I finally learnt my lesson on Friday night. Emotion doesn’t get you up for everything. There are things, many of them, that emotion alone just cannot shift. Lord knows, I try. But, last week, at least in the footy arena, I finally went without my heart and scored from the realisation.
My Friday night tipping record is not good. The boys in the house have come to a position where they now wait to see which team I am picking for the Friday night chocolates … and they pick the opposite. It was touch and go last Friday night.
I passed the open fixture many times during the afternoon as I brought in washing, buttered fruit toast, read the latest article on the evolution of the Kindle and rewired the house after days of ongoing short circuits. Each time I passed it, waiting patiently on the bench top, raising its black and white eyebrows at me in anticipation, I seed and sawed. Blues or Roos? There was an irresistible emotional tip sitting under my nose – the noble ex-captain, loved by all, farewelling footy on a Friday night. So I went, breath held, fingers crossed, eyes covered … Carlton.
It unfolded Friday night – the perfectly tragic tale of Adam Simpson’s last hurrah (or last boo hoo as the case ended up): the mid week announcement, the accident in the final drill of the last training session which tore the calf in two, the medical team propping him with every anti-inflammatory and painkiller legal on ASADA’s lists, the hero on the bench and then off again, his soldiers unable to win the battle for him with nine last quarter shots!! Those Roos had all the emotional charge in the world but it wasn’t enough. Ironic that not even Shinboner spirit could compensate for Simpson’s calf.
‘No fairytale, no,’ he said post-match.
No. But a point for the heartless mistress.
* * *
It is a generally accepted fact that each generation is smarter, taller and better looking than the one that goes before. In our house, it is certainly the case on all fronts. The small one has inherited not an ounce of my sentimentality, not an ounce of his father’s slow and private deliberations. He is not beholden to emotion in decision making.
I announced the final match of the round 18 fixture, a big one for him – Eagles v Bombers. He was clinical. Eagles. He did not contemplate, waver or sway. He does not feel equivocalness, or if he does, he does not reveal it. Is this truly my flesh? I asked myself, as I watched him scribble his O above the eagle, I was half proud and admiring, half dismayed.
* * *
Ian was back in the fold on Saturday night, serving a healthy slice of nostalgia. Ten years a member and his first live game of the season. Welcome back. The SCG was shiny bright, a perfect chilly wind reminding us there was still time til September. Peter was along for Riewoldt, but at least he was along. Tucked in between 4 of the finest O’Reilly men you could muster (but missing you, of course, Toby!) I felt sure our collective energy could a fairytale make.
Boy we came close.
But even bringing in the boys, pounding a roll of record into the hand, yelling and screaming and calling for frees that weren’t there, shifting forward in the seats and willing and pleading and standing for each unlikely goal – none of it could get them over the line. As a Swans victory or draw seemed likely, it occurred to me that I was alone with a tip for the red and white. An old habit. The exception that proves the theory?
We live in a world where 93 can be a win by two points (Cats v Crows), or a loss by one. And the pounding and willing, the wishing and hoping, the crowd and the sound counts for nought.
Standing with Patrick on the concourse, Adam Simpson came into my mind. ‘I just want one of them to end in the fairytale,’ I bemoaned.
‘They don’t exist. That’s why they’re fairytales.’
* * *
On Sunday, the Eagles dodged a tank and won. The Eaglet was resolute. On Sunday, the Tigers rolled the Demons with a must-kick goal after the siren. 'Every kid's dream,' said McMahon. 'Fairytale,' cried the AGE online. 'Tank,' cried Michael Voss.
And for the rest of us?
Once the lifting balloon of September is exploded, emotion gives way to preparation – glimpses of the future replace the quest: good signs for the future; good game time into the youngsters; good growth for the kids. Retirements will be slated, lists will be trimmed and recruitment officers will take centre stage. All of it without emotion. Whatever’s best for the club.
And what of the Mistress?
As successful as my Friday night was, I don’t think I’ll fall in line too easily. I will have a forest of tissues on hand as Mickey kicks out his last few games. I will be willing and tipping the Hawks into the eight and a chance at collateral damage. I will be wishing the Woods the wobbles (sorry Lucie!). As the blossoms bud on the boulevards, I will be gripped with the emotion of the final weeks, the denouement of the Home and Away, the segue into finals and probably beyond. I’m trying to take it one week at a time. But old habits die hard.
Happy tipping!
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