Glutbusters

August 27, 2005

Me? I Like Football

I have been absent for a while.

One of the reasons for this is that I have had all my emotional and spiritual needs satisfied by the football that I have attended over the last couple of weeks.

Wait! Before you write me off as some Crown-Casino-sports-bar-frequenting, angry-when-drunk, taper-together-of-buns jock, hear me out. I am aware that football, indeed all sport, is, for many, not all that important. And I agree. I'm happy to indulge the "sport teaches us about ourselves/heroes/values" arguments. Hell, I've even trotted them out from time to time. I believe I have also, in a particularly joyous moment, actually said to my brother "football is life on a green field".

But ulitmately, it's trivial. Which is why I take it so seriously. Because I've always got that escape - if the Dees, a kick away from their first grand final in 27 years, are beaten after the siren, it hurts. But the next day/week/month: it's just a game. It is, in the end, inconsequential. Imagine if I put all my emotional eggs in the ALP's basket come election time? Where's the escape to spending nearly ten years under the reign of an ultra-conservative little rodent? None. You never hear anyone say, "ah, it's just the government that's going to rule us for the next three years, it doesn't really matter."

So, in (interim) conclusion: take sport seriously, take politics lightly, or you'll want to slit your wrists.

How seriously? I am able to bring tears to my eyes when I think of what it would feel like to be there with my dad and brother the day the Dees win a flag.

How seriously? Dad used to send me and my brother off to sleep with pop tests of players' numbers.
Number 9 for Geelong? Bruce Lindner.
Number 28 for Melbourne? Jamie Duursma (famous also for something else).
Number 7 for Carlton? Wayne Johnston.
His nickname? The Dominator! (And now married to Stingers "star" Kate Kendall)

How seriously? Here is an excerpt of my match review from last Saturday Night's Melbourne v Western Bulldogs (Footscray!) game - partially simulcast on Every Day Is Like Sunday.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Me
My Dad - Longer-suffering than I. He held my hand while I stood in the mud as the Dees beat Footscray at the Western Oval in Round 22 of 1987 to make their first finals series in 23 years. The first time I saw him cry was when Gary Buckenara crushed our hearts three weeks later. I barrack for Melbourne because he threatened me with familial excommunication if I didn't. Tough love.
The Redhead - Doesn't know a lot about football, but is learning. Is appropriately loyal to her team (Brisbane) for appropriate reasons (she was born there and lived in Fitzroy). Understands my irrational emotional involvement.
My Mum - We've met her before. Doesn't really "get" football. Used to barrack for Carlton. Now tolerates Melbourne for our sake. Talks loudly throughout game because of headphones. She does, however, bring tea and cake.

The match report we don't need. The situation is thus: Melbourne, for the second week in a row, had fought back from the dead and are just behind. Peter, for the second week in a row, was deriving absolutely no pleasure whatsoever from the experience. Just stomach-shrinking tension. Hopefully followed by relief. Possibly followed by disbelief, disappointment, anger, inebriation, violence, headache, and eventually sadness.

We have a shot for goal. Pretty much to win the match. Me and Dad are head in hands. Can't watch. Redhead is discreetly silent. Mother heard to comment: "isn't this exciting?" Supreme effort of will required to avoid ugly scene. Goal. Wild scenes followed by two more minutes of near-vomitous tension. Siren.

Now the interesting bit: tears. The relief of it all just got the better of me and I wept, not uncontrollably, but with less decorum than I expected of myself. Kids in front of me were nudging their mates and saying "dude, check out that guy crying". My mother gave me a clean handkerchief and all was forgiven. The Redhead gave me a hug. Dad and I just shared a look in which was contained my deepest thanks for putting me through the pain that leads to moments like this. The song was sung, but I couldn't make the words. My hands shook for an hour.

God, I love football.

Filed under Sport