Just not my book

Already knew how much I’d love it - colin firth did the book justice i can confirm. However it cemented my football delusion and obsession

I came to Fever Pitch in a slightly roundabout way. I'm seeing someone with a couple of Nick Hornby books on her shelf, and feeling I had read some rather poor books recently -- and that few of my ways to book recommendations were leading me to books I enjoyed of late -- I had been thinking of giving Hornby a go. I still procrastinated it for a while, but I was thinking fondly, recently, of my experience with Jonathan Tropper and I happened to see something online comparing the two.

So I looked up Hornby on Amazon's Kindle store, and resolved to sort by highest customer rating and read whatever bubbled to the top. I didn't expect it to be Fever Pitch, at least not once I understood that it wasn't a novel and was therefore not quite what I was hoping for. But, I decided, what the hell. My own judgment wasn't leading me to good choices lately anyway.

The result was mixed. Fever Pitch isn't a complete autobiography of any sort. It's a memoir about being a soccer obsessive, and specifically an Arsenal obsessive. (If you're mentally upbraiding me for calling it "soccer" and not "football," please don't bother. The English coined the term "soccer" in the first place, and sneering at it is an ugly, particularly tribal sort of anti-American derision. I use it here where I might use "football" elsewhere because it permits no confusion and because the bulk of my Goodreads friends are American.)

Hornby is not a soccer fan in the same way you might imagine if you aren't well acquainted with the game. He is a die-hard, the sort for whom soccer results are deadly serious and apt to overshadow any other news, good or bad. He comments early on that the book is therefore primarily for either obsessives like him or people on the outside who want to know what it's like to live with such an obsession. I am neither, really. I count myself a soccer fan, and support a couple of teams in different leagues. I appreciate a beautiful play as much as anyone, and a victory for my side does put me in a better mood. But I don't live and die by results and I don't have or want the sort of recall necessary to remember the squad from a decade ago or the particulars of a match from someone else's Cup final. I lack both the proximity and the distance he describes.

So here is where the trouble begins for me. The book is not long, some 270 pages or so, but it's consumed, as I now know Hornby to be as well, with details. It makes it a bit of a slog at times, lacking the obsession (particularly with Arsenal, who are not my team) to really care about minor details. Hornby has an essentially simple thesis -- "I am a diehard Arsenal supporter and here is evidence of my obsession" -- and he runs into a fundamental contradiction. I don't care enough to want to read all of these match details, but did he not feel compelled to include all of them it would undermine his own thesis. The result is that I enjoyed myself a fair bit for perhaps 50% of the book, and then I was ready to be done.

Another recurring issue for me, and I will have a caveat about this in a moment, is that Hornby is an unrelenting homer. He has to be for the book to make any sense, but it's aggravating nonetheless. Here comes the caveat: if I remember correctly, this book was written around 1991, long before I paid any attention to professional soccer. Hornby is convinced that Arsenal are universally hated and perennially cursed with terrible fortune. Perhaps it was true then; I really don't know, but I doubt it. But Arsenal have finished very near the top of the league for years now, manager Arsène Wenger is famous for doing very well with a more limited budget than his peers, and among the people I know they draw far less hatred than Manchester United, say, or Chelsea. Hornby endured years of failure and Arsenal have won the league only three times in his life. Cry me a fucking river. To this West Ham supporter, whose team has never, ever won the league despite its storied history and famous academy system, this seems like an awful lot of whining. Hornby names West Ham as a much-loved club even among fans of other teams; in my time supporting them we have been among the most universally-reviled sides in the English system. Perhaps my own homerism is clouding my judgment, but having seen them written up alongside a lot of generally neutral descriptions by thoroughly unaffiliated writers as "a bunch of cheating Cockney bastards nobody likes," I really don't think so. Again, of course, a lot can and has changed since 1991. But the persecution complex wears a bit thin.

On a technical level, the book is executed well enough. Hornby strings together a sentence just fine, and he is candid about the many ways in which his behavior and thought processes are thoroughly ridiculous.

I feel okay about Fever Pitch, but I don't know that I can recommend it to a general audience. If you have an interest in soccer it's an interesting look at a true obsessive, and makes me feel better about my own interest in the game. It also tells me very little about whether I ought to read Hornby's other work, which comprises mainly novels. A mixed bag.

