The idea of nationalism is everywhere right now. It is there in the Scottish independence referendum, in the rise of Ukip (and the possibility of withdrawal from the European Union), and in the
long-running argument over mass migration and multiculturalism. These debates signify very different things, but they are unified by the same concept. The anxieties are real and understandable.
They are mirrored, in various ways, in sport, too. The movement of sports stars around the world has led to a transformation in the composition of national teams. Athletes who were born and learnt their trade in one nation are moving to play elsewhere. Africans are running for various Arab Emirates, South Africans are playing for England, eastern Europeans are wrestling for Team GB. The term “flags of convenience” is cropping up more and more.
Andy Murray, who plays Novak Djokovic at the US Open in New York today, was draped in the Union Jack after winning gold in the final of the Olympic Games in London two summers ago. This week, he said that if Scotland breaks away from the Union, he would choose to play under the saltire. He did not say that he favoured independence (it was an answer to a hypothetical question), but it nevertheless provoked huge comment.
To me, it seemed like a perfectly natural statement. Murray was born in Scotland, learnt his tennis in and around Dunblane, and most of his family still live north of the border. But to many English people, particularly on Twitter, it seemed odd that someone whose success has meant so much may soon be playing for a foreign country.
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To me, this issue is particularly vivid because, as a teenager, I had the option of playing table tennis for Pakistan, India or Wales (on the basis of my grandparents). I chose England. I had benefited from the English system, had received huge support (often on a voluntary basis) from English coaches and, most importantly of all, my heroes were English. The idea of playing in the same shirt as Desmond Douglas and Johnny Leach, the two great postwar champions, was the most evocative on earth. History wasn’t just about the past; it was about the here and now.
I suspect that many of the England cricketers feel the same tug; that sense of following in the footsteps of Wally Hammond, Denis Compton and Fred Trueman; the idea that, in pulling on the shirt, one was becoming part of a narrative that had been building for more than a hundred years. If history is bunkum, as Henry Ford and some modern-day cricket pundits like to say, why is that little Ashes urn so precious? Why is it bound up with so many emotions, even for the youngest of England players? I know we have a jaundiced view of the England football team, but I am certain that many (although not all) feel the same way, too.
They are not merely paying lip service when they talk about following in the footsteps of Stanley Matthews, Bobby Charlton and Bobby Moore. They have heard their fathers talking about ’66, about what it meant to the nation, about how the world seemed a little brighter during that long summer. My dad talked about it to me, too. My father-in-law was there at Wembley, sitting in the stands. How could anyone fail to sense the meaning in that?
And that is why sport has such a vital role to play in the reinterpretation of nationalism. For too long, nationalism has been a dirty word. It has been associated with the Blackshirts, the Rivers of Blood speech and extremists of all kinds. Sport played a role in this grotesque distortion, too. For years, the first image that sprang to mind when thinking of the England football team was that of riotous thugs chanting In-ger-lund, not as a source of pride, but as a veiled threat.
But think back to the summer of 2012. Over those long, warm weeks, venues across the Olympic Park were filled with British fans. The sense of patriotism was alive, but it was a generous kind of patriotism. British athletes were cheered to the rafters, Union Jacks were waved, but the noise was almost eclipsed by the cheering and stamping when foreign athletes triumphed. There was no jealousy, no rancour; just a sense that if a guy from overseas could defeat our boys, they deserved a huge round of applause, too.
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The generosity extended to our own athletes. White, brown or black, they were embraced. I was in the stands when Mo Farah triumphed in the 5,000 metres and have never experienced such a sense of shared belonging. He belonged to us and us to him. As he turned the final corner, I stood to cheer this Muslim immigrant and when he won, I almost embraced a guy from The Sun. This was patriotism as it was meant to be, strong but without edge. Farah talked after the race about his pride in Britain. He was able to say that for a simple reason: we were proud of him, too.
For all the talk of how international sport has changed, it seems to me that this sense of reciprocation remains at its heart. Many commentators have claimed that international sport has become a mercenary business, defined by pragmatism, but my feeling is that for a critical mass of athletes, playing for their nation is about far more than that. In the same way, there are millions whose commitment to their country is about more than economic advantage. It is about identity and meaning, too.
Not everyone has time for nationalism. They are suspicious of its underlying psychology and worry about how it can so easily morph into xenophobia. In this country, given the coexistence of the four home nations, the concept has additional complexity. That, of course, is why the issue of Scottish independence is such a fraught and emotive issue.
But my sense is that, at its best, nationalism can be empowering and rather beautiful, both within sport and beyond. Even if many of us disagree over the upcoming referendum and, indeed, whether the UK should stay in the EU, we can perhaps agree about that. What is certain is that we should never again allow such a precious thing to be co-opted by extremists.