Byes

I took my bye bye a week before the Swans. Left Sydney behind and flew three hours up the east coast to a pocket of paradise north of Cairns. Yirrganydji country. Rainforest country. As far away as you can be and imagine from the southern states.

Home was a bungalow in the treetops, looking out on the Poplar gums and the Coral Sea. Barely a sniff of footy up that way. I nearly roused the Cygnet on the first night, twin share and reading the Wet Tropics hardback under the covers; mention of Courtenay Dempsey and Jarrad Harbrow on the page of notable locals. And my ears pricked up half way out to the continental shelf and outer reef, when one of the snorkeling instructors started describing a game from Melbourne that an unsuspecting European should definitely try to get to. ‘Who do you barrack for?’ I risked, as she passed me size 3 flippers. ‘I’m a Hawthorn girl. And you?’

The lack of footy went mostly unnoticed in such environs. We spent our bye lifting sand with our toes, combing the endless beaches for staghorn corals and urchins, making cities of driftwood and shells. The Cygnet refined his body surfing for hours in 24 degree seas, while I lay entranced by the sun dancing off the horizon. When do you get to sit long time and watch such a thing? We passed our bye breathing the green of pristine forests, bobbing among the gardens of the Moorish Idols, reef sharks and the starfish and remembering what it feels like to be warm.

The core of the trip was a significant birthday for my mum. We’d spent most of Saturday eating and drinking and finished the day in my bungalow with a low key evening of wine and cheese, presents and words. The Frenchman was keen to get back to his room for the Rugby in Auckland. I had my eye on the Swans in Melbourne. We hadn’t touched the tele all week. Would we even get the telecast up here? Hurrah. Picture, but muted so the merriment could go on. Each glance put us further out ahead; no need for constant attention.

By 8, my sister and her toddler had departed. By 9, the Frenchman couldn’t wait any longer. Half time in Melbourne. The Cygnet fell asleep happy, while my German brother-in-law and I chatted on, one eye on the screen. I tried to teach him about marks and kicks and Lewis Jetta. But in earnest we talked of life and Europe, of kids and country and what it means to find ourselves related. He left at three quarter time. 


The Cygnet was folded into his sheets, his sun kissed face arranged in satisfied bliss. Alone at last, cross legged on the end of my bed, I raised the volume ... on a completely different ball game.

The Bombers were everywhere, devouring the goalposts and the momentum. But ... it had been such a good day, such a good week, such a good lead! I pleaded to God knows who – to the age old trees and reef - to keep the balance our way. The geckos devoured the moths above the mini bar, while I rode the bumps in strangled silence, the Cygnet continuing his dreamy sleep beside me. How would I tell him in the morning? With three minutes to go and the lead at ten points, I brushed my gums until they bled. And as the ball came long into the Essendon forward line, I willed 10 seconds to fly by as 2. Long, lifted ball, due to land on the fifty and … no! … a man there! Mark. Siren. Sheer relief and then … mark?! But before I could descend, the umpire called it quits. And alone in space squatted the notable local man, Courtenay Dempsey. Thank you far north Queensland.

*

Our bye segued into their bye. But back down in rain-soaked Sydney, treading the days on the familiar grid of our city life, the lack of footy is not so easy to bear. We’ve filled the past week with all sorts of subconscious, unintentional, B grade footy mysticism. Like sorting the sugar packets at our local café into the numbers of our favourite Swans. (Did you even realise they number sugar packets?)

Or discovering mediocre-quality chocolate footy eggs and fashioning a kind of altar out of them in the dining room.

And just yesterday afternoon, I found myself refreshing and resorting the laundry peg bucket, ridding it of faded miscellaneous and topping the white up with … red. The Cygnet stood aghast in his school uniform and footy boots, soccer ball in hand. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in rightful earnestness.

Thank God the season resumes tonight!