This book reminded me of my first football match in the mid-nineties when I was around 9 or 10. Retrospectively, this match was the beginning of increasing violence between the two opposing sides, but I was only mesmerized by the fact that I was actually being present and soaked up the atmosphere. I could understand why Hornby decided to include certain matches who weren't memorable for their results but meant something to him at that time, because I felt the same way back then.
I'm still interested in the game and keep on eye on the club, but in some ways I think my love of football in my early years was the start of a later obsession; a particular pop band. As long as they were in the industry, I kind of adjusted my year to their timetable. I loved Hornby's wit, and descriptions of the high's and low's of being a fan. I think that everyone who's ever felt passionate about anything, can recall a situation where other people simply didn't get your heartfelt dedication but had to live with it.
In my both my love of football and the kind of 'positive obsession' for something, Fever Pitch was an ideal read for me!

Despite the fact that I love Nick Hornby's other books, my gut instinct told me not to read this book because it's about football. However, I read the blurb which said that it was for non football fans too, and I read a number of reviews that reiterated the same. So I decided to go for it, and I discovered that you really do need to have at least a passing interest in football to get through this book. The writing was, as always, brilliant, and Hornby's way of telling a story is on top form as usual. But if you don't have any interest whatsoever in football, then this isn't the book for you. I wish I'd followed my gut instinct.

This book was unbelievably tiresome.

I've read Hornby's fiction in the past with enjoyment, so I was expecting something better out of him here. I expected ties to class and race and politics and how fandom is a thing, sociologically. I expected some kind of real growth or enlightenment on the part of the fan writing. I expected, especially given Hornby's fiction, a moment that works like a plot high point, wherein he realizes that soccer is not and should not trump everything and everyone else in his life.

Instead, I was treated to an anal cataloging of what felt like every fucking soccer game he's ever attended, plus barrels of apologetic pseudo-self-awareness. This is that guy who, because he KNOWS he's an asshole, and he ADMITS that he's an asshole, considers himself excused for being an asshole. Spending time in this man's company is not enjoyable, and I don't know what's wrong with the legions of five-starrers here, but I suspect that they aren't that great either.

I could say more, about his glosses over things like hooliganism, stadium deaths, racist chants, neo-nazi fans, but it's just not worth it. Suffice it to say that he thinks his own fandom more important than all these things, no matter what he says. I'm not sure that this experience won't ruin his other books for me.

Well written, engaging, amusing and honest memoir of what it means to be a football fan. There’s a lot of interesting stuff in here about the nature of obsession and the clash between big business and fandom. At the end of the day, though, it’s about football. A subject I have no interest in at all.

I tried to read it! I enjoyed the bits about him personally, but the soccer details were too much.
Maybe I'll read it again someday, but not now.

Egy rajongás története, egyben korlenyomat egy már csak nyomokban létező szubkultúráról.
A regény ’91-92-ben íródott, ami választóvíz volt az angol fociban (meg az európaiban is), a Heysel és a Hillsborough-tragédia után nyilvánvaló volt, hogy változtatni kell, új szabályok jöttek, kiszorították a balhés szurkolókat, megszűntek az állólelátók, új stadionok épültek, és az egész elment a családi hétvégi szórakoztatás irányába. A Hornby féle rajongókra, akiknek életformájukká vált a meccsre járás, nem volt többé szükség.
Érzek némi rokonságot Hornbyval, igaz, én egész másfajta drukker voltam, de nekem is kitöltötte a gyerekkoromat a foci. A ’70-es évek végén lettem rajongó, Dózsa drukker, Fazekas-Törőcsik-Fekete csatársor, ma már ilyen nincs, de hát ki emlékszik ma már pl. Tóth Andrásra, aki szintén kiváló játékos volt. Mindezt úgy, hogy száz méterre nőttem fel a Haladás pályától, de a meccsre járás valahogy fel sem vetődött, talán mert apám sem volt meccsre járó ember, nem volt, aki elvigyen, arról meg szó sem lehetett, hogy egyedül menjek ki gyerekként. Életemben nem voltam egyetlen bajnoki meccsen sem, de a körkapcsolás az mindig szólt, emlékszem, moziba mentünk a barátommal, és vittem a kis Philips rádiómat, azon hallgattuk az eredményeket. A falamon meg ott lógott a tabella, papír-excel, ott állítottam hetente a sorrendet. Mi inkább fociztunk, gyakorlatilag minden szabadidőnkben, meg ha lehetett, akkor tornaórán is (középiskolában opció sem volt, abból állt a tornaóra, hogy elkértük a tornatanártól a labdát, óra végén meg visszavittük, ennyit találkoztunk vele).

