Finals Diary: Week 3

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The morning of the preliminary final, Sydney starts to show its colours. It’s contained. A fella sits in front of me on the train in a hand knitted red and white scarf. It could be coincidence, except my radar tells me it’s not. Leaving the station at Circular Quay, I spot a worker wearing a Swans jersey under his suit jacket heading into the AMP centre. Go Swans I say, just as we cross paths, and his concentrated day-face breaks into a childlike smile.

It’s my birthday. The sun is beaming. There’s half a day of work ahead. The gallery has a new show opening – an annual spring event which showcases new Australian artists; it’s in its final stages of prep. A couple of the Indigenous artists from way far north wander into the bookstore with shy English and Swans scarves. 

You going to the footy tonight? I proffer. It’s a universal language. 

Yes, they say in unison. Buddy. 

Ah, I add. And Goodesy and Jetts. 

And Buddy. 

It’s clear who they’ve come to see.

The Cob picks me up with a colour coded cake from the French patisserie. A wicked stack of vanilla dacquoise and crushed raspberry cream topped with a two inch high white chocolate rose, sprayed with pearl and studded with more raspberries. Celebration or consolation; either way it will work. I wonder how J the barista is doing. We collect the Cygnet and head to the last trapeze of the term. He catches a trick he’s been working on for weeks, the penny roll. 50 pennies worth. Doesn’t that Roo Ben Brown wear 50?

But it turns out to be a victory so comfortable that it warrants the sit back and relax. The cake is fine! We heat and sink the knife so it cuts perfectly.

Butterflies underlie almost everything in grand final week. Jitters that alternate between excitement and nerves. We’ve been through it before so it’s not the wide mouthed Gawd! of the first time. And it’s not the See! of the back up. It’s something else, an awareness of what it all means that alternates between background and full frame. My footy synaesthesia has taken hold once more. I filter my Instagram pics in increments of 24 for Rampe’s success down back. I notice my computer is 37% charged, an omen for the game of Goodes’ life. The Cygnet turned double digits on Tuesday, on the 23rd. 

These are the small adjustments of the week, which go some way to recognising the pinnacle. Saturday’s forecast to be 21 in Sydney – for McGlynn the man who missed out.

The Cygnet watched his first grand final at two days old. The Cob wheeled him to the maternity ward tea room to see Port beat the Brisbane champs. The Cygnet celebrated his first birthday the day the Swans won in 2005. A huge possie of friends gathered for an almighty grand final breakfast in Glebe, every one of them dressed in red and white, his cake iced by his aunty in a giant Sydney logo. It was champagne and toy cars in the afternoon as Leo Barry built up to that mark. The Cygnet was taken to the losing grand final at 2 years old. We paid with three years of allegiance to the West Coast Eagles, tiny yellow and navy socks on the line.  

And now it’s Thursday. We’re parked along the couch, the three of us, watching Marngrook. Gavin Wanganeen, the man who made me love the backline, is on the panel and Micky O is on his way. Suddenly Sydney are favourites and some out there don’t like it. They’re talking COLA and stars. They’re talking dollars and dickheads. The secateurs are out and the spring poppies are looking vulnerable. But they’re not talking negatives on Marngrook.

We’re going to sister-in-law’s for the big game. She’ll let us do prawns if we clean the bbq. They always put the Frenchie on dessert. Melissa messaged from Melbourne tonight: I can’t think of Saturday without my heart going boom boom boom. I’ll spend tomorrow trawling for red and white desserts. I’ll spend it at work, where my imagination will be pocketed for moments at a time on the MCG; Jetta in full flight, Rioli meters behind; Buddy seeking the arced white line of the forward pocket and slinging that leg across; Pyke to Kennedy or Pyke to Parker; Rohan running coast to coast; Goodes kicking the sealer. Breathe in. Breathe out. I can’t think of Saturday without a Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing going thump thump thump.

Finals Diary

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The fans on the ad barrack confidently, bedecked in colours, arms raised, fists pumped, animated with all the slow motion intensity of digital editing. Browny calls the score with an overwrought performance: Don’t go quietly. He tells me they’ll take inspiration, passion and energy from me being there. He tells me to leave nothing in reserve. He tells me to go so there’s no mistaking my allegiance. He tells me that they can’t hear me from home.

