Pray 4 Muamba, but less of the fake tears

By Richard Littlejohn
19 March 2012

All eyes were on Gareth Bale, galloping down the left wing. It wasn’t until the ball went out of play that we spotted Luka Modric signalling frantically to the bench and a Bolton player prostrate on the turf.

What happened? Was there a clash of heads? No one around me in the West Stand at White Hart Lane was sure. We’d all been concentrating on the action.

Pretty soon it became obvious that there was something seriously wrong. We are used to cynical footballers feigning injury by rolling around theatrically, clutching their heads. But the figure on the ground wasn’t moving.

As the medical teams rushed on to the pitch, the anguished reaction of the other players told us that the man down wasn’t faking it. The deployment of a defibrilator confirmed this was a life-threatening incident.

Around the stadium, 35,000 supporters fell into an eerie silence, still unsure of what had occurred. Most of us weren’t even certain who was receiving treatment. It was only when the Bolton fans started to chant ‘Fabrice Muamba’ that we were able to put a name to him.

People were visibly distressed. A man sitting a few rows in front of me got to his feet and implored, from the best of motives: ‘Just get him to hospital.’ My friend Beryl was not the only one on the verge of tears.

Yet from behind came a voice we recognised only too well. It belonged to the Upper West Stand’s resident gobby imbecile, the bane of our lives, a man whose love of the sound of his own voice is exceeded only by his unparalleled ignorance.

In this oaf’s expert opinion, Bale, coveted by every major team in Europe, is ‘pathetic’. Modric, conservatively valued at £40 million, is an ‘absolute disgrace’. And Harry Redknapp, who has taken Tottenham from the foot of the table to the Champions League, doesn’t know what he is doing.

I’ve no idea who he is, but he looks and sounds like Harry Enfield’s tiresome, know-it-all creation, Mr You Don’t Want To Do It Like That.

On Saturday evening, he surpassed even his own subterranean standard of stupidity. As the stadium held its breath while Muamba was being given emergency CPR, he announced loudly: ‘If he’s brown bread, they’ll call the game off.’

A young man was fighting for his life in front of our eyes and all this moron could care about was whether a game of football would continue.

It’s a remark that should lead to him being banned from White Hart Lane for life. Crass doesn’t even begin to do it justice. I’m astonished someone didn’t deck him.

We left the ground immediately, all appetite for football extinguished, hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

Most of us knew little about Fabrice Muamba until now. He is, by all accounts, an admirable young man who has fashioned a promising career from a life founded in adversity. We wish fervently that he makes a full recovery.

This tragic incident has brought out the best in people, from the instinctive humanity of a hostile home crowd to the heroic intervention of the cardiologist who climbed from his seat in the stand and helped keep Muamba alive.

But while it is understandable that others want to offer their support and good wishes to Muamba’s family and friends, it has also triggered another maudlin display of vicarious grief from the ‘football family’.

As I have observed before, professional football has a sentimental streak the width of Wembley Stadium. On Sunday, Manchester United and Wolves staged a pre-match display of synchronised applause for Muamba, despite the fact he isn’t dead.

Real Madrid wore ‘get well soon’ messages on their shirts, even though I doubt few of the players have ever heard of Muamba. The English disease has gone global.

At Stamford Bridge, the Chelsea defender, Gary Cahill, a former Bolton team-mate, ‘dedicated’ his goal to Muamba and unveiled a T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Pray 4 Muamba’ for the benefit of the TV cameras.

He couldn’t even be bothered to spell out the word ‘for’.

There is a fine line between a tasteful show of solidarity and exhibitionism. And in this case, football yet again trampled across it.

Of course, football doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It reflects the values of our modern society, particularly when it comes to wallowing in the kind of self-indulgent weeping and wailing that first manifested itself over the death of Lady Di and reached its gruesome nadir with the demise of Michael Jackson.

For instance, the death of Wales manager Gary Speed, who hanged himself, was a tragedy for his family and friends. But the aftermath was a carefully choreographed travelling circus of remembrance, which made its way around the grounds of every club he’d ever played for. It went on for weeks.

We live in an increasingly godless society, where Christians are marginalised, sacked and even prosecuted for upholding their beliefs, yet we are urged to ‘Pray 4 Muamba’.

With a dwindling number of people attending church, millions have taken to worshipping footballers and celebrities instead.

In the words of G. K. Chesterton: ‘When people stop believing in God, they don’t believe in nothing — they believe in anything.’

Look, I enjoy football, but I sometimes despair at its overbearing presence in our popular culture.

Sky News even interrupted live coverage of a speech by the Prime Minister yesterday to bring us the latest bulletin from the hospital, even though there was no change in Muamba’s critical condition.

No doubt some will accuse me of being callous. So let me repeat: I found the collapse of Muamba as distressing as everyone else and hope sincerely that he fully recovers.

It’s just that I deplore public displays of vicarious grief and the tendency of so many people to seize on any tragedy and make it all about them.

On Saturday night, the collapse of Muamba put the fate of a mere football match into stark perspective. It’s a pity that perspective is lost on certain members of the ‘football family’.