Ich lese ja aktuell doch noch Nick Hornbys Fever Pitch.

"Men laugh at what they see as the grotesque inadequacy of groupies, but a one-night stand with a star is perfectly understandable, and has its own balance and logic. (If I were a nubile young twenty-year old, I'd probably be down at the training gruond throwing my panties at David Rocastle, although this kind of confession from a man, however New he is, is regrattably still not acceptable.) Yet many of us have had opportunities to talk to the players, at boot launches or sports shop openings, in nightclubs or restaurants, and most of us have taken them. ('How's the leg, Bob?' 'Thought you were brilliant Saturday, Tony.' 'Hey, make sure you do Tottenham next week, yeah?') And what are these clumsy, embarrassing, fumbling encounters if they are not passes, beery gropes in the dark? We're not young and desirable nymphettes, we're grown-ups with pot-bellies, and we have nothing to offer at all. Professional footballers are as beautiful and unattainable as models, and I don't want to be a middle-aged bottom-pincher."