and asked only that the better team should win. I thought him a traitor, but he was simply trying to teach me good sportsmanship.

The Stoic will hardly begrudge us a pleasant amusement, but he will warn us about allowing our pastimes to consume our sense of self-control, decency, and fairness. If I am going to make such a complete fool of myself at the games, how poorly will I manage the needs of real life?

Written in 6/2009

Image: If this really upsets you, you might be taking football a bit too seriously ;-)