Week 1

I wake on Saturday to rain in Sydney. The heritage bricks of my suburban footpath are oozing weeds and moss. We haven’t worn crisp clothes for weeks. The Cygnet has taken up cricket for the summer and the Under 12 players’ welcome is supposed to be on this morning with coaches and whites and sausages in the park. I lie in bed, throat sore, dry cough; too early to disembark. Would love a long morning in bed.

I flip the iPad to swans.com and the Cob and I watch a host of things on Swans TV just to hold the day at bay. Dew and Davis head to head, replicating three of Buddy’s best goals. When in doubt, the clowns. Then The Barrel: O’Loughlin and Lewie hosted by Bolton, all three around a barrel somewhere deep in the members’ bar - the elders of the club talking finals footy. Authority and calm, nerve Spackfilla from those who have been there, for those who simply watch on. Maybe I’m too sick to go this arvo.

Each year I try to feel the joy of finals, the renewal of September, the luck bestowed on us by supporters of teams not so lucky. But each year I feel unease, heading in. What if a season’s worth of  strength and self possession was all a ruse and the reality of finals strips us bare. What if a catastrophic domino train of injuries is about to befall the boys on the eve of the biggest game? Valiantly they will make it but destiny will have signed the cheque for the other party. What if they just don’t show up? I want to slink under the doona for the day, check the scores later on, watch a replay only from the nest of knowing.

The rain does not abate. The Cob heads off to a morning’s work. The cricket is cancelled. There’s time to make a birthday cake for sister-in-law, do the washing and hang it on the door frames, seek out the scarves and the binoculars, fry an egg for lunch. Until it can’t be put off any longer and the Cygnet and I are in the car on the long road out to Homebush. I suggest parlour games. He opts for the Klutz Encyclopedia of Immaturity.

Sister-in-law has bought the tickets for this first final –presents for all of our spring birthdays. Tickets in the pocket, a view we never have; we sit dead centre all season. The Cygnet and I arrive as the play siren sounds and the midfield gives its hands a final collective rub. It’s all new from this angle and it takes a while to reorient. Swans are kicking away from us and we hope for little action in the first.

It’s not only the view that’s unfamiliar. None of the Blood ‘family’ are there; no Gwen with her monotone calm and raised finger; no Connie with her frantic pessimism; no O’Reilly Max with his whiskey and his extra curricular commentary. There’s a lone woman in a scarf and headphones beside me, South African it turns out, introduced to AFL some five years ago by a Sri Lankan friend. She barracks beyond her years. There’s a family of four in front, parents book-ending two disinterested kids, the demolition of the Drumsticks as interesting to the smalls as the defensive pressure is to the olds. They’re all dressed in red and white. O’Reilly Max calls in the first break. He’s in the opposite pocket, watching us through his binoculars. I wave to no-one in particular and he assures me that Swans are looking the much better team and the scoreboard will come.

I can’t report on the game. The game was a kind of breath holding exercise. I never got past that feeling of wanting to hide until I knew which way it was going. ‘Bracing’ was the nose, the palate and the aftertaste. It occurred to me later on that sitting on the 50 arc in a final means it’s all or nothing, disaster or elation, you don’t get any of the down time of the link play through the middle. You’re on, or they are.

Browny’s right about allegiance. It brings indefinable things. It brings the butterflies that I didn’t have on Friday night when the Cats were chasing the Hawks. It brings instant, tender solidarity. The unison call of thank you as Rohan gets a free. A slice of birthday cake offered to my South African friend at half time, to have with her thermos of tea.

Of course, there is one moment that stands out. One slow motion moment, as charged as that ad, when time steps out of its regular gait and Lance arcs a kick from the impossible angle. O’Reilly Max watches it depart and we watch it approach. Perfectly off course. And then perfectly turning. I never shared a name with my South African friend, but we hold each other’s unfamiliar hands as Bay 116 collectively rises. A fella two rows down turns to the Cob and confesses: I don’t even go for you guys but that’s one of the best goals I’ve ever seen. There’s no mistaking - you can’t see that from home.

