First Person

The Politics of Sport

by Leslie Gilbert Elman

Often intertwined with politics, sport helps define Hungary.

When I arrived in Budapest, Ferenc Puskás was lying in state in St. Stephen’s Basilica. The period of his mourning had been going on for weeks. I didn’t join the queue of mourners assembled to file past his coffin, even though that was the only way I’d be able to see the inside of Budapest’s most important cathedral. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but be aware of what was going on.

Three days later, Puskás’ body was taken from the cathedral to the former People’s Stadium — renamed Puskás Stadium in 2001. Following a funeral service there, his flag-draped coffin was placed on an open carriage drawn by six coal-black horses provided by the Lázár brothers (about whom, more later). Black-clad drummers led the funeral procession back to the cathedral, where church bells
clanged as six members of the Republican Guard in dress gray tunics carried the coffin up the cathedral steps, flanked by hundreds of white pillar candles. The crowd in the cathedral square was somber. Some carried candles. Many wore red, white and green — Hungary’s national colors.

All this for a soccer player.

Few Americans have heard of Puskás, largely because the United States is a football-challenged country. That is, football the way the world plays it, not the game in which musclebound multi-millionaires crash into each other on autumn Sundays. Yet in the world of Pele, Maradona and Beckham, particularly among fans of a certain age, Puskás is synonymous with Hungary. (Fittingly, “Where was Puskás from?” turned up as a question on a German TV game show I watched in my hotel room on the night before the funeral.)

Puskás was the captain of the 1953 Hungarian team that handed England its first-ever loss at Wembley Stadium. (Some Brits are still sore over it.) In October 1956, just as Hungarians were staging a bloody and ultimately unsuccessful revolt against Soviet occupying forces, Puskás defected to Spain to play for Real Madrid. He returned to Hungary in 1993 eventually regaining his place among Hungary’s greatest athletes.

I’d never heard of Puskás before my trip to Budapest, but his funeral and its attendant events reminded me that, for better or worse, my only recollection of Hungarian political history also is tied to a sporting event. It was the 1956 semi-final water polo match between Hungary and the Soviet Union — the “Blood in the Water” match. Even though it took place before I was born, I learned about it through TV broadcasts that recounted the most memorable events of past Olympic Games.

Every country excels at something, and Hungary has long been among the world’s water polo powerhouses. (Malév, Hungary’s national airline, proudly advertises that it is the official airline of the Hungarian water polo team.) In 1956, Hungary was the defending Olympic gold medal team.

En route to Melbourne for the 1956 Summer Olympics, the Hungarian water polo team was unaware of the uprising at home. By the time Hungary and the Soviet Union met in the semifinals, however, everyone in the world knew about the violent revolts, and the match was invested with significance beyond any mere athletic competition. When Hungarian player Ervin Zador was punched in the eye, drawing lood (hence the “Blood in the Water” epithet), officials stopped the match and awarded victory to Hungary, which was ahead 4-0 at the time. The Hungarians went on to win the gold medal and to leave their mark on history, sporting and political.

Sport certainly is not the only distinguishing aspect of Hungarian culture, yet it is a symbol of Hungary’s ability to maintain its national identity amid ever-changing political climates. Despite centuries of occupation by Romans, Ottomans, Habsburgs and Russians, Hungarians remain steadfastly Hungarian. Sport can, on occasion, define them, and even amid internal political turmoil, it can unite them.