BULLETIN > Week 3

make way

The AFL has been largely joyless this week.

It all began with Melbourne midfielder Brent Maloney being fined and stripped of his vice captaincy for late night amusements on Sunday. The first domino had been flicked. And the ones to follow were: Campbell Brown, scrubbed out for four and unrepentant; Jack Riewoldt fined for the one finger salute and a good dose of petulance; Port Adelaide youngster Hamish Hartlett, also fined for not meeting the standards of club rehabilitation, otherwise known as drinking. (Do they put these fines in a Monopoly style ‘Free Parking’ and hit the town on them at the end of the year?) Terry Wallace even suggested players should be banned from alcohol all season long. Then, we had the criticism of Andrew Krakouer for the handcuff salute and the admonishment of Gary Ablett for being in Melbourne or Sydney or the Gold Coast.

Last week, the Grand Poobah of footy, Andrew Demetriou, celebrated his 50th birthday. When asked whether we sometimes take the game and its peripheral events too seriously, he replied, ‘Absolutely. Sometimes we should sit back and smell the roses and think of how lucky we are to be involved in such a wonderful game.’

* * *

On Tuesday night, I had to go to drinks. I’m not much of a weeknights girl , but the event was a meet-and-greet between the editors and contributors of the upcoming uni anthology in which I have a story and I felt some strange obligation to show up and identify some faces before the launch at the Writer’s Festival. I didn’t know anyone on the list. I headed into the Loft on Broadway, saw the function sign pointing me up the stairs, clopped reluctantly up and accepted the name tag I was given.

They knew how to keep tabs on alcohol at this event, each guest being administered a raffle ticket to be redeemed at the bar for house red or house white. (Why don’t the AFL give each player a raffle ticket at the end of the post game recovery and send them out for the night?)

I stood at the bar with a girl who had a similar name tag in her hand, a poet with long red/blonde hair organised over a single shoulder. I introduced myself, looking down at my name tag for reassurance. We noticed that our name tags had alternate names on the back and laughed at the possibility of choice. I could be a double-barrelled boy for the night – let’s call him J D-H. I took my house red and looked around. A few senior lecturers I knew. Otherwise a room of unfamiliar faces. The red was rough. The night was about to get ugly.

Then, I saw him. Curly hair, bright eyes. I knew that face. But I couldn’t immediately say from where.

‘You follow the Swans don’t you?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could second guess them. He looked stunned.
‘How did you know?’
‘I sit three rows behind you at the SCG.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes. You’re the guy who stands and screams when I do.’
‘The crazy guy?’
‘We’ve been saying how great you are for years.’
‘I’m J,’ he said.
And I realised it was his name on the back of my name tag.
‘I’m you,’ I laughed.
And he too looked. And he was me.

This guy sits in front of us at the SCG. He is young, wears a tight, older style Swans jacket and starts every game with intensity steaming out his ears. He is vocal, unafraid of attention, but not overly demonstrative either. Driven by pure feeling. He folds with the losses and stands to the wins. He is often accompanied by his Mum and sometimes by a calm and tolerant girlfriend, who sits peacefully through it all, occasionally reassuring him with an arm around his shoulder. And we have admired him for years.

‘Were you there at- ,’ I asked.
‘Yes and are you going on-‘
‘Where’s your girlfriend, we haven’t seen her in a- ’
‘She’s over there, that’s her.’
‘Oh great. We were worried that- ’
‘We’re engaged.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘You know ... I’m feeling, I mean I don’t like to go too early but-‘
‘It’s early days, J.’
‘I’m thinking top 4.’
‘It is feeling a lot like-’
‘2005.’

We were finishing each other’s sentences.

We talked about the team, the structure, the mix of old and new, the half back line, the kids and Goodes. We talked about the losing grand final which we both attended, about Clarendon Street and walking Melbourne in the red and the white. We shared our inductions: his father and St Kilda, a history with soccer, an early flirtation with the Tigers; my one night out to a match with Patrick and an accidental love that was in its twelfth year. We talked about the live experience versus the television coverage, about off-the-ball artistry and footy-related painting, about poetry and membership years and club functions and foot skills and how to bend his Honours Thesis to include the great game. The rest of the room had disappeared into the blur of shifted focus. Why were we here again?

Speeches were made and backs were patted. People took photos on phones. I found my editor and shared a chat and the bottom of my glass with him. I admired the cover design of the book. Someone offered me a second raffle ticket and even went downstairs to collect on my behalf. Second red in hand, I returned to the field with J.

I rarely meet anyone who does not consider me unhinged for being able to talk footy to the lengths and depths that I will. Perception can be cruel. But here he was. And he could give as good as he got. And thus, joyously, a potentially spare literary affair turned into a hearty connection and it was thanks to footy and the O’Reilly stand, rows S to U.

There was still $17 left on the bar, but I knew it was time to go. I understand the responsibilities I have to my rehabilitation. The six o’clock wake up. The long school holiday day ahead. I am committed to meeting the expectations of my club. I kissed both J and his girl and we promised each other a beer this Saturday. I think I skipped part of the way to the car.

* * *

Before a packed media room, Jack Riewoldt sat down to humble pie this week. His defence of his behaviour centred around the fact that he is a very emotional guy.

'It can be taken as a great passion and it's something where I love my teammates, I love this club and I love what it represents. I've got to be careful, and I'm working hard on how I'm portrayed by the media because perception is reality these days in AFL footy.'

Happy Tipping!