BULLETIN > Round 21

photo: mark dadswell

Much has been made of the benefits of the bye. Clubs have welcomed them as an opportunity to freshen up sore players; players have welcomed them as a chance to switch off mentally. They have been lauded for increasing the tension around numbers of games played and ladder positions. Some clubs have even used them for overseas ‘holidays’. But perhaps not enough has been made of the importance of the bye to another vital stakeholder – the supporter.

The weekend before last, I was in bye bliss. I woke feeling optimistic and untroubled. Despite a weekend set aside for the emptying and sorting of the most despised ‘storage’ spaces in the house, I felt light and jovial. I sipped my coffee with abandon – none of those hard-to-define weekend morning jitters obstructing my digestion. No scarves to gather or baking to do. No thermos to fill or tickets to find. No submission to the powerlessness of television spectatorship (passionate allegiance and television are bad partners).

That weekend in the footy landscape felt like setting off on a trail, without any daunting climbs, leaving one simply free to enjoy the scenery.

As I pottered in boxes of sports equipment, endless plastic crates of children’s books and drawings, old clothes and shoes and beach towels and hardware and tax returns and Christmas decorations, I tuned in and out of the battle at Etihad between the Dogs and the Coast. And it was simple to watch. It faded obediently into the background and re-emerged again when required. It did not ask too much of me.

The Dogs kicked it coast to coast. Cox marked everything in sight. Reports came in of a slaughter down at Kardinia Park. The architect Murphy was back for the Dogs – lovely to watch – while Priddis’ curls bobbed up everywhere. The slaughter went on down the highway. There was talk of ramifications. Thank God it wasn’t my men. As the Dogs surged from 50 points down to take the lead, it wasn’t my four points on the line. And as the Eagles held on with the kind of Cox mark that could have cost us the 2005 Grand Final … well, it wasn’t my team’s come-back that was thwarted. It was just the love of the game I experienced. I didn’t get out of my pyjamas until almost quarter to five.

It struck me that night as I sat atop a pile of boxes filled with a good five years of my life with the Cob and the Cygnet, that for all the gifts it brings, let’s face it, genuine allegiance can be painful. The longer you do it, the longer the investment accumulates, and soon you run out of places to store it. And you can’t bear how full up everything feels. But you can’t throw anything out either, because you’re bound in a closeness which prevents objectivity or neglect. So you just keep packing it away week after week, shoving it on a shelf somewhere and hoping that one day you’ll have the clear mindedness and distance to sort through all the feelings.

Weekly allegiance to a footy team is no different. I am known as an emotional footy supporter. It’s not a casual fling between me and my team. It’s a commitment slated in Membership; I’ve got the ten year pin to prove it. And I wear the wins and losses on my sleeve. Sometimes a girl needs a bit of relief, to sit back, exhale and re-view the object of desire, as it is, unencumbered by the heady swirl of caring. Many a year such reckless caring has stood in the way of my tipping. And the evidence of the bye weekend only confirmed just how well I could do without the burden of allegiance: I tipped a perfect 7, with a margin of 0.

But like most breaks, it was too short.

On Saturday night, we got back on the Horse. Jostling for a good barrier position in the 8. Fresh as daisies. Everything to play for. I fronted up to the tele, with the Cob and the Cygnet, a half intact set of fingernails and a full glass of red.

The boys looked awake. The contest was good. The kids were all over it, Reid and Johnson, and the stallion Goodes was up from the start. The scoreboard was ticking nicely. But the Bombers pressed and levelled.

The Cygnet called for the bed rule, and I tucked him in to ‘Cheer cheer the red and the white …’ Fragile hope wavering on the notes. ‘ … while our loyal sons go marching onwards to …’ Don’t jinx it.

The second quarter see-sawed. The experts were calling it the game of the round. Time on in the second, Sammy Reid marked against the boundary and slotted a slim chance. And another within minutes. Kennelly (who we’ve been bagging for weeks) managed a good-old-days smother to save a certain goal. But the Dons snuck one in against the play, and the half time siren couldn’t come soon enough.

‘You don’t want this half to stop’ called Dwayne Russell. ‘The footy Gods have pulled this script off the top shelf.’ But was happy to feel the heat in some serious Pakistani take away instead.

The Bloods eschewed their routine third quarter slouch, matching the Bombers’ speed and intensity. I was proud of them. I could feel the love rising in the cheeks with the red. Hanners was doing ‘courage’; Benny was doing bananas; Goodes was doing everything. The commentators kept banging on about the superb spectacle. And it was true. The game was played with everything you love to watch – stunning, dramatic scenery, but this time I couldn’t enjoy it. Not with my men on the track. All I could think of was that submerged rock down the way that might trip them up.

With 5 minutes to go, the Swans had a two goal lead, but you knew from this game, that it was not enough. You knew this one was going down to the wire, or beyond. Word came through of a slaughter at AAMI stadium, a lead of a hundred and something, checked only by the rain. Wish it had been my men. And as the Goodes post-siren kick floated impossibly right of screen, I looked down at my raw fingertips and my empty glass, and couldn’t help wondering whether this particular relationship is good for me.

The Cob rang a Swan-loving mate in the first ad break. I could hear his shock down the line: ‘Fucking hell. I feel like I’ve been in a fucking fight.’ He reckons his nose bled from the stress.

The commentators hailed the pressure, the outstanding pressure. But what about the pressure on that other important stakeholder? I taped my fingertips, rolled into bed, buried my head in the pillow and imagined the kind of breeze you can’t get under the roof at Etihad, something, anything to have shifted that kick onto course.

*

This week, the players and coaches and club have assured me that Saturday night has been packed away. Dragged out, aired and sorted, yes. Learnt from, absolutely. But packed away. Because it’s a new week in football, a new challenge, a new commitment. It’s an eight point game, an August final.

I'm not sure if I've found a spot for it yet. So I’ll inhale again and front up to the tele on Sunday afternoon with the Cob and the Cygnet, the one point loss and a cup of tea. I might even bake. And I'll hang on as best I can, hoping that the scenery is vast and open, and that the track is sure underfoot. It’s not long til September after all … and summer.