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In recent weeks I’ve become shyly aware that I’ve taken my eye
off the footy. Haven’t talked about it much; haven’t reflected on it publicly;
haven’t offered any excuses. Just slunk off into the shade really. But
internally, I’ve been musing, struggling with the idea of how to whip myself up
into some kind of return form.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, en route to a morning train, it
finally occurred to me why I may have been staying away. You know the old saying about the watched pot
never boiling? Well I suspect my averted footy gaze has been a similar case of
subconscious protective ignoring; pay scant attention to the Swannies’ weekly
wins and they should continue to simmer up to a full boil. Funny how the footy
lover imagines herself to be so pivotal.
Armed with my new self knowledge, I couldn’t think of a
better incentive to return than the chance to witness the end of the Pie
hoodoo, my Swans versus Swanless Pies, a night out at the concrete bowl with
hopeful men and a fighting chance. But my subconscious protective instinct must
be strong; I was floored by illness on the eve of the game. Instead of making
the trek, I lay on the couch mildly febrile, dosing on hot toddies, hoping
those last four black and white goals were tired hallucinations. One of the
O’Reilly boys sent me a message early the following week: ‘Hope you are
recovering. We obviously need you fully fit – do you imagine you might have
been the difference?’
Last Sunday afternoon, still coughing but right to play, I
decided it was time to stare the pot down, time to put my head back over the
ball. The 3.15 start warranted an orange afternoon tea cake, iced with plenty
of powdered sugar and a French tablespoon of Grand Marnier. I vacuumed the
living room floor and filled the kettle. (We’ve inherited a flat screen TV
which makes me feel the players might step out onto the rug at any moment, and
I’d want to have it nice for them.) The three of us gathered from all corners
of the house and circled kick off with various necessary and unnecessary tasks.
During that first quarter, we were stroppy and inclement,
yelling at the flat new box, the Cygnet disappearing in disgust at his team …
or his parents. Intensity was down, the infallible back line looked human, the
absence of Bolton was gaping. Only the Canadian looked right! The ball ping
ponged into the Doggies’ half, time and time and time again. The temptation to
turn away was too great: the rest of the shopping needed putting away; the
compost needed churning; the Tupperware cupboard may have needed sorting. Only
the kettle was boiling.
But the season, the finals – they can’t go on like this! Ten
or so minutes into the second half, with tea and cake in hand, I forced myself
onto the couch and as the ball spilled to ground metres from another Doggies
goal, I gently coaxed the defence to pick it up, switch it out to the wing and
get the turnover moving. And they did. They took it coast to coast and we
goaled. I turned to the other half who was still grumbling: ‘That’s enough,’ I
said. ‘Only encouragement from now on.’ And so we sat, Ma and Pa, on the couch
with tea, stroking the boys from afar, willing the work, nudging them into
their second efforts, navigating a course for the forward movement, holding the
press in close inside 50. And it worked. The highest score in five seasons.
Delightful that two lovers of the game believe in the singular power of their
soulful barracking.
