Sports! How great are they? I know, traditionally geeks are not considered sports fans (think Leonard in The Big Bang Theory), and conversely, sporting types are not considered geeks (think… well, every High School-set movie or TV show ever, maybe barring Finn on Glee). But despite the stereotyping that puts us at odds, sports fans and genre fans have a lot in common—and is certainly very possible to be both. We obsess about the minutia of our chosen areas of interest in almost frightening detail; we live or die by the wins and losses, the good and bad outings, of our weekend warriors (or 9PM/8 Central warriors, as the case may be); and we may even be seen occasionally donning the costumes of our beloved heroes (or villains) in order to pledge allegiance to our team—and to identify others of our kind.

Both fields of endeavor engender a cultish following; the main difference lies in the steadfastness of one’s expected resolve. When it comes to sports, it is strictly verboten to switch allegiances from one team to another, just because your team starts sucking. (Which is why I’ve had my heart broken by the Melbourne Demons, LA Clippers and New York Metropolitans more times than even by the FOX Network.) In genre, such disloyalty is less beyond the pale; indeed, jumping ship when your show, comic, or book series jumps the shark is not only acceptable, but sometimes even encouraged.

This is not something I have yet felt the need to do with Terry Pratchett’s eternal Discworld, despite the last few novels being a little belabor-the-point-y. Not those of the Tiffany Aching, nominally Young Adult strand, but those in the regular proper grown up (I guess) stream: Thud! starring the City Watch, was all racism-is-bad-y (wow! Really?), and the return of Moist von Lipwig in Making Money was all… well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? And while that is something I have always loved about the Discworld novels, their pointed, easily fathomable metaphors to various happenings on this island Earth (I’m not good with subtext), I have been feeling, just lately, that even though the sprightly ridiculousness is as enjoyable as ever, the medium of the message has shrunk to more of a Small.

But then Terry Pratchett turned his eyes to the world of sports in Unseen Academicals (clearly, else my whole “Sports!” opener would have been one hell of a non sequitur) and now I totally love him and his “hit ‘em over the head with the moral” antics all over again.

At the heart of Unseen Academicals are two very different men: Trev Likely, son of a legendary sportsman, and Mr. Nutt, recent émigré from Uberwald (a dark land of vampires, werewolves and zombies, but currently undergoing an Age of Enlightenment). Trev is as simple as Nutt is complicated, and also, oddly, the reverse is true.

Trev is an aptly-named likely lad from a rough neighborhood, a kind of proto-Alfie, doing the smallest amount possible to get by in life and with an eye to the ladies: particularly smoking-hot kitchen maid Juliet. Trev works in the chandlery at Ankh-Morpork’s venerable Unseen University, where he allows new guy Nutt to make all the candles while he kicks around a can and pilfers treats from good-hearted, though bad-tempered, Glenda the night cook.

Nutt, meanwhile, is a puzzle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in grey, waxy skin. He is of an indeterminate species, unknowable history and has a precise, literal manner of speaking that never fails to amuse, no matter how often the device is employed (think Spock, Data, Anya, Teal’c). He is straightforward and utterly devoid of artifice; he doesn’t really remember who or what he is, only recalling many years of suffering followed by several under the tutelage and care of one he calls Ladyship . He likes to build things, and fix things. He likes Glenda Sugarbean and he likes her pies. He likes Trev, likes dribbling candles for the University (the wizards’ candles must be pre-dribbled, of course), and likes feeling useful.

And soon enough, he discovers a liking for the football. (Although, he does die at the hands of football hooligans first.)

The football is a street game played throughout the city’s backstreets. Lord Vetinari, arbiter of all things Ankh-Morporkian, wants this chaotic sport organized, and so instructs Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully of Unseen University to establish the game’s rules, field an eponymous team, and take on the best of the rabble in an exhibition match the like of which the city has never seen. Several problems face Ridcully upon receipt of this ultimatum-y request: one, Disc football is like Thunder Road… there are no rules; two, the wizards expected to make up the team are, well, wizards and so athleticism is hardly in their natures (plus, they’re not allowed to use magic); and three, there is much more to football than the mere mechanics of the game itself. “I see there are a great many things we don’t yet understand,” Ridcully says to Glenda, an avid follower of Dolly Sisters. “Yes, sir. Everything,” she agrees.

Enter, then, Trev and Nutt, the one a font of knowledge of the game, the other a font of knowledge of… everything else. Whatever Nutt really is—and it takes a long time for it to be spelled out—I still suspect him of being at least part-android. He distills all his learning into a training philosophy that would be the envy of even Coach Carter, and somehow makes a team out of his ragtag band of misfits.

Which may be the reason I so loved this book; it’s kind of like a literary melding of The Replacements and Wildcats, with just a dash of The Longest Yard. And since the “football” therein is essentially soccer (Pratchett is British, after all), there’s more than a little Bend it Like Beckham in here, too. (Which references like “Who ate all the pies?” and “You think it’s all over? … It is now!” make abundantly clear, to anyone who has spent any time in a pub in London—or perhaps just watching BBC America.)

The appeal of the underdog can never be vanquished; it is the rare individual who was rooting for the Yankees over the Cleveland Indians (replete with Wild Thing), the Hawks over the Mighty Ducks, the Dallas Felons over the Milwaukee Beers. But there is more going on in Unseen Academicals than just our recurring wish to see the Cinderella story unfold.

There is an examination of football, not as a game, but as a culture. As Glenda says: “It’s not about the football. It’s the sharing. It’s being part of the crowd. It’s chanting together. It’s all of it. The whole thing.” And this is also an examination of the nature of fame (this is not the first time the Discworld has addressed this—both Moving Pictures and Soul Music did so—but it may be the first time that fame for no reason has been put under the Disc’s wonky microscope), when the so-beautiful Juliet is discovered at a fashion show and becomes the Disc’s first supermodel. We also look at the nature of soul-destroying envy via a lesson in accepting oneself afforded by Glenda (really, the girl is all over this book) and also, in the nature of Mr. Nutt, a little more of the well-intentioned liberty-and-justice-for-all schtick that has been showing up a lot lately in the Discworld—certainly in anything Uberwald-related. (Surely preaching to the choir. Surely?)

But it is really the football thing that rocks Unseen Academicals so hard. Yes, Archchancellor Ridcully has his moments, as does perennial over-achiever Ponder Stibbons. Lord Vetinari, the supercilious Patrician of the city, shines in this outing, his Regency villain-esque witticisms and calm, measured manner even more Vetinari-ish than usual; and even Rincewind--still Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography--makes a reluctant appearance. But it is football, no, more than that, it is the nature of the need inside us that makes us follow football, and things like it, that is the real star of this novel. It makes me want to go and don my Mets hat and my Clippers shirt and my Demons scarf all at once and go and shout really loudly in support of people I don’t know just ‘cause they’re wearing the right clothes. (As Jerry Seinfeld once said, rooting for laundry.)

Or, alternatively, give them up entirely.

  -- Rachel Hyland