MOMENT OF SILENCE? | March 10th 2008

Seeding-Chaos/Flickr

Fifty years after the Munich air disaster, which killed eight Manchester United players, Nick Michlewicz craves a moment of silence. But European football fans are nearly incapable of solemn tributes. Not when there's a match to win......

Take a moment to imagine a horrific disaster in the world of American sport. First choose one of America's hallowed teams--the Yankees, Red Sox, Lakers, Spurs, Colts or Patriots, say--and all the heroes and superstars they boast. Then picture turning on ESPN one evening to find out that they have all perished in a plane crash. Now imagine watching a game years down the road--one, five, ten, maybe 50--when that reconstructed team attempts to pay tribute to its fallen heroes with a moment of silence. And all you can think about is whether or not the rival fans will boo and mock the dead.

Despicable? Inconceivable? Unquestionably so to some, for it would never happen at an American sporting event. But it would in English football, where the day when league and club authorities no longer fear such a display may be the truly ludicrous thought experiment.

The looming possibility of the above scenario dominated the English football press for much of January. This was because February 6^th would mark the 50^th anniversary of the Munich air disaster, when a horrible takeoff crash ultimately killed eight Manchester United first-team players--the famous Busby Babes, whose average age was 24--and 15 other personnel.

Commemorating a group of athletes whose lives were extinguished young is inflammatory in the world of English and European sport. It rakes up the social, political and economic forces that contribute to a culture of fandom steeped in extremes of glory and violence, love of club and hatred of everybody else. The Munich crash has been interpreted in the complicated contexts of rooting for or against Manchester United in the half-century since. An event that was simply awful in real time has become a flashpoint, and never more so than in the weeks before this anniversary.

Due to the vagaries of automated scheduling and unavoidable league breaks for international matches, England was scheduled this year to play Switzerland on February 6th in an international friendly, and then a caustic Manchester derby in Premiership action on February 10th. As officials wondered when to plan a tribute (four of the Manchester United players had been English nationals), fans grew nervous, particularly as the team would be playing Manchester City, its traditional crosstown rivals, on the closest match-day to the anniversary.

Such concern was well-founded, as homages traditionally provoke caustic chants from rival fans. They wave their arms to mimic airplanes in a mindless but coordinated propeller death dance.

The FA (English Football Association) and Manchester United decided to plan two separate minutes of silence--one for each match. At Wembley Stadium, the site of the England-Switzerland match, the tribute lasted for 27 seconds. More than 86,000 fans, myself included, stood in solemn silence, but a loutish few began to ruin it. Some whistled, others yelled, and a handful of self-appointed drunken enforcers loudly cursed at the disrupters, adding to the scattered cacophony. Though the mood in the stadium was mostly solemn, the FA cut the minute off early, for fear that the outbursts would grow worse.

When the referee blew his whistle, my immediate reaction was one that many around me shared: "It could have been worse." The abbreviated tribute didn't seem so bad, particularly to someone who has been studying football fan behaviour for months. But then I considered just how skewed my expectations have become, and how outraged I might have been if that had just happened at an American baseball game. Although there were no human airplanes or disturbing chants, the tribute still failed in its purpose: to offer time to reflect on the random horror of 23 deaths on an icy Munich runway. Indeed, most of us spent those 27 seconds wondering just when a noisy outburst would end them. Those 27 seconds were a verdict on English fan culture rather than a tribute to dead men.

Football's global appeal and natural "us" v "them" factionalism has always lent itself to fan divisions along lines of tribe, nation, politics, religion, class, race, ethnicity, and any other distinction we can dream up. The most hardcore fans consider themselves to be the 12th man on the field--a catalytic force propelling the team to victory, based on how they cheer and perform against rivals. This devoted sense of duty among fans is responsible for some of the most glorious and magical characteristics of attending a football match. But it also turns many into ferocious zealots.

In the 1985 European Cup Final at Heysel Stadium, Liverpool's fans attacked the Juventus section in a dilapidated stadium, eventually causing the collapse of a retaining wall that sent 39 fans--38 of them Italian--to their deaths. Mockery of that disaster immediately entered the English and Italian lexicons. It gave rise to thousands of "Murderers" songs from Manchester United and Everton fans, while provoking "ultra" groups across Italy to sing Liverpool's fan songs whenever they faced the hated Juventus.

Juventus fans, however, had for decades chanted about "magical aeroplanes" when playing crosstown rival Torino, whose entire team had been killed in a devastating crash at Superga, Italy in 1949. "You only made history at Superga" is the refrain of the Juventus fans' favourite derby song.

There are too many other examples to recount, making it easier to understand why an ineffective 27 seconds of silence on February 6th could be considered not so bad.

Quite remarkably, the minute of silence at the subsequent Manchester derby on February 10th put everything in perspective. Perhaps it was because of the widespread coverage of the marred England-Switzerland minute, or maybe it was a result of the intense official scrutiny (and threat of being banned as a spectator). Whatever the reason, Manchester City's 3,000 fans stayed silent and the tribute succeeded. I could only watch on a pub television, with fingers crossed, but was thrilled at the hush that descended over the packed bar as glasses barely clinked and a full minute passed. Everybody was watching the silent stadium, in which old men had the chance to pay homage to their childhood heroes.

The silence gave me hope that the right combination of security and fan education could help limit what has been a constant blight on "the beautiful game." Two hours after the Manchester derby, feeling surprisingly optimistic about my fellow man, I went to Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea play visiting Liverpool in a highly anticipated match. The Chelsea fans chants of "Murderers, Murderers" reached my ears before I even got to my seat, and I discovered that despite my good mood, I was not at all surprised.

(Nick Michlewicz is a 2007-2008 Watson fellow currently studying global football fan violence and culture.)