The euphoric pleasures of movies and football

I grew up an incredibly anxious child, horribly shy and unable to make many friends beyond my small, established group. I’ve always watched movies but wasn’t overly invested from a young age. Also, I used to vehemently express my distaste for football. This all changed when my father bought us both season tickets for Brighton & Hove Albion when I was 11. I didn’t much like change or large crowds and, initially, was anxious at the idea of going.

And yet, I’ll never forget that game, not just because we conceded a heartbreaking 90^th minute equaliser to draw 2 – 2 against Blackpool but because I was immediately, hopelessly hooked. For two hours I experienced a rollercoaster of emotions. While a football match is stressful, it’s also a joyous echo chamber of people that all want the same end result — a win. I was forever changed and 15 years later, at 26, I still have my season ticket.

My dad and I had a complicated relationship when I was growing up and fought a lot, but this was the turning point. It became a way of expressing emotion without having to say anything. When Brighton score a goal it’s one of the few times I hug him as we both jump up and down like idiots. I find family intimacy challenging and the euphoria of a stadium is always able to dissolve any invisible barriers my mind may build.

Movies are another important part of my life, and deliver a hit which is both different and similar. The importance of cinema was more of a gradual realisation. I fell in love with the form that was less immediate than football, as my tastes and knowledge expanded. I have learnt to appreciate certain techniques and directorial choices so much more now and I feel able to judge films on a wide variety of merits other than pure entertainment. But because every film is different in a more complex way to every football match, this process took more time.

Every film I see at the cinema makes me feel better – even the terrible ones. I used to think the cinema was a collective experience in my youth, and that going alone was almost an admission of loneliness. Now I actively prefer the solitude and not having to worry about whether the person I’m with is enjoying it. In a way you’re never really alone in a cinema anyway, with that strange physical and emotional proximity to strangers who you will never speak to or see again. The sweet spot of a few people dotted around or in special cases an entirely packed cinema gives me hope and joy – a shared experience without words.

I remember seeing Lee Chang-Dong’s Burning, an adaptation of a Haruki Murakami short story alone at the BFI Southbank and feeling mesmerised at the tiny ​“Studio” screen. While challengingly paced the film drifts like smoke to an inconclusive ending that stirred my soul. I was still adjusting to University and London at the time but there I felt cryogenically frozen in a state of joy. This is the exact same way I feel when Brighton win a match.