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| photo: mark metcalfe/getty images |
On the first morning we woke in the rental house we still
live in, the Cygnet toddled to the back door. He was two and a half. He stood
in the frame looking out over the grass of the yard and the lane that extends
away beside the house and without turning back to me said, Can we go home now?
His words dipped into my own uncertainty. I’d never lived in
this part of town. I didn’t know the roads, the direction of the corner store.
I didn’t know the noiselessness of suburban back streets. I wasn’t even sure
yet of the route to get back to the coast I grew up on.
Seven years later, we know every vessel of the place. So
when we received the ‘vacant possession please’ notice a few weeks ago, the
same sense of pathlessness overtook me. And this time there was school to think
about and friends’ houses and the well mapped routes to workplaces - a whole
system of positioning ourselves in the world would have to be unpicked and
stitched in somewhere else. Despite my reassurances, the Cygnet laid his head
in my lap and wept when we told him: There’ll
never be a home as good as this one.
Saturday mornings came around and I headed out to look at
properties to rent … or buy. Please can we reinvigorate the Sydney
cost-of-living allowance? For everyone? I stood in the wide window of a sixties
gem by the Cook’s River, the escarpment staring heavily over my shoulder, a
motley carpet underfoot and tried to imagine myself waking there. I walked the
ashen blue tiles of an unfamiliar kitchen wondering if our breakfast banter could
exist in that space. I stared at an entire wall of men’s trainers which dressed
a soundproofed spare room and wondered whose shoes I would be fitting into.
David Lynch came to mind. In all those new spaces I was looking for much more
than a floorplan.
*
I am sure that during the summer, Lance had a few of those
moments. He said it himself - leaving Hawthorn was the hardest thing he’s ever
had to do. And as he strutted through a lakeside preseason and kicked back in
the Entertainment Quarter with yesterday’s papers, I’m sure he caught the odd
glimpse of himself in the red and white and took a second look. He’d been poo and wee since seventeen!
I have no idea then why the public relations or sports
psychology departments of football clubs tote the ‘just another game’ line when
a significant player is coming up against their old team for the first time,
why they feed it through the player’s mouth when other players, current and
past, when supporters, commentators – humans generally – and history are
humming the familiar tune of feeling. Must be the parent-style veneer of ‘it’ll
all be ok.’ Isaac Smith called it like it was: I’d say it’s the most anticipated game of the year. Bet the big fella
would love to kick ten on us.
Despite an 8am start for recorder ensemble, a full day of
school and an hour and a half of trapeze, the Cygnet accompanied me to
Homebush. Please can be get rid of the stadium deal? For everyone? The mood was
up, a buzz spreading for the tall forward line we all wanted to acquaint
ourselves with. We sniggered at the roster: Franklin off, Reid, Goodes and
Tippett on. Reid off, Goodes, Tippett and Franklin on. Goodes off, Tippett and
Franklin and Reid on. The Cygnet and I met O’Reilly Boy Max in the stands (our
Cob was in Melbourne for work). Connie was there in front, her husband at home
with a bad back, her sister in his seat. Nigel was there with Gwen, mother to
us all.
I’m always grateful when the Swans start fast; it still
feels like a luxury. They looked sharp. Hannebery was playing mine mine mine from the start, he and
Kennedy bullying Hawthorn in the middle. Reid had his marking mittens on.
Tippett just looked strong. Lance was still finding the posts. There was plenty
of appetite and some good movement. Really it’s a game of appetite and
movement. And gee I like that Swan Bird.
Having polished off his pie and chips, the Cygnet took to
his book in the second, a tale about a Nanny Pig leading kids astray in a
fictional town. Lance led his kicks the same way. I couldn’t work out whether
either of them were genuinely un-phased by Hawthorn’s building system and run. The
margin narrowed as the behind tally rose and took our collective systolic
pressure with it.
Gwen brought out her Mother’s Day treat at half time - a
Tupperware of chocolate delight, topped with a crumble of Peppermint Crisp.
With the first bite, I suggested she might like to get it down to the dressing
room.
It’s not only the players who have to find themselves at
home in their new team. We too inhabit our team like a home. We know its solid
structures, its foundations, pillars and walls. We are aware of the loose
swinging doors that need work. We imagine renovations that need to happen and
regret some that have. It took me a while to see Teddy without the sash. It
took some weeks to adjust to Mummy in the red hooped socks and is odd to see
him in grey.
We need to find a place each new season for the expensive
decorative elements we buy, the best
place to show them off to guests. We need to walk past them many times in the
corridor until we feel they’re truly part of the scenery. Sydney supporters
don’t seem sure yet whether Lance really is the centrepiece he’s been sold to
us as. The jury still seems hung – half hubristic for the snare and potential,
half cynical about the cost. And perhaps he feels the same way. The apology to
Birchall said it all. And frankly I kind of like the moments of doubt.
Our heads were so deep in our own back yards in the third
that we didn’t notice Rioli’s early exit. The Swans’ hands and pressure were
largely sound, but when the Hawks took, and immediately added to, the lead,
there was a feeling that they could really run away with it. We know the
neighbours. We remember the battles we’ve had from year to year. We know which
ones we can get along with and which drive us totally mad. Parker stalked
Shoenmakers like an alley cat and minutes later with his best buddy Gibson on
the mark, Lance avoided another shot on goal. Connie turned with urgency: We just need Buddy to kick a goal and then
the flood gates can open. The Cygnet finished his book and was ready to
barrack.
Lance kicked a goal five minutes into the last quarter.
Swung it accurately from just inside 50. The smile enormous. And moments later,
from a hunched position that looked like heavy fatigue, suddenly he’s on the
ground and on the end of Jetta magic, prone and poking his toe at a 10 point
lead. O’Reilly Max had only one word: le
déluge. It was a flood of pressure and belief built on
the apparent subconscious permission from one centre half forward to his new
team.
*
The Cygnet and I drove back down Parramatta Rd. It was just
past 11pm. Can we talk about those words
which are hard to define without using the word itself? he piped. Sure, why
not? I was to find them and he would make an attempt. Tradition. Conscience. Attribute. Word. I was thinking of home.
We made an offer to our landlord last week and found out
that he’s accepting it. It looks like we might be staying after all. Of course
Nic Nat will tell you that nothing is certain until you have a contract in your
hand. But it looks like we‘ll be kicking on in our own back yard, arcing the
Sherrin around the hills hoist, using the telegraph pole in the lane to shade
the eyes against the winter twilight, standing in the door frame looking west
as the sun sets.
