Wear maroon. And a cowboy hat.
“Oh Tindastóllllll,” my Ghanaian-American friend and I sang along with the supporters of the Tindastóll basketball team as we stood, cramped and stooped over to avoid the beams in the last row of the bleachers in the absolutely chock-full Stjarnan basketball auditorium.
It was game three of the semi-final series between Tindastóll and Stjarnan this last spring. Our mutual friend, who grew up in Sauðárkrókur, had invited us to come along with him. In a baffling and brief message before the game he wrote:
“If you have a cowboy hat, bring one.” I didn’t have one.
The only Icelandic husband in our group, connected by our wives who went to menntaskóli together, he has often acted as our guide into life as a modern Icelandic man.
A huge TV broadcasting truck was outside of the stadium as we parked on the side of the road and joined the stream of people massing towards the game. My friend brought me a maroon Tindastóll t-shirt and cap to put on. I wondered if it fooled anyone. Would they not wonder why this Korean-American man donned the apparel in support of a basketball team for a town in northern Iceland of less than 3,000 people? If anyone noticed or cared, they were too busy getting last-minute hamburgers or beers to show it.
I was glad that he had spotted three free seats in the very top row of the bleachers, as we entered the frenetic and anticipatory gym. I could watch others without necessarily being seen and observed. However, we were also behind the singing section, with the most vocal supporters leading chants while their drummer pounded away.
As is usual for many people of colour, I scanned the entire place for others like me. I counted three. Besides the players, I mean. And usually, that intimidates and worries me. But here, it was simpler. While I often struggle to understand how to be a part of a group, the rules were very clear at this basketball game.
In order to belong, wear maroon. Wear a cowboy hat. Stand and cheer when a team you’d never heard of or cared about before today scores. Boo and jeer when Stjarnan scores. They are now your enemy. Put both arms over your head and groan when your second string center inexplicably continues to shoot three-point shots despite having not made a single one.
Call Stjarnan supporters spoiled. Give them props when you learn that they’ve embraced the stereotype and call themselves the “silver spoons.” Begrudgingly admit that they are, in fact, incredibly good. Chant “meira, meira!” in defiance when the sound board controller turns up the music in the loudspeakers every time the Tindastóll fans begin to sing.
Look on in wonder as you see fights break out between Tindastóll and Stjarnan supporters at halftime as you navigate the crowds of people headed to the bathroom.
Shake your head in mock disgust when Stjarnan wins at the buzzer in overtime. Walk out shocked when you see the coach of Tindastóll and Stjarnan begin to nearly fight at the end of the game, having to be pulled apart by their staff and players. And ruefully smile in a knowing way when you learn later that there was a travel that should have been called in the last shot.
After I got back home as I was recounting the night to my wife with a hoarse voice, I realised that I was no longer pretending to care. I actually cared about the player who had committed a travelling violation and thus won the game illegally for Stjarnan. I actually felt disappointed that “we” had lost. How absurd that I should feel so much sympathy for a team I didn’t know a single thing about just three hours earlier.
The weekend following the game, I was at my school’s árshátið (the annual party for the staff) in a cowboy hat again. The theme for our party was “country western.” This time I had managed to borrow a hat in time. I walked past a group of young-twenties people from another árshátið who were also renting rooms in the same venue, who also, unbelievably, had decided on the theme of “country western.” They were huddled around a phone and grimaced as a group as two points were announced from the phone.
I turned excitedly and asked, “Ert þú að horfa körfubólti?” Are you watching basketball? I knew that game five, the final of the semi-final series, was on at the same time as the party.
“Já!” they replied enthusiastically, though with a touch of confusion at the sight of a middle-aged Korean man in cowboy gear speaking to them in broken Icelandic.
The bravest of them asked, “Hvað ert þú?” What are you? As in, what team do you support? “Ert þú Tindastóll?” Are you a Tindastóll supporter?
“JÁ! Ég er Tindastóll!” I replied back, too loudly. The group responded as one, stepping forward and giving me high-fives before making room in the huddle to give me room to watch the game for a couple minutes. We watched Stjarnan make a couple more baskets before I decided to head back to my party. We high-fived again, and I smiled as I walked away.