MATCH: FEUILLETON
Match. A wonderful opportunity to compete with one’s friends and brothers in an
honourable ritual of sport. A short and thin piece of wood with one end coated in a mixture
of sulphur, potassium chlorate and other chemicals, used in the process of starting a fire. A
single word written in a fancy font, announcing the point of culmination following hours
of desperate swiping left and right in the Tinder app, accompanied with the photo of the
other lonely individual seeking understanding in the world of online dating. Indeed, there
are quite a few meanings to this single word, but interestingly enough they all seem to
represent an important, enjoyable and I even dare to say turning point in one’s life. And yet
this is just an illusion, pure pretence trying to cover up the intrinsic guile and wickedness
of all the possible matches, all the traps and tricks they have ready for you in life. Since
there is one thing that all the different ‘matches’ have in common: they are approached
with expectation, only to be, as if by some law, turned into a disappointment.
Sports make you healthy, they say. Since the Ancient Greeks and before, maybe even while
hunting a mammoth in front of their caves, people have been obsessed with competition,
with comparing strength in different matches. The Olympics were an event of religion, place
of worship of human capabilities, physical power and beauty. But let us be honest with
ourselves – was there really anything aesthetic about naked athletes covered in olive oil,
sweat and blood, lying in dust and sand while being beaten by the one angry dull macho?
At the end of the day, despite what you might say, it is the pain of the loss, disappointment
and despair, which you remember. Similarly, fire is a good servant, but a bad master: tell me,
how many times have you lit the fire with your matches? And yet the only strong memory
you have is when you lit that candle on the Christmas tree, and something, just for a while,
went wrong, and then there was nothing but the lovely smell of burning wood… And lastly,
do you remember the match you got on your online dating site? The pretty girl that you
chatting with for weeks, the one that understood all your problems so well… and also the
one that turned into the fifty-year-old man when you discovered it was nothing but a fake.
Once again, the expectations preceding the match were cooled down by the cruel reality.
Oh no you victors of all the quizzes and sport fixtures, pyromaniacs and arsonists, internet
lovers and breakers of women’s hearts: go, take your matches and all the greatness and
beauty you see in them. We, the good old losers, are in the majority, and we will be happy
enough without them, satisfied with the bits of disillusions that they leave behind.
3