Hornby nagyon pontos képet fest a focirajongóról, aki így papíron akár szimpatikus is lehet, de rossz elképzelni, milyen lehet együtt élni egy ilyennel. Akinek bárminél fontosabb a meccs, akármilyen meccs, és akármilyen családi eseménynél. Érdemes összevetni Gazdag József könyvével (Egy futballfüggő naplójából), hasonló élmények a magyar ugaron. Emellett persze képet fest úgy általánosságban is a rajongás természetéről, de azt hiszem, ez itt inkább melléktermék, mert valójában egyedül csak a focibuziság infernóját akarta itt megmutatni.

Azért kíváncsi lennék, mit gondol Hornby erről a mostani új világról, mit szólt, amikor az Arsenal lett az első angol csapat, amelyik angol játékos nélkül állt ki egy bajnokira. És hát látjuk, hogy ez az új világ is lassan félmúlt, a szuperligák kora jön, az üzlet dübörög, és hiába kepeszt az UEFA, nem fog tudni gátat szabni a tőkének, legfeljebb majd ők is nagyobb zsebes nadrágot húznak. De nem találtam nyomát Hornby ilyen írásának, talán úgy van vele, hogy azt majd írják meg a közgazdászok.

Being a football (soccer) fanatic myself, and having loved the Colin Firth film, I felt this was a good book for my Book Club Bingo (a sports themed book). If it had been set in more recent years, with people and players I recognized, I think I would have liked it more. It was still relatable to read the author's story of how he came to love Arsenal and how it impacted his life, I just wish I knew who he was talking about most of the time.

“Febre de Bola” é um livro de memórias que se norteia pelos jogos do Arsenal ao longo do tempo, fazendo um paralelo entre os resultados esportivos e os sucessos e fracassos da vida pessoal e profissional do autor; sendo, na verdade, bem mais focado nos jogos e em toda experiência que eles envolvem do que nas memórias em si.

Posto isso, na minha opinião esse livro é indicado somente para amantes do futebol, ou melhor dizendo, é contraindicado para quem não gosta desse esporte. Afinal, tirando as lembranças dos gols, da atmosfera das arquibancadas e das vitórias e derrotas marcantes, o livro tem de fato pouco a oferecer.

Nick Hornby, em seu primeiro livro, já apresenta seu estilo de escrita leve e bem-humorado, mas claramente abaixo do que se verifica em “Alta Fidelidade”, já que em algumas oportunidades o autor perde a chance de uma análise mais bem-humorada ou sarcástica. Por outro lado, tive o bônus dele evocar minha memória afetiva de muitos momentos similares que passei como torcedor.

Essa identificação é o fio condutor fundamental para conseguir curtir as quase 250 páginas que, de certa medida, mostram-se repetitivas na descrição de lances dos jogos e, na maioria das vezes, fracassos do Arsenal.

Decepcionou...

“But when there is some kind of triumph, the pleasure does not radiate from the players outwards until it reaches the likes of us at the back of the terraces in a pale and diminished form; our fun is not a watery version of the team's fun, even though they are the ones that get to score the goals and climb the steps at Wembley to meet Princess Diana. The joy we feel on occasions like this is not a celebration of others' good fortune, but a celebration of our own; and when there is a disastrous defeat the sorrow that engulfs us is, in effect, self-pity, and anyone who wishes to understand how football is consumed must realise this above all things. The players are merely our representatives, chosen by the manager rather than elected by us, but our representatives nonetheless. […] I am a part of the club, just as the club is a part of me; and I say this fully aware that the club exploits me, disregards my views, and treats me shoddily on occasions, so my feeling of organic connection is not built on a muddle-headed and sentimental misunderstanding of how professional football works. This Wembley win belonged to me every bit as much as it belonged to Charlie Nicholas or George Graham (does Nicholas, who was dropped by Graham right at the start of the following season, and then sold, remember the afternoon as fondly?), and I worked every bit as hard for it as they did. The only difference between me and them is that I have put in more hours, more years, more decades than them, and so had a better understanding of the afternoon, a sweeter appreciation of why the sun still shines when I remember it.” p. 178-179