Stretching the Symbolic Meaning of “Game” to Shameless, Meaningless Depths

I wish I could come up with more meaningful relationships between soccer and politics, or art, or education, or Urban Architecture. But the most revealing connections I come up with usually have something to do with “knocking the boots.”

Introducing the “Symbolic Player’s Attacking Technique” game, or SPAT. This game was conceived by single males, for single males – to feed their depraved imaginations and inflated egos, and to add another use to their already edifying knowledge of sports.

The game relies on a simple idea: every man’s (or woman’s, I guess) “pick-up game,” or seduction skill for the layman, has a symbolic counterpart in the skills of a professional footballer. For example, a dude who makes up for lacking physical attributes with boorish hard work, persistence, and an instinct for the goal would be a “Wayne Rooney.” This “player” wouldn’t look like much of a lady-killer, but he has a fearsome sexual drive, and somehow pulls a lot of snatch.

People have probably exercised analogies like this for ages in off-hand conversation, with every sport. “Game” has long symbolized “game.” But I’ve always thought such analogies work best for soccer. And I wonder if anyone has fleshed it out as thoroughly as I, and some of my twisted and nerdy and hopeless friends, have.

The more rich, weird, or charged the symbolic connection, the better your SPAT. The nature of the symbolism is up to you, or the creators of your SPAT. But it helps to verse yourself in some of the theoretical vocabulary you can use to play (see below).

Rules of the Game

There aren’t really any rules, or any definite ones. The theory is out there to be explored and pushed, kind of like the actual Game Theory.

You should look for realistic likenesses. Most of us aren’t world-class strikers, as much as we pretend to be. We’re more in the Darius Vassell category – some potential, lots of frustration and missed opportunities.

Your SPAT can change, like your “pick-up game” can change. You might go through dry spells, rough patches, and hot streaks. You might get hurt or retire. You might improve or slouch enough to warrant a new symbol. But beware; when you do decide on a new SPAT, you should prepare to suffer the ups and downs, the glories and the frustrations, of this player.

“Remember,” my old roommate Robyn told me a few days ago. “I was Dean Ashton a few years ago – good with my head but overall not the most talented … Well Ashton has a long term injury. And man, I’ve let myself go a little, and I think I’m suffering the same fate.”

I don’t recommend taking your SPAT too seriously. But it can happen, understandably, if you find a really apt one. I have hope for Robyn. I’ve always thought he was more of a James Beattie, cocksure and unpredictable, who is starting to light it up right now…

Theoretical Terminology

First Touch – First touch refers to an understated first impression. A good first touch could come from a witty charm, a dignified appearance, or a glint in your eyes that melts the armor of unsuspecting suitors. A bad first touch means you have a rapists’ glaze over your eyes, you’re drooling, and you just spilled your drink. Archetypes: Deco, Frank Lampard, Pirlo, David Beckham. Opposites: Bouba Diop, Frankie Hejduk, the LA Galaxy.

Cherry Pickers/Garbage Men –These are your ass-hole friends who hit the weight room, slather their hair with gel, pop their collars, and step on their own friends for a lay. These are generally “bros” who will screw anything that resembles the human form, and aren’t above scooping up the drunkest, most disheveled prey out of pools of their own vomit. Archetypes: Van Nistelrooy, Berbatov, Luka Toni. Opposites: Arsenal, Rooney, Craig Bellamy.

Pace – I’m still not sure what “pace” means in the barroom arena. It could symbolize the unteachable, god-given gift of good looks. A player’s speed, however, doesn’t necessarily make them a good finisher. Despite all their athleticism, they can inexplicably miss open chances. Archetypes: Defoe, Jermaine Pennant, Sean Wright Phillips, Agbonlahor. Opposites: Mark Viduka, Adriano, Peter Crouch.

Technical Ability – This means you have good form, a measured elegance that comes with so much practice and precision that it appears second nature. This lot are typically well-dressed, stylish, well-kempt, and loaded. Possibilities: Shevchenko, Lampard, Ballack, the England National team. Opposites: Eddie Johnson, Puyol, Ricky Sproule.

Guile – Equivalent to the gift of gab. Guys who have it can make up for deficiencies in other departments through cunning and/or hilarity. They can talk their way out of a third world prison or into normally expensive and illusive panties. Archetypes: Italian National Team, Giggs, Riquelme, Viduka. Opposites: Hamman, the German National Team.

Snipers / Lethal Strikers – These players have an innate sense for goal. They have natural talent, or they wouldn’t be so successful. They’re good and they know it, but they’re not necessarily cocky. In fact, they don’t even try. This rare breed usually falls ass-backwards into pussy. They might spend all day taking bong rips and playing Halo, but if you give them a promising glimpse of the opposite sex they come alive just enough to “seal the deal,” clinically. Possibilities: Schevchenko, Torres, Del Pierro, Roque Santa Cruz, Teddy Sheringham. Opposites: Darius Vassell.

