“Premier League football clubs don’t want to engage with fans. They want to sell them stuff.”

How business is throttling sport.

“Sport saturates everyday life.” That observation, made by Professor Stefan Szymanski in a video link address to Northampton University Business School’s Future of Sport conference recently, seems so obvious as to be bland. Yet it is worth thinking about the implications of that statement – what it means for people, and for sport itself.

Szymanski is a Professor at the University of Michigan Centre for Sports Management, and recognised as one of the world’s leading sports economists. Yes. A sports economist. Also at the conference were specialist sports marketing types, sports communication consultants, cultural policy and information studies academics, media technology wonks – and a smattering of sports journalists. There is, clearly, more to sport than a bit of fun.

That last line probably seems trite, but it’s there to make a point. Any critique of the modern sports industry risks being dismissed as the hankering for an imagined Corinthian past in which playing the game for its own sake outweighed vulgar commerce. It’s a dismissal that is too simplistic, although as the debate rages about the commercialisation of sport it is perhaps ironic to reflect that it was professionalism’s sweeping aside of the amateur ethos that helped football – the sport that dominates any discussion of sport or the sporting business in Britain – become a mass sport open to all.

But as the lines between sport and business become ever more blurred, sport risks losing the qualities that make it attractive to business. What appeals to many fans about sport is that it is not business. It does not, at its best, have the certainties that must make up a successful business plan, and it’s that element of the unexpected, of genuine competition, that draws an audience. I’m reminded at this point of the great footballer and journalist Danny Blanchflower irritating his producers in the early days of televised football coverage in typically contrary style by answering the question “Who do you think will win?” with the answer “I don’t know, that’s why they’re playing this game.”

The reason sports have become successful businesses, and the reason business wants to associate itself with sport, is because of what is perceived as the essential honesty of sporting competition. When that goes, so does the attraction. That’s why Lance Armstrong is such a hugely damaging figure, why many found it hard to watch athletics with the same enthusiasm after Ben Johnson’s astonishing sprint at the 1988 Olympics was revealed to be drug-fuelled. Sport is important to people. As conference organiser Alan Seymour said in his introduction, “The attention within the UK given to sport, its place in our lives and its contribution to language and culture makes it a major influence on attitudes, behaviour and community. The marketer who ignores sport as an influence on the consumer makes a major mistake.”

The buzzword of the day was “engagement”. Seymour spoke of “a growing necessity for sports properties and organisations to develop new platforms of association with their publics, audiences and loyal fan bases” and of a need to “understand the motivations that bring individuals to consume sporting events”. And exploring this ground threw up the tension that sits at its centre, a tension which boiled over into some lively exchanges throughout the day. Because for many sports fans, being treated as consumers who can be squeezed and sold to and exploited is not what draws them in. And seeing the sporting business appropriate the passion and culture fans have created in order to sell the "product" back to them really gets their goat.

After a slick opening presentation by US sports marketing expert Bill Sutton, full of talk of brands and positioning and opportunities, John Williams – the leading academic authority on fan culture in Britain and a Liverpool FC season ticket holder for 30 years – ventured the opinion that “a lot of what is wrong with sport is down to people like you”. When I spoke to Williams later he said that there was “too much technological determinism” on show. Engaging with fans surely had to mean more than seeing them simply as units to be sold at. Times football editor Tony Evans, who I was on a panel with, was typically blunt in his assessment. “Premier League football clubs don’t want to engage with fans,” he said. “They want to sell them stuff.”

The suspicion of many is that for all the high-falutin talk of achievement and passion and prowess, the bottom line is just about getting us to part with our money. And that makes sport just like everything else. That tension ran through the conference, through the demonstration by an unprecedented alliance of football fans at Premier League HQ this week, and through the huge demonstrations in Brazil, where a population sold by the marketers as football crazy is questioning the whole ball game.

Is engagement just another sales pitch, or could it, should it, be something truer to the word’s dictionary definition as something which involves? Would genuinely engaged fans help preserve the qualities that make sport attractive? In English Premiership football, as in America’s NFL, the crowd are “extras in a show put on at a stadium” said Szymanski. The product’s consumers have become part of the product, yet seem powerless to shape it. Over half of the Premiership’s revenues are generated globally.

And as Szymanski observed in his summing up, “Advances in new media over the last 20 years are completely changing the way we consume sport.” Perhaps most worrying of all, those changes can shape the sport itself. Szymanski used the example of cricket’s Indian Premier League and its huge reach. “Kids growing up wanting to play cricket will want to play 20/20,” he said. “That means the skill that will be rewarded is hitting sixes.”

Business and media sought to link with sport because of the power of its essential qualities. As they tighten their grip on sport, they risk destroying those qualities, and therefore its usefulness to them.

Photograph: Getty Images

Martin Cloake is a writer and editor based in London. You can follow him on Twitter at @MartinCloake.

GETTY
Show Hide image

Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue