Unconscious bias? Watching sport with my Dad

My dad didn’t care who won. “I just want to see a good game.” France were playing Germany in what would turn in to an iconic world cup semi final, a 3-3 draw and the inevitable German victory on penalties. Yes, that game, with the Schumacher assault on Battiston that is still talked about today.

I did care. I wanted France to win, or more precisely I wanted Germany to lose. German teams of that era were annoying, they seemed to master the art of getting through to finals and semi finals without playing particularly well, they didn’t provide the thrills of a Brazil, Argentina or indeed France team. This French team had grown in to the tournament after losing their first game 3-1 to England, they were great to watch and I suspect most neutrals favoured them. But not the ‘neutral’ who was watching with me.

My Dad had this way of watching sport that was a heady mix of hilarious, combustible and infuriating. I owe my love of Liverpool FC to him, he took me to games at Anfield and actively encouraged my support – like many Irishmen, he had a liking for the city. But being a contrary soul, he then took it upon himself to be anti-Liverpool when we watched them, calling every decision – sometimes laughably – against them and telling me repeatedly “You’re biazed” – his bizarre pronunciation of the word ‘biased’ only adding to my irritation. He just wanted to see a good game; he wanted Liverpool to win, of course he did, but you had to ‘see both sides’. If people think Martin Tyler is biased against Liverpool, they should have sat through 90 minutes with one of their alleged fans.

So as with Liverpool, he just wanted to see a good game between France and Germany. I had nailed my ‘biazed’ colours to the mast, he was ‘objective’. He proceeded to call every refereeing decision – including the astonishing near murder of Patrick Battiston by the German goalkeeper – in favour of the Germans. “He went for the ball, he can’t help what happened” was his astonishing verdict. The unanimity that Schumacher should have been sent off? Everyone else was biazed.

The game was an absolute thriller, especially during extra time, with the exciting French side twice going ahead, only for Germany to equalise each time. It was the second equaliser that saw the neutral, objective fella I was watching with leap to his feet beaming, hands outstretched in what he tried to turn into a kind of shrug. “I like it! It’s good football!” he practically yelled. Schumacher saved two penalties in a shoot out he should have been watching from the side of the pitch, I moaned. “Cat arse! ” was his inexplicable reply.

I don’t know if he was aware of his own ‘biaz’ or not – I mean, on some level he must have been. But his generous neutrality was not confined to football. Rugby union was a far bigger passion – like most fans of that peculiar sport, he tended to denigrate ‘soccer’ as a strange way of elevating it. When we were young, my sisters and I had our own sport: watching Dad watching the rugby. He’d go out and have a few pints before an Ireland game and then come back and literally bellow at the telly for the entire match. There were times he’d run over as if he was going to climb inside it to remonstrate with the ref. They were all disgracefully biazed against Ireland. As the only Irishman on his fire service watch, I think there was a fair bit of ribbing when Ireland lost, especially to England – and that I suspect only added to his angst about the results.

In common with many of his countrymen, his desire to see England come a cropper, whoever they were playing at whatever game, was huge. If England were involved, he didn’t even adopt his fake neutrality. He developed a real interest in cricket, especially Test cricket, which he essentially watched avidly in the (oft-fulfilled) hope that England would lose. By the end of a series, he’d adopted the players of Pakistan, Australia, West Indies or whoever completely, they became his team for the summer. He’d tend to lose interest in a Test if England got on top, only to regain it if they went through one of their frequent collapses. I remember one Test match, it may have been against Pakistan, when Bob Willis and Bob Taylor – a bowler and wicket keeper – put together a huge last wicket partnership to get England out of trouble. My Dad had gone out with one wicket remaining and he came back in asking “how are the England bowlers doing then?” When I said Willis in particular was batting very well and that he and Taylor had somehow changed the game in England’s favour, his face turned to stone. “This,” he said very forcefully, “is when it gets boring.”

I don’t think my Dad’s terrible luck in referees and officials always being against the team he wanted to win is actually that unusual: many sports fans watch their games in a blatantly one-eyed manner. None of them think they are biased either. But the “I just want to see a good game” mantra, the deliberate devil’s advocating against his own football team, the almost comedic fury when things didn’t go his way…all of these made watching sport with my father a unique experience. He was in many ways a unique man, sport was only one of the areas where his many foibles came out. He died in 1992 and I still miss him; I will probably write more about him.

Anyway, here’s a thing. I’m generally reckoned to be a pretty laid back individual – indeed, ‘calm’ is one of the adjectives I frequently attract and people have sometimes mistaken my agreeability for diffidence. But if you watch a Liverpool match with me – as my wife and daughter will testify – all of that goes out the window (maybe along with the tv). Hilarious, combustible, infuriating? They might suggest that the apple doesn’t fall that far from the tree. But then, they’re biazed.