Set-Up Men – Good “wing men,” which is self-explanatory. Good set-up men also tend to control the pace of the game, to see the field and the best options available, even if they’re not going to take them. I’m not really sure what this means. Archetypes: Fabregas, Hleb, Gerrard, Riquelme, Schelotto, Arteta. Opposites: Drogba, Anelka, Arsenal minus Fabregas and Hleb.

Flair – Good dancers. Goddamn them. Archetypes: Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, Rubinho, South Americans. Opposites: The US National team, Steven Gerrard, David Beckham.

Although you might wish you were Ashley Cole, you wouldn't really want to have Ashley Cole as your SPAT. Take that Ashley.

Good In The Air – One theory circulating is that “good in the air” describes someone whose instinct kills. They work well under pressure, in changing and turbulent circumstances, and without much of a game plan. But I find this idea too vague. Since the nature of the whole SPAT theory revolves around goals, I have always thought of someone who is “good in the air” as a character who needs the right circumstance to score. They might not venture forward often, or take many risks, but when they do they are vicious, and hard to mark. This type often has girlfriends, and probably won’t be single for very long. They’re usually scrappy and smart. Archetypes: Often defenders, John Terry, Vidic, Sammy Hypia, James Beatie, Brian McBride. Opposites: Thierry Henry, Argentina National Team, Joe Cole.

Set Piece Specialist – Thrives on the kind of scenario that you can prepare for but still have to execute clinically to capitalize on. Robyn says, “Set Piece kings prey on emotional drunk chicks.” I think this symbolism works pretty well. You can count on emotional drunks to provide promising, or dangerous (depending on your perspective) scenarios. Archetypes: Nakamura, Riquelme, Juninho, Arteta. Opposites: If you aren’t good at set pieces, you probably shouldn’t be taking them.

This is just the tip of the ice burg. Much more terminology exists, or has yet to uncovered. Does anyone have any other suggestions? Tackle? Penalty Shot? Long ball? Diver?

Origins

The roots of this game began a few years ago in Edinburgh, when one of my roommates’ friends, who we’ll call Karl to preserve his pride, came to visit from South Africa. This young man was a virgin at the time, for some of the same reasons we were all once virgins – self-respect, circumstance, and fear.

But this trip, he somehow decided, marked his time, while he was still young and in a foreign country swimming in slags and alcohol. Every night, no matter who had to work the next day, he pestered all of us in the flat to go out, to see what we could pick up.

One weeknight I abided. Fueled by beers and Karl’s starry-eyed excitement to deposit his V-Card, I took Karl to a nightclub known for its rave scene and carnivorous women. Somehow, without even speaking to them, we ended up stumbling back with two chicks to their flat. Side note: I highly suggest that struggling single men try going to rave clubs mid-week. It’s like shooting a penalty kick against a cross-eyed keeper with his shoelaces tied together.

Not to toot my own horn, but the girl I ended up with was pretty good looking. Even in the harsh kitchen light of her apartment she looked like Scarlett Johansson – without breasts and with layers of makeup hiding some acne. Same eyes though. Karl’s girl, on the other hand, was, to put it bluntly, an Orca Whale.

As the night wore on Karl got more and more stuck in with this girl (I think he might have been sitting in her lap at some point) while I, in typical fashion, blew a promising opportunity. That I took one of the raunchiest dumps of my life at about 5 a.m. in their apartment probably didn’t help my chances. Eventually she told me to go home. I left early in the morning, defeated, to take a shower and get ready for work. Karl slept there.

That day Karl returned to the flat, where Tom, Robyn, and I were eating lunch. He beamed, “I’m clinical.”

“What happened?” Everyone wanted to know.

“I’m like fucking Van Nistelroy, man. Clinical. Bang!”

“What happened?”

Instead of telling us what we wanted to hear, he rubbed my failure in my face.

“You should have seen this guy,” he nodded at me. “Open goal. And he choaked. Ha!”

“Woah, Karl,” I said. “Don’t forget who took you to the club, most likely picked up the chicks, and set it up for you on a silver platter.”

“Whatever man. You should have seen his girl. She was disgusting. She had this disgusting face, and the most disgusting toes I’ve ever seen.”

I’m not sure if foot fetishes are rampant in South Africa, but for some reason every South African I know looks at a women’s toes before many other seemingly relevant features.

“She wasn’t that bad,” I said.

“She was disgusting. She had these green and yellow toenails. Probably some kind of fungus…”

“Watch yourself Karl. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so cocky after one lay.”

I didn’t have the heart, or the jealousy, to tear apart Karl’s depiction of the night. I was proud of him. I wanted to give him his moment, wait until it sank in to reveal that this girl weighed at least twice what he did.

“I don’t think you can call yourself Van Nistelroy after one lay,” Robyn said. “Maybe you’re more like Theo Walcott. Just starting your career.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You have unlimited potential.”

“Potential?” Karl said. “Fuck that. I’m already clinical.” He wore a smug smile that he didn’t wipe off for a week.

This was a classic case of the sort of big-headedness that can either skyrocket a player’s career or set them up for a crushing awakening when they realize the true extent of their talent

I wonder how Karl’s doing cause Van Nistelroy’s career is probably over.

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