Glutbusters

September 26, 2005

A Very Glutbusters Grand Final Day

0500. Is it time to get up yet?

0530. Please. Can I get up now?

0545. Please please please can I get up?

0600. Wake. Lie in dark waiting for alarm. Grand Final day is better than Christmas.

0630. Alarm.

0655. On bike. Getting pissed on. Heaps shitter than Christmas.

0715. Arrive at MCC Members Gates. Walk around perimeter of ground to back of queue of blueblood toffs lining up for their first footy game of the year. Claim moral highground.

0720. Still walking. Passing hall of famers. Leigh Matthews' moustache even more implausible on a 10-foot bronze statue.

0725. Arrive at end of queue, only metres from where I parked my bike. Marvel at how many young members have the collars of their polos upturned.

0800. Queue begins to move. Collars remain firmly vertical despite stiff breeze.

0815. In ground. Monster elderly members en route to brilliant seats - front row of level 3.

0850. Receive ticket. Go home.

1100. Receive call from friend with two free tickets that she can't use. Swear. Remember workmate who is a Swans fan (and lecherous Paul Roos lover), and her 12-year-old daughter even more (though less on the Roosy, more on the Kirky). Offer them as possible candidates to receive tickets. Friend announces she will ring a couple of other people first. End call. Crisis of faith - should I have lied and said I didn't have tickets and then passed them on to let two fans go to the Grannie? Could I have begged? Should I have pleaded? Have I failed the gods of football by not laying down my dignity to get a fan a GF ticket?

1130. Friend rings again. She is plagued by similar doubts. Offers tickets.

1135. Call work colleague. She does loud squeals down the phone. She tells her daughter, who does loud sobs.

1140. Shit! Should I have thought of The Redhead first? To whom to I owe first obligation? Her or football?

1230. Amidst toffs again as I arrive to collect the tickets from friend at the Athanaeum Club. Tickets not there. Head to ground.

1240. Tickets have arrived. Back to the club.

1245. On way to the ground. Tickets in wallet - the dreams of a little girl now in my hand. Pretty comfortable with "hero" status.

1300. Meet colleague and daughter. Daughter head to toe in swans gear. Tracksuit, jumper, scarf, 9 badges, face painted. Weak with excitement. Hand over two tickets to paradise. Or hell on earth - we'll see.

1310. Shit! They were AFL Members' tickets! The horrible possibility that I have lured a young girl from Hurstbridge in the hope of seeing her Swannies win a flag only to be denied at the final hurdle by an overly-officious AFL person rears its ugly, ugly head. More panic.

1320. In ground. SMS from workmate confirms they are at their seats and that she has already knocked off a couple of burbies to calm her nerves. Who could blame her.

1331. Delta subjects us to her ugly, ugly voice. I'm all-a-quiver. (False alarm, just gas).

1339. Australian Idol finalists perform Waltzing Matilda. Peter from Glutbusters heard to exclaim (a little too loudly) "could you butcher this song any more you talentless shits?" Stands by it in face of stern glares from fellow members.

1356. Michael Bublé. Why?

1400. Dame Edna. Gold.

1432. National Anthem. Roar. Goosebumps.

1435. Perhaps the greatest football game I have ever seen begins.

1530. Father and I divided in our loyalties. Me the Swans. Him the Eagles. To be more precise: him Chris Judd.

1700. Leo Barry takes the biggest mark of the year. Me and Dad exhausted yet buzzing in the knowledge that we have just seen one of the all-time greats.

1710. I weep. Again. Deep down, just a little bit, and I'll never admit it, and I have no idea what you're talking about, I wished I barracked for Sydney. A sneaky look at Dad suggests he might feel the same.

1800. Call from colleague. Daughter heard to say "best day of my life". Turned out the seats were near workmate's brother, and they were able, when the siren went, to exchange glances and remember their father, a Blood from way back, who died earlier this year.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. God, I love football.

Filed under Peter