The word “lovely” can be captivating, but it’s overused and misapplied by EPL commentators.
Unfortunately, I watch some English Premier League soccer, reputedly one of the world’s most popular sports leagues. But I don’t listen to it, at least not the English commentary. It’s either on mute or in Spanish because most English commentators are way too lovely if you know what I mean.
“Lovely” is a potentially descriptive word that can capture the alluring essence of someone or something. But the way the EPL commentators overuse the word has made it nondescript. One’s sweetheart may be lovely, one’s garden may be lovely, the élan vital wrought by spring is lovely, and a delicious dessert is lovely. For some reason, soccer is not lovely, though it is called “the beautiful game.”
According to these commentators, everything on the field is lovely. But their commentary is far from it; it’s more like sickening, actually. At least I can’t understand the Spanish commentary and whatever the heck they may be going on about. They are commentating with machismo, reflecting the hustle and bustle of the match.
The current crop of English soccer commentators must be beta males immersed in feminized loveliness. To them, an EPL player doesn’t complete a precise pass but a lovely one. A player does not unleash a thunderbolt shot towards the goal, but a lovely shot. A player doesn’t make a clever, jinking run into unmarked space, but a lovely run. Etc., etc.
Although overused by Brits for some reason, the word “lovely” can be captivating. It is also handy because it rhymes with many other words. However, when used in the context of sports, it is better invoked when capturing the movements of rhythmic gymnasts. It’s ideal when describing the beguiling motions of gymnast Olivia Dunne.
But it is plain lazy or reflects an undeveloped vocabulary when commentators describe the action in an intense soccer match – presumably still a contact sport – as “lovely.” No matter how many times the “lovelies” invoke it, the commentary from Brits with distracting scouse and cockney accents is not lovely – it’s ugly.
No wonder my fingers have developed muscle memory — even on my complicated remote control with a perplexing array of buttons — because I can find the mute button in the dark.
