It is known that sport is a discipline that is of great interest to States, because together with the anthem, the language, the currency, it is an unquestionable cohesive element: from antiquity to the present.

An athlete in Greece or Rome earned more money than a tutor, a craftsman, a private soldier, or even much more than the personal guard of statesmen (Clarification: the State is a modern phenomenon, born in the fifteenth and XVI, talking about the Roman State or Greek city-states is a necessary simplification, but incorrect. I will ignore this type of particularity because otherwise the text will be very long).

However, sports were not popularized by the people, but the demand for Equis deporte was the product of supply: the same is the case today: North Americans, New Zealanders, and Argentines do not like basketball, rugby, and soccer, respectively, due to a genetic, innate issue. If one were to observe the budget that the corresponding States allocate for these sports, we would discover that, not by chance, the difference is abysmal with respect to the budget that other sports disciplines manage. So if there is investment, there must be supply and, obviously, there will be demand. A very strong demand because the product abounds.

Let's continue: you, dear reader, would probably be passionate about hammer throwing if you were born in Hungary, since hammer throwing is the most popular sport in that country. That is to say, it is the sport that unites, it is the most televised discipline, the most supported by the Hungarian State. Sports passion does not come from the heart: it is exogenous, it comes from the environment. Like everything: clothing, language, food, soccer, hammer throwing.

But let's keep moving forward. Here begins a fable. There was, in the Roman Empire, an athlete named Gaius Apuleius Diocles, he was born in Hispania (present-day Spain) in the year 104 AD.
He excelled in the sport of charioteers, biga drivers, very light horse-drawn vehicles. He won over 1,450 races; and, according to the annals of sports, he is, to this day, the highest paid athlete in history. It is said that, after the victory, he returned to the heart of Rome to be received by all the People. And the Empire was a party. And the People joined, with joy, flags, songs, to receive the caravan that transported the Idol.

Let's zoom in on this scene: in Rome, the People were made up of patricians and plebeians. Slaves were not part of the People (populus). But by the time this Roman idol lived and performed, that division no longer existed. There was another: the optimates and the populares. That is to say: the rich and the workers. That is to say: the minority and the majority. In other words: a very small group of people who enjoyed all the pleasures of life and an overwhelmingly larger group of people who struggled to eat, dress, find a roof. And, of course, there were also the slaves.

It is said that on one occasion when the athlete Gaius Apuleius Diocles was entering Rome, there were people hanging from the triumphal arches, cheering his name, in short, the Idol entered and the people received it as such. Optimates, popular, slaves, all united, happy, sharing the joy. But it turns out that several Romans did not celebrate the hero's entrance, and they did not do it not because they hated the hero or the festive people. No. Unsuspecting, these non-revelers approached a boisterous and happy group that, at that moment, was waving flags and shouting that they were world champions (Diocles had just won an international race in the southeast of Hispania).

The unwary non-celebrators approached a group of popular people, among whom there were also several slaves, saying: How can they celebrate so much knowing that, at the end of the celebration, some will go back to work other people's fields and others will try to procure food from the week? The partying group, angry, responded: we are Romans, we are the best in the world, we are not interested in what they are saying, let us be happy, we have the right to celebrate, what are you looking at, get over there, fools, get over there.

The unwary, like all unwary, insisted saying: the athlete is not in the way of us, let alone your joy, but don't you notice that in all this color something smells bad? Something is not right. Something is not normal.
The joyful world champion slaves replied: what are you Greeks? Celebrate, you bunch of boobies! And if you don't want to celebrate, don't screw up the popular joy.

The unwary, more unwary than ever, said: that's precisely the bad smell, Rome is rich, very rich, it has fields, varied climates, a merchant fleet, a formidable trade, and the Immense mass of us is poor. The Optimates celebrate and when they finish doing so, they will return to their palaces, they will be served by their servants, they will eat delicious food, they will sleep in affable bedrooms and we, you, will return to our caves, where a meager meal awaits us, a hard bed and a future identical to the past.
The slaves, already fed up with so much talk, began to laugh and sing and shout Rome, Rome, Rome! We are the world champions. And you, you, are a bunch of anti-Rome, a ridiculous little bitter group that can't stand the people being happy.

Now then: these dialogues were heard by a group of optimates, some richer and others not so much, who, smiling, rubbed shoulders, and approached the festive group. They embraced them: so slaves, popular and optimal, all together, in a deafening song. One of the optimates, seconded by a popular, addressed these winged words to the Unwary: you don't want to see the people happy, you hate the people, stop kidding yourselves. Not everything is a question of eating or not eating, dressing well or dressing rags, dignity or not dignity, right guys? These pseudo-philosophers mix everything up, don't they guys? The optimates asked, winking at each other. And the slaves, although hesitating a bit, responded, "it's true, it's true, let us be happy, today we are world champions, long live Rome, damn it."
The optimates smiled happily, the romanity was safe.