I read today an interesting article in the Financial Times on the portrayal of sport in fiction. The main argument of the piece is that American authors have never been afraid to tackle the subject and have covered sport extensively, and well. Meanwhile, British authors have been far less inclined to cover sport in fiction, and have been far less convincing when they’ve tried. Reading this piece alongside an article from the Observer covering similar ground a couple of years ago, has left me wondering about sport in fiction, and how sport could work in British fiction.

I think the FT article covers the whys and wherefores far better than I ever could, but there does seem to be an explanation in the make-up of your archetypal American and British writers. Obviously we’re veering into a whole world of horrible stereotyping, but many American writers seem far more interested in physicality generally and writing appears to have the potential to be a rugged pursuit – maybe Hemingway’s legacy, maybe something older and deeper. It doesn’t seem so weird for an American author to like sport. And sportswriting on the whole seems more respected and something of a craft, and is generally better than what you’ll see in the UK (although there are plenty of exceptions).

British writers (especially of the literary variety), meanwhile, seem much more removed from sport. Perhaps it has its roots in class, maybe something else, but the literary and sporting worlds seem very far apart. There almost seems to be a distrust between the two.

Yet I still hope there is room for an English sporting literature. Sport is pretty much one big analogy for life and life’s struggles, and American literature has shown it is a pretty broad and reliable canvas for covering the big issues and themes that great literature should. And perhaps that is the key to success – the fiction can’t just rely entirely on telling the story of sporting events. On any given day the reality will outstrip the fiction on that front. The fiction needs to use the sporting theme in a more nuanced way. It can’t be all cup finals and gold medals. It needs to tinker around the edges, tease out those details that will make a meaningful book.

I think there is one major issue, beyond the literary establishment appearing not to have much appetite for sport. It is that the obvious sports to cover, football or cricket, whilst ingrained into our culture and microcosms (for want of a better word etc) of that culture, are team sports and so pretty difficult to write well about. There are too many characters, too many teams. Plus, with football the action is too frenetic. Cricket, as a pretty close cousin to the more literarily inclined baseball, has more of a chance, but there is a real risk of a writer falling into village green clichés.

I’m no fan of golf, but as a more solitary pursuit it seems a more likely candidate for producing a great English sporting book. All those long walks ruined would allow plenty of opportunity for soliloquies on whatever the author might fancy. Tennis or boxing as individual sports could work well too, as we’ve seen time and again in American writing.

Maybe a lead needs to be taken from the few successes of British sporting writing. The Damned United fused real people with fiction, and focused on one dominant character in a compelling way. Fever Pitch looked at sport from the spectator’s perspective. The individual within sport seems the more obvious path to success, both critical and commercial.

Or perhaps as sport is such a neglected subject in English literature it offers authors the opportunity to tackle the subject in a far more inventive and experimental way. As there is not the baggage of thousands of great sporting novels to live up (or down) to, it feels like there is a certain freedom on how to approach the subject in a way that would challenge yet connect with a readership.

If a writer could successfully articulate the frenzy of the football pitch or the rugby field, or the tribalism and belonging of fandom, or the media saturation and hype that surrounds us, or ideally all of those themes, they would probably have something pretty special in their hands. Sport is an important part of my life, and I think like many people, I like literature that reflects my life and expands upon it, showing me new avenues, or familiar ones in a new way. I hope something interesting on the British sporting experience emerges soon. I’d buy it.

Image from Galt Museum and Archives, via Flickr

“There’s still nothing better than seeing Major League Baseball games in person – even if those games are of a sub-.500 team with failed postseason expectations. Baseball really is that good, and we’re lucky to have such a fun, talented and likable squad so close and so affordable. It’s worth remembering every now and then, and this weekend did a great job of reminding me of it.”

Unfortunately, living in England, I can’t actually get to see any Major League Baseball. And being a busy bee, I can’t get to as much live sport as I’d like, or have managed in the past.

Still, there is something very special about going to a game, in any sport, at any level. I enjoy a day out watching non-league football just as much as a day at Wembley, just for different reasons. I went to the cricket this summer for a County Championship game and had a wonderful time, and could probably find just as much to enjoy from a simple village green game as I would a Test Match.

So, sport is fun to watch, even if your team isn’t a massive success. Nobody wants to see their team lose, of course. Even so, the experience, and for some the ritual, of going to the game, is almost enough.

For most of us, the main emotion we experience as a follower of sport is disappointment. Our team can’t win every challenge, every tackle, every point, every game or every championship. But still we return, time and again, year on year.

We accept that we can’t win all the time. And there is a particular dignity in those fans that see less wins than most. It’s not that they don’t care about winning. Far, far from it. It’s just that their support is ultimately unconditional. No glory hunting here. They may scream for change (of tactics, playing staff, coaching staff, owners), but the team will always be their team. And hope springs eternal, just wait until next year…

There is more than the result to keep a supporter hooked. There’s the socialising, the community, the peripheral elements to the main event. I live near Charlton Athletic, and can see the supporters gathering in the cafés before the game, the pubs after. The sense of community, lost in so many other walks of life, is palpable.

Plenty of people seem to go to the cricket for a doze, a read of the paper and a chat. Good on them.

When I caught the baseball, on a trip to New York, the pretzels and beer (and unexpected high-fives from fans nearby) was as much fun as the game itself.

Even armchair supporters enjoy more than just the game itself. It might be that well-earned can of beer or slice of pizza accompanying it. Or the friend who pops round to watch too. The chance for some ‘time out’ from the real world. If the fan is really tech-savvy, they might enjoy the chance to connect with others via twitter, blogging or whatever else.

There’ll be times when they will swear and throw something at the television because the game isn’t going their way. But there will also be the times when they’ll catch a game, just because it’s on, and be more than happy.

While the recent sporting scandals in rugby union, Formula 1 and elsewhere suggest that sportsmen and women are increasingly looking to win at all costs, that isn’t the case for supporters. There is more to the enjoyment of sport than just the contest, or the result of that contest, itself. There’s meaning in sport beyond the score.

Maybe while those directly involved (the players, coaches, owners etc) see sport as a business first and foremost, it’s still a game for the fans.