Week 2

The exhalation of a preliminary berth. I go to see the baristas D and J at the coffee shop on Friday. I want to congratulate J on North’s Elimination victory. I want to tell him that I’ve tipped the Roos. I want to assure him that I truly think they can do it.

D is behind the machine. With one of the girls.

How’s our North Melbourne supporter holding up? I ask.

Good, good, I saw him yesterday.

I think they can do it, I offer.

So does he.

J is in Melbourne. He’s gone down the week before and repeated the dose for the semi. I take my coffee and D and I share quips about a peaceful weekend.

The Cob, the Cygnet and I head south that night. The Frenchman and his Countess are off to France on Wednesday and we want to say goodbye over a cheese platter, a selection of pinot noirs and a few quiet moments picking citrus and violets, flying paper airplanes off the deck and looking out at night skies you can actually see.

We find the coverage on the highway, somewhere just short of the National Park. Gerard Whateley is brave. Professional that he is, I can hear the clipped unease in his call. Roos get off to a blinder. Thomas and run and goal after goal. We barrack only for our tips – the Cob and I on the royal blue, the Cygnet with the navy. We barrack for an allegiance which has been tested for a long time without significant reward (although I suspect they half love that, those Shinboners). We barrack for a brother’s right to stick the finger and for a (possible) changing of the guard and for the freedom to feel unaffected. We barrack until we lose the frequency, somewhere just out of Wollongong.

When we arrive at the top of the hill somewhere out of Berry, we find the Frenchman installed in front of the half time coverage. He’s still trying to love the game, to decipher it, understand it and care. We accompany him on the second half ; he is delighted by the see-saw but repelled by the spirit. A Frenchman shy of attitudinal biff?

But it’s a different story on the Saturday. I sit at his feet like the small daughter I was, taking him through the play. The out on-the-full, the holding the ball, the man-on-man and the zone. The captain of one team, the star of the other. The indigenous brilliance on show. I dissect free kicks and kick-ins, interchange and subs, vests and runners, hit-outs, clearances, disposals, bananas … You know, I sought zere were no rules, he giggles.

I could see him falling for something, his engineer’s mind putting the calculations together, something was being built inside of him. My only concern was that it is teal and black.

You know, he told the Cygnet over croissants on Sunday morning. I really enjoyed ze game last night. Your mum as taught me er lot. Really, it was ze best game I ave ever seen. The Cygnet didn’t say much. He had tipped the Dockers.

Week 3

I went to see D and J today. I haven’t seen J since the finals began. D was behind the machine. With one of the girls.

So, it’s the battle of the baristas this week, I began.

That’s cute, replied D.

We pottered through a conversation about whether to go, ticket prices and barcodes, booking times, Homebush versus the SCG. He delivered me a coffee and I took it harbourside. Sydney was perfect today. Blue skies sponged with the lightest cloud. Spring sun.

It occurred to me, allegiance is not as much fun when it has no opposition. I missed J. There was no tension in mutual back patting. I found out later that arvo from a colleague that he’s not working there anymore. D never said anything. It was almost as if he too needed to hold him there, a phantom banter mate to play with.

I’m ready for that hit of finals again, that edge to walk. I may well be in my living room this week; Homebush is far from my favourite place on Friday night. It’s my birthday and I’m leaning towards a great red, a French cake and my two boys. A highway of messages between friends and the gift of a win. Those Bloods might just hear me from home.

Tiger Diary 21.08.2014

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Seems the pre-season is finally over for Tigerlanders.

It's been a hell of a preparation for this two game home and away season. 
From our fabled 9th we play last (StK) and then we play first (Syd) in a crash course audition for September. It's gotta be a win-win situation.
But what are these spiteful words wafting around my footballing soul?…
….surely just a lost verse from a parallel universe

Neither, nor
Neither, nor
The scores are locked
They've played a draw

The little tiger woke up and it was all just a dream, perchance?

Conversation Time

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photo: phil hillyard

On Friday morning I popped in to see the two baristas. They’re working together on Fridays now, instead of Mondays, so we’ve changed our review to a pre. We’re on first name terms now; let’s call them J and D. J’s the Roos man, D the Swan. We exchanged the preparatory hello. North up and down. The loss Sydney had to have. The battle ahead of the Scotts. And then J cut straight to the chase; it was admiration tinged with bitterness. Hopefully my coffee wasn’t heading the same way.

