Everyone on This Sofa Could Have Won That Match.

“Why didn’t he just pass?”

An excellent question from someone who has spent the last three minutes trying to reach the remote without putting down a plate.

Watching sport gives us extraordinary abilities.

We can identify the perfect opening. Spot the obvious mistake. Explain exactly when the athlete should have accelerated, waited, attacked or moved slightly to the left.

Sometimes we even stand up to demonstrate.

Then we sit down again. We have contributed enough.

The living room has assembled a remarkable team

There is the tactical specialist.

They know what the coach should change, preferably immediately. If the substitution works, they suggested it twenty minutes ago. If it doesn’t, that wasn’t quite what they meant.

There is the person who watches this sport once every four years.

They need the rules explained, but by the second half they have developed strong opinions about the referee.

There is the loyal supporter who cannot watch the decisive moment.

They cover their eyes, turn away and then demand a detailed account of everything they deliberately chose not to see.

And there is the person who says, “It’s only a game.”

Usually at the least helpful moment imaginable.

We have the replay. They had a second.

From the sofa, the opening looks enormous.

There it is. Right there.

The television helpfully pauses the action. Someone draws a circle. We watch the moment from another angle, then once more in slow motion.

By now, we are deeply disappointed that the athlete failed to notice something we have been examining for forty seconds.

During the actual match, that opening existed while several other people were moving, the athlete was tired, and somebody was actively trying to stop them.

I still enjoy discussing what could have happened. That is part of watching sport.

But there is something wonderfully ambitious about saying “I would have…” while holding a biscuit.

The score changes the conversation

A player tries something unexpected.

If it works: brilliant instinct.

If it fails: completely unnecessary.

The ball travels a few centimetres differently, and suddenly the living room has rewritten its assessment of the entire decision.

“Too risky.”

“You have to take chances.”

Both opinions are available. We select one after seeing the result. 😂

Occasionally, someone will insist they knew what was going to happen.

Curiously, this information was unavailable before it happened.

And then everybody forgets to be an expert

The final minutes arrive.

Someone puts their plate down.

The tactical specialist stops talking. The occasional viewer has become emotionally invested in a team they discovered an hour ago. The person who said it was only a game is now standing in front of the television.

Nobody is particularly elegant.

There are unfinished sentences, unnecessary instructions and at least one person shouting “GO!” as though this contribution might reach the stadium.

I love that part.

For a moment, everybody in the room wants the same thing with an intensity that would be difficult to explain to someone walking in from the kitchen.

Then it happens.

A goal. A finish. A save nobody thought possible.

The room erupts.

Five minutes later, of course, we are ready to explain exactly how they did it.

Coaching from the sofa is exhausting. Fortunately, there are usually snacks. 😂

And if you’ve ever watched a match you already knew the ending of, you’ll recognise this feeling too.

Silvia