Getting to Know You

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Encountering new people means finding out about them. When people begin to get to know me, pretty quickly they learn that I’ve just finished a Masters in Writing, that I am trying to write, that I work part time in the bookshop of a contemporary art museum. They find that I grew up on art, serving peanuts at the openings of my father’s graphics gallery. They learn that he is French and I am half, that I have a single son and that I live with my partner, the father of said son, that we are not married and he works full time in the arts. They learn that I like to cook and if things progress well, I cook for them. They understand that I will plan dessert first. When they come to my house, they will see my nature in the rooms, on the walls, on the bookshelves. They will slowly discover my personal culture in the aesthetic curation of my home. And in the face of all of that, people, as we all do, will make assumptions about the type of person I am.

And then, there will come a point where I will quite naturally reveal that I watch AFL footy. They will be bemused. And then, I will reveal that I go to games. And bemusement will turn into surprise. The probing will progress and it will become clear that I know many of the players names, not only from my own team, that my knowledge is quite up to date, particular and opinionated. They will say less and less from this point on. Until I am admitting to having been a Swans member for the past 14 years. And then they will look slowly towards the collection of ceramic and paper and plastic Swans in the shadow box hanging on the dining room wall and it will all fall into place. And I will begin my defence. Football is more than sport. It is an arc on which to hang many of life’s philosophical queries. It is a performance.

*

On the days that I work, I buy my coffee from a small French Patisserie close by. The main barista was always reliable. Until he went off to do a personal training course, began his own business and cut his days to three. A new guy came to supplement the stocks. Tall. A little over-friendly to begin with, too eager to step into the role of confidante. He grew a ginger beard and settled down. But his coffee is on the milky side. I’ve been known to go up the road if I can see he’s on the machine.

There’s a particular way for a relationship to develop between a woman and her baristas. I like to dance between a certain demureness – restrained anticipation – and an easy friendliness; it’s a stance which I’ve found inspires the best coffee. From the baristas’ side, they must make certain assumptions about their customers. These boys know I work at the Museum of Contemporary Art. I wear sculpted black. I flick the Herald rather than the Telegraph while I wait.

Last Monday, I waited in my usual position and listened to a boisterous conversation between Mr Trainer and Mr Ginger and another female client, who preferred her coffee familiar.  She was talking about the weekend and ‘the game’ and it being out at ANZ and not liking to travel out to Homebush on a Saturday because it made her feel depressed. Both Trainer and Ginger chimed in. Ginge was going. Trainer was anxious for his own team on Sunday. North Melbourne. Amazing that this had never come up between us, not even on a Monday morning, when I may have rested the sports pages open at the AFL, not altogether unnoticeable in New South Wales. The boisterous female called out, ‘Oooh I’ve got a feeling it’s your year!’ And he made a joke about the weekend’s result as she was half way out the door.

I risked it.

‘Clearly she didn’t see the game.’

They both paused and looked up.

‘And I tipped you guys,’ I added.

‘Everybody did,’ said Trainer without skipping a beat. ‘The guys on Wednesday night said we were a sure thing.’

I nodded. Ginge handed me my coffee.

‘It’s ok. Let’s put it down to Goldstein’s shoulder,’ I offered. ‘Structure was upset, Petrie out of position. But Thomas looked good. Kicked straight.’

I made sure I was almost out the door as I finished my assessment and turned back to see both of them standing stock still with vital smiles across their faces, half unsure, half thrilled. The coffee was the strongest and best that Ginge has ever made. And I’m not sure what the conversation will be on Friday or Sunday or Monday, whether I will be able to maintain the same kind of aloof detachment anymore.

*

It would be hard not to have noticed that there’s a new boy come to supplement the stocks in Sydney town. Buddy this, buddy that. Buddy hell up here!

When he was 17 and I was 30, I, like all blue blooded girls, watched his skinfolds with more intent. I too focussed myself in front of the telly, on those green green eyes and long limbs and on that pure skill and hutzpah. Franklin does add a certain tension to the season for long term Swans supporters. The myth of Buddy coupled with the knowledge that we’re in a long term thing from now on, a second marriage of sorts. We will need to get to know him, and the frisson may or may not give way to familiarity and it may take time.  

I have made a conscious decision since he’s come north, to refer to him from Round 1 only as Lance. I decided that the maternal approach was what was needed for my relationship with Franklin. I don’t want to know who he was at Bondi with while his girlfriend was away, or the races or how he is fitting into Sydney life, who he is lending his car to and whether his puppy is missing him, where he spends his Wednesdays and how he puts his bins out.  

I just want to see how he is going to fit. How are they going to use him? Like some exotic stitch embroidered on a gown, how will they work him around for maximum impact? How will they allow him to shine in the context of the background and still allow the background to do its work without being impeded by the feature? How will they find the right balance between showing everything he’s got and hanging him back quietly at the counter, exposing what is expected of him and then twisting it with the unexpected.

I’m interested in his movement and the new, supposedly straighter arc of his kick. I’m interested to see if Rohan and Jetta can stream towards him on either wing, if Reid can drag a defender, while he takes two, and Tippett can out-wait them in the goal square. Or if McGlynn will eat the crumbs before the lot of them. Saturday night at Stade Australie will provide a field undivided by camera angles, a proposition unmediated by commentators. Boys and grass and ball and a few hours to encounter Lance performing Buddy on home soil for the first time.