By Michael Wagg
The US is sport mad. And so are we. Here in Virginia, propelled by the lacrosse locker room antics of last week, we’ve joined up good and proper. Back home in south-east London my wife and I have a strange habit of substituting the word ‘stupid’ for anything similar. Don’t ask. Weston Stupid-Mare, for example. Or, of course, the Stupid Bowl. But I can report that this Bowl is anything but. The Super Bowl is in fact both super and bloody brilliant.
The five of us Hamleters embraced the game from the off, warming up by cheering on Notre Dame in the College final, before settling in for the pro Championship finals (essentially the semi-finals) in our first week away. We each picked a team, but most of us came up short. Which made most of us Philadelphia Eagles fans for the big one, since the Eagles were underdog to the Chiefs, winners of the last two Bowls in a row. Back home in south-east London, we’re also often shouting Eagles (the moniker for Crystal Palace FC) with an absurdly elongated ee. So it all makes sense. Somehow.
In fact, we’re equally likely to be shouting about Hamlet. But I’ll come to that in a moment. Back to the Bowl. We ensconced ourselves in Revolution Golf & Grille for the main event. To the untrained eye this game can seem like four hours of aggressive advertising peppered with the odd bit of chucking a ball about; but it’s far more than that. It’s a bloody good – if funny old – game.
As the ebb and flow of the action met the ebb and flow of beer and wings, the 59th Super Bowl became a glorious turn up for the books. Prompting a hasty rewrite of this blog! The Eagles dominated from the off. The Chiefs appeared strangely out of sorts and, despite a late attempt at a comeback, Philadelphia triumphed 40-22. The Eagles soared as quarterback Jalen Hurts did the damage.
But back to Hamlet. Or rather to that bit of it that is forever south-east London. I promise I’ll talk about the work we’re doing at some point! But I can’t let this tour pass, nor contain my excitement in celebrating its resonance for me and those dear to me, without mentioning our beloved Hamlet.
I don’t expect you to have heard of Dulwich Hamlet FC – also known as The Hamlet – but it’s a lower league football/soccer club that plays in pink ‘n’ blue and I spend an inordinate amount of time engaged with it. The club sits at the heart of its community; which I’m sure is true of the midnight green of the Philly Eagles, too.
Sarah and I got married on the Dulwich Hamlet pitch 14 years ago; we scored a goal as a surrogate kiss, enjoyed speeches in the main stand and a punk party in the clubhouse after. I’m proud to sit on the board of the Supporters’ Trust and write about the club regularly. I’ve never been in a production of Hamlet before; but have bellowed the word countless times beside muddy pitches here, there and everywhere. I’ve long dreamt of making a Hamlet for The Hamlet and it might just happen now!
The ‘Hamlet’ of the football club refers to a small village, but never mind that. Hamlet, the drama, is part of the club’s folklore. We sing songs on the terraces about ‘reading Shakespeare’ – once again with that elongated ee. We sell t-shirts in the club shop (a shipping container where I often put in a shift) with Yorick emblazoned across them.
Yorick is one of the most famous Shakespeare characters, despite appearing only as the skull of a man who died 23 years ago. The misquoted ‘Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well’ does him a huge disservice. The more accurate ‘I knew him, Horatio’ forces the actor to stress the verb. Hamlet knew him. As a youngster he sat on his knee and laughed at his brilliant nonsense. Yorick is the spirit of Hamlet.
And Hamlet is the spirit, for me at least, of the art and the sport. Among the five of us there are of course other teams making our hearts flutter. Arsenal looms large and Liverpool too. But as the First Gravedigger I wear a bobble hat in the pink ‘n’ blue of Dulwich Hamlet.
Right, as promised, what work have we done here in Williamsburg, Virginia? Not that much to be honest. It’s been a very light week, but a lovely one. Joanna and I led a workshop on interpretations of The Tempest; while Sadie and Jack tackled the difficult ending of The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Our show at the Glenn Close Theatre went down really well. A trip to College Creek Beach rewarded us with the special sight of two bald eagles (there to spur on Philly, no doubt) and we’ve enjoyed exploring the peculiar spaces of this history-dripped town.
I’ve not the words left nor the insight to describe it, but it’s very historic. That much I know. I also know that Glenn Close was a student here at The College of William & Mary; as were four US presidents, including Thomas Jefferson and James Monroe (pictured, as a Hamlet fan). The college is the second-oldest higher education institution in the US, founded in 1693, exactly 200 years before The Hamlet.
Adding to the Sport, there’s an intriguing graduation ‘triathlon’ tradition of jumping the walls of the Governor’s Palace, streaking through the Sunken Garden, and swimming in the Crim Dell. We waited in vain on the pretty bridge for a view of the action. The downtown of ‘colonial’ Williamsburg is like no other and has to be seen to be believed. It’s somewhere between Stratford-Upon-Avon and East Dulwich. Which is no bad thing. I grew up in Warwickshire and get my kicks at The Hamlet. Football’s the winner!