            ‘It won’t be a blow out tonight, you know. Have you got a plan B if Buddy doesn’t bring his A game?’

‘Well,’ I offered after a moment. ‘There’s this guy, big, tall, what’s his name? Wears the number 8. And … oh yeah, there’s another guy, won a few awards, played a while, that number 37.’

J was smiling behind the chrome. ‘You going to the game?’

            ‘Yep! Oh and there’s that kid, shaved head, good mark, got a brother who plays for Collingwood. Number 20. Read or Reid or something.’

J was nodding now. But I had one more to go.

‘There’s a little one too. Midge. One of those gifts from Hawthorn. You know, the little one.  Number 21 on his back.’

‘I’m so impressed,’ J said.

It was quite a list. And– I kept it to myself – there were so many more. A pair of snappy captains. A brigade of greedy midfielders. Parker, Josh and Harry  – they all like a goal. And remember Hannebery?

            ‘I’m so impressed.’ J handed the coffee over the pass. ‘That you know their names and numbers. You’re bona fide, the true deal. Definitely pass the test.’

            I was quietly taken aback. I didn’t realise that, after more than half a season with the machine and banter between us, I was still being appraised.

He’s a serious footy nut, J. It’s couched behind his crafted barista calm. I guess much of the footy chat he gets comes from suspected pretenders. I’ve heard young folk talk the Friday Swans talk under the charms of his dark good looks. But they haven’t walked by Monday. This is Sydney. I showed the correct propensity for detail.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

The coffee was the perfect temperature, strong with a sweet caramel finish.

*

That night, I dropped the tired Cygnet to his grandparents – he opted (post recorder ensemble and the long school day and trapeze) for reverse cycled comfort, homemade chicken soup, a hot shower and the flat screen. I headed to the ground, walked down Moore Park Road alone, overheard a conversation about a virologist who accidentally outbid a banker at a charity auction to the tune of $18 000. He thought the prize was 2 not 20 thousand. The real story was the humiliation of conceding the mistake. I passed the bag check and was on my way to Gate E, when one of a trio of fifty something males expressed his bemusement, at the top of his voice, over an Instagram post of a Vespa that attracted him14 likes. When it was re-posted by a young female office worker, it attracted ten times that many. This is Paddington, Sydney.

The O’Reilly boys were there to shield me from a biting wind. And Gwen was there with her shortest shortbread, a (Captain) Luke Parker badge from the MCG and a handful of card packs for the Cygnet. Bless her! The Cob texted in from Edinburgh:

So if the Cygnet’s at Mum and Dad’s, who’s your date?

J, I tease. The Cob knows the stories.

Nice work. Say hi to him for me.

I haven’t told him about you yet.

Games are questions and answers. One side announces something. What has the other got? The chat with the Hawks last week was superb, a proper conversation. Sometimes there’s genuine, seamless repartee; you go and go until one side doesn’t have time or energy for a final answer and things are left over ‘til next time. Other times, one party can’t get a word in edgeways. Or just has nothing to say. And sometimes the exchange you can hear over your shoulder is more peculiar and telling than the one you’re in. I wasn’t sure what was on the agenda tonight with Essendon.

The Swans were loud early. Up and about and the home crowd with them. We were loving Rohan’s pace in the O’Reilly. Loving him off half back. We were loving the man in the fluoro yellow boots, Malceski, marking intelligently, kicking impeccably. Speculation swirled. Would he or wouldn’t he go? We were fearing him into a ménage à trois with Ross and Kirky in the west. Rohan looked like the right-footed apprentice.

We admired Jetta on Friday night. Turn and he was there; Jetta the conjunction. We used to imagine them, Rohan and Jetta, in 2010 when they debuted together, we imagined them streaming down the wings in unison. The configuration looks different now but it looks good. And the defence, run by a Teddy, held by a Reg. And Rampe, contesting with the same short-groined intensity of the previous #24, down but back up like the bop bag Jude was too.

At the height of the first half poetry, I leaned into one of the O’Reilly boys and mentioned the hands. I’m so impressed with their hands. But it occurred to me that hands are only good if you’re in the right spot. They’re bona fide movers this year, these Swans, familiar with the arcs of the team conversation.

