AUG 1 — Every time I am asked to take friends out to go shopping during either the summer or winter sales, I cop out by giving the excuse that I hate crowds. I absolutely abhor crowds, I say, and I cite the story of me sitting through three movies — including a Hindi movie which I would never watch even for free — at a cinema while waiting for friends to finish Boxing Day shopping. 

But that excuse doesn’t hold much water with my nearest and dearest these days, because they readily point out that I am more than willing to walk with hundreds of thousands when it comes to watching sports at stadiums and arenas. If I hated crowds so much, they argue, surely I’d just sit at home and watch everything on television. 

They have a point, and to their observation, I stand both accused and guilty. Although I am as yet unsure whether it is shopping I detest more than crowds, or watching sports that I like so much that I’d tolerate putting up with crowds. Ah, the dilemma of competing hypotheses... 

Last winter, while watching my local side Colchester United grind out a messy 2-0 win against local derby rivals Southend United, I stood freezing on the terraces in -2 degrees wondering about both my sanity and the merits of watching games “live”, in person. 

In this day and age, to savour the magic of big games, you no longer need to travel hundreds or thousands of miles. The advent of technology allows almost anything to be broadcast into millions of homes worldwide “live” — or with a five-second lag — for the price of a monthly satellite subscription.

Its economies also now allow more people to enjoy major events in the comfort of their own homes, unlike the days when, as my uncle related to me upon his first visit to Old Trafford with me in 2004, everyone in the kampung crowded around the one house that had a television. 

For me, the appeal in being a “live” spectator lies is the atmosphere. There is a stark difference watching with five people in your living room, vs. with 60 people at a mamak, vs. 50,000 other people at the stadium. There is a festive spirit, tinged with an edge of rivalry. The roar of the crowd deafens you as much as it whips you into a frenzy. So giddy are you with excitement that you barely realise that  the overpriced cheese and onion pasty you bought is at least two days old, or that the Diet Coke is rather flat. 

The sounds aren’t muted for your pleasure; so the idiot who is shirtless in -2 degrees and swearing at the referee does not get censored. When you are there in person, you get to see everything that is going on, rather than just the bits the cameras want you to see. This means that anything off-camera is unfolding right before your eyes, in real time. It is as real as it gets. Of course, the down-side of this is that real life does not have an instant replay camera. Blink, and you’ve missed it. 

Watching the game on satellite TV, of course, wasn’t always an option. While basking in the remnants of the superficial high that the climax of major sporting tournaments give me, I read about a particular World Cup final match that seems to have mythical qualities. And elements of a national heartbreak, if you are Brazilian. 

In 1950, a Brazilian eleven who were expected to saunter home with the Jules Rimet trophy against South American rivals Uruguay committed the unthinkable crime — they lost at the Maracana. (Brazil remains the only World Champions never to have won the Cup on home soil). The country went into a state of mourning befitting the most beloved of leaders, and in Alex Bellos’ Futebol he recounts how the goalkeeper that day, Barbosa, was still reviled 30 years after letting in that goal. Even football-mad England have forgiven (and perhaps forgotten?) David Beckham’s petulant foot flick that had him sent off in 1998. 

Having read so much about it, I wanted visually see the moments when Alcides Ghiggia’s second half goal silenced the Maracana — a feat only achieved by two others: Frank Sinatra and the Pope. I wanted to see the dink in his run, the early shot he took, the devastation on Barbosa’s face and the slumped shoulders of the Brazilian side as they failed to muster enough belief to mount one last challenge, one last attempt at reviving the voices of the fans that deserted them at the moment they needed it most. But the game was played in an era where the world, save a lucky few,  were only tuned in via radio, relying on commentators to paint a visual which danced through their minds. 

YouTube gave me a black and white film reel that does no justice to the gravity or magnanimity of the event. The translation from reel to television speeds up the visuals significantly enough to give me the impression that I was watching a Charlie Chaplin clip as much as I was watching football. This was one of those moments where you just had to be there. 

Which ties in with the other reason why people go to watch “live” games at various venues: the absence of such a telecast. In the UK, no 3pm kick-off games on Saturdays are broadcast “live”, so should you want to catch the game as it were, you have one of three choices: use an overseas satellite dish that telecasts the game (which is illegal), catch it on radio, or turn up at the stadium. 

Of course, these three choices only apply if the game you wanted to watch was actually being picked up by satellite TV providers. My local team, Colchester United, hardly ever feature in a “live” telecast, so if I wanted to watch them play, there is little choice but to take the bus to the Weston Homes Stadium and fork over approximately £20 (RM99) for 90 minutes worth of  “entertainment.” 

But costs can border on the prohibitive. Rising costs of tickets to football games have been an issue in the media for a few years now, mainly a result of clubs taking on debt secured via future gate receipts — when the projected gate receipts fall below expectations, increasing ticket prices are a subtle way to transfer some of the costs of borrowing to fans. Works best when your club is Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea or Manchester United; not quite when it’s Wycome Wanderers or Barnet. 

Is it any wonder that at Colchester United — with ticket prices that range from £19-£27 -- a brand-spanking new stadium that can hold 10,000 spectators only average half that number over a season? High spectating costs isn’t restricted to just football, of course — watching Formula 1 at Silverstone costs you a minimum of £140. For that money you get to see cars whizz by at 350km/h; albeit it is 20 cars and they do whizz by about 67 times (although unless you pay much more, you don’t even get to see the cars cross the finish line). 

Still beats being a spectator at the Tour de France, though — you wait for potentially hours and glimpse the cyclist you want to see for a good five seconds. The good news? They haven’t found a way to make you pay for it. Yet.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.