I relish going to the footy for the art of conversation, not only with the neighbours but with the game. Invariably the internal dialogue of a match talks to our own lives, where they stand, how they are proceeding, what views are in need of attention. The Swans on Friday night made a certain early assertion, a kind of pattern to which the opposition might formulate a response.

And then in the third, they just stopped talking.

A different conversation took over. Not one to over hear but one we couldn’t hear over. We’d been aware all evening of a traveling party in the row behind, a hangover from multicultural round perhaps, an Aussie fella and his friends – a solo male from the subcontinent donning a Dons scarf alongside a clean cut couple from Canada, firmly wrapped in red and white and looking for Mike Pyke. Rules had been dished out during the evening. And as the volume went down on the game, it rose in the student ranks.

Early in the third, with three consecutive Bomber goals, our sub-continental brother came to life. Each time an Essendon player received the ball – each and every time, no effective disposal required – he would yell, at top volume: Oh yes! Come on BomBers, with particular emphasis on the second B. And when the ball was turned over, he yelled at top panto volume, Oh, no! Stop them BomBers! Miss Canada, by the fourth, had consumed enough to be barracking with the same verve as a local. Heppell lined up for goal 7 minutes into the third. C’mon number 21, your hair looks stooopid. I’m afraid she’d learned it straight from O’Reilly Max who has taken a strong dislike to the Hurley/Shoenmaker samurai pony. For the hard chase and contested ground ball she cried, C’mon, let’s get this butterball. Intermittently she stopped, What’s happening? I don’t know what’s going on? Mike Pyke where are you? Beacon that he is. For the free awarded to Reid in the square, her diagnosis – Oh it was a chopping, tripping, falling kind of incident. And when the Swans scored against momentum, she cried Aoooorwl; she was all the wolves of Canada.

Miss Canada may not have had the dialect quite right, she may not have known any of the numbers, but I was impressed. I loved the inexpertness of her commentary. Life is part certainty, part chaos; part strong narrative line, part digression; part bold statement and part farce: part talking and mostly listening. The main characters don’t always have the best lines. Sometimes it’s the cameos that shine. No wonder football appeals to writers.

With minutes to the final siren, Miss Canada drew breath and came to a halt. What does Q B E stand for? As things were about to go off topic completely, that big guy, that #37 kicked from straight in front. And with minutes to go the human conjunction sent it long to the square, off Rohan’s hands and into the path of the little one, McSomething, the number 21. Full stop.

Tiger Diary 6.8.2014

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It could only be a Tigers fan that wears the title Tipster on Fire this week, in this 30 person tipping comp, having notched a paltry 4 correct tips this week. 

GO FIGURE.

The theory might be that if I wasn't named such I might have punched you all out. 

The stereotypical "redhead taunted in the playground and goes crazy" snapshot from the Giants game (which I skilfully tipped the outcome of correctly, O best beloved) last weekend saw Reece Conca taunted and tea-cosied with his own jersey - ridiculed beyond the brink - and in front of the interchange gates with almost nobody watching at all he stealthily ran 10 metres and jobbed the culprit in the back of the head.

He will be standing outside the headmaster's office now until long after recess methinks.

Tyrone will have a sparring partner. 

And if any of you start taunting us about finishing ninth again, look out!

And yes Rich - Yes - sure you can be Tipster on Fire again this week if you want.

Awesome.

It's the sigh of the Tiger.

Tiger Diary 20.6.2014

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This is the quietest tiger. 

In outer space nobody can hear you scream. 
Is that where I am Major Tom? That where we are? 
No. No. 
I think then that I'm reporting up from down in the underworld. 

The upside down River Yarra is the Styx. 

The Boatman approaches with his boat's sail tattered, barely managing a bulb-struck moth's erratic flutter, the shreds and threads of it flying like an ensign of permanent defeat, as Hemingway might have had it.
For this season, oh best beloved, the Tigers have had it. 

And the Old Man is dead. 

There shall be no great fish for us to defy the great famine with for now. 

What's left for now is only football. 

To cross the River can only lead you Beyond Blue with the Devil in Hawthorn. 
So we will not pay the Ferryman. 
But we can never never again look back.