southerncross
19-04-2007, 05:37 AM
From hero to peer (http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/from-hero-to-peer/2007/04/18/1176696916404.html)
I HAVE three nephews, all under four. Jimmy, Joe and Billy — all three as cute as buttons.
My performance as uncle really comes down to two main attributes. The first is being able to dangle them upside down from their ankles; the second is to hide behind my sister's couch and scare them as they approach. The techniques involved in these two manoeuvres are quite delicate and subtle to the untrained eye.
The first thing that jumps out at me when I visit is their obsession with superheroes. It is not uncommon for all three rug-rats to be running around dressed up as Superman, Spider-Man and Batman.
It got me thinking about my own heroes as a young boy, and how they have changed over time. I say heroes, but it can be role model, icon or the more modern "man crush".
There's no rules here; your hero or someone you look up to can be anyone you want it to be, and for whatever reason. For my nephews, all you need are super powers and an all-too-revealing Lycra get-up and in their eyes you become the cat's pyjamas.
From a very early age, my heroes were always footballers. I was like most kids I grew up with in that I knew everything about all the players on the list of my team (Richmond), and suspected that they were from another galaxy.
None of my friends barracked for the Tigers, and we rarely used to win, but that didn't diminish my pride for the yellow and black.
My first ever hero was Dale Weightman. "The Flea" was coming to the end of his career, but his powers hadn't left him, as far as I could tell, and I was watching closely.
It was around this time that my family would travel down to Waverley most Saturdays to watch the big league.
It always seemed that Collingwood was playing someone, and my brother and I used to watch Peter Daicos and marvel at his wizardry. We still barracked for the Tigers, but we felt that Daicos was the player we most wanted to be like.
As I rolled into my teens in the mid-'90s, my hero worship morphed itself into a two-headed dragon — Britpop had taken youth culture by storm, and my love affair with the brothers Gallagher began. My love for football remained intact, however, and the Tigers of '95 were as exciting as the quartet from Manchester.
It may have had something to do with the hair of Richardson, Daffy, Campbell, Harrison and Bond. I was so enamoured with these style icons that I tried to grow my hair long so I could also play football with it tucked behind my ears. But my curls proved most difficult in this experiment, and I've cursed my locks since.
It wasn't too long after this, in 1998, that the Richmond Football Club accepted me for a week of work experience. Most of my heroes were still there. Richo, Cambo, Harro and Daff. The hair was much shorter, but it was them all right, and I got to hang out with them before and after training. I was like a pup with two tails.
Except, of course, for the moment when I was locked in the players' video room happily watching Richo's highlights package, unaware that the big fella himself stood behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Mind if I have a look at that, champ?" The temperature in my face rose sharply and my legs threatened to give way. Richo was a hero to me because he gave everything he had, like a Pro Hart painting, but even more thrilling.
He was a gentleman through the whole ordeal, but as I handed over the remote, I shuffled out of the room as quickly and as quietly as I could to avoid further embarrassment.
It's been nine years since my time on the Tigerland payroll ($5 a day), and I have met Matthew on many occasions since as we share mutual friends.
I have recalled that little anecdote for him many times in front of some of these friends, but he denies the story and claims he would never call anyone "champ".
But it's in print now, so I guess I got the last laugh.
It is quite bizarre to spend time with people and call them a friend when a decade ago you had a poster of them on your wall or their number on your back. Since I've been at the Bulldogs, my own hero worship has changed.
While I still marvel at the skill and toughness of the best AFL players, I now know that they are not from another galaxy — just different neighbourhoods.
The game has taken another heavy hit this week. Not one winner among them. The game is so competitive now that a "win at all costs" attitude has spread through all 16 teams. But there are costs — heavy ones.
Players and the league should always be thinking about the bigger picture. The game in that sense for me is about a 12-year-old boy or girl buying their team's jumper this week and deciding which number to put on the back. I know that when I was that age and I stitched No. 9 to the back of my Tigers jumper, it meant a lot to me.
The Tigers and the Bulldogs have quite a recent history of angst and tension.
Terry Wallace and Nathan Brown used to be in the red, white and blue, but the list is a lot longer. Leon Cameron, Jade Rawlings, Ben Harrison, Gordon Casey, Chris Bond, Oberon Pirak and my hero himself — Wayne Campbell. These football identities have all changed sides in recent times.
There are a few layers to this rivalry. We meet again tomorrow night. Will it be war? I don't think so; there are real wars happening around the world. But it will be some battle.
I really hope that it will be a night of victory for the Bulldogs, and also a night for all kiddies to come along in droves to watch their favourite players. If only I could convince Jimmy, Joe and Billy to come along as well. Apparently a Spider-Man film is a more enticing option.
I HAVE three nephews, all under four. Jimmy, Joe and Billy — all three as cute as buttons.
My performance as uncle really comes down to two main attributes. The first is being able to dangle them upside down from their ankles; the second is to hide behind my sister's couch and scare them as they approach. The techniques involved in these two manoeuvres are quite delicate and subtle to the untrained eye.
The first thing that jumps out at me when I visit is their obsession with superheroes. It is not uncommon for all three rug-rats to be running around dressed up as Superman, Spider-Man and Batman.
It got me thinking about my own heroes as a young boy, and how they have changed over time. I say heroes, but it can be role model, icon or the more modern "man crush".
There's no rules here; your hero or someone you look up to can be anyone you want it to be, and for whatever reason. For my nephews, all you need are super powers and an all-too-revealing Lycra get-up and in their eyes you become the cat's pyjamas.
From a very early age, my heroes were always footballers. I was like most kids I grew up with in that I knew everything about all the players on the list of my team (Richmond), and suspected that they were from another galaxy.
None of my friends barracked for the Tigers, and we rarely used to win, but that didn't diminish my pride for the yellow and black.
My first ever hero was Dale Weightman. "The Flea" was coming to the end of his career, but his powers hadn't left him, as far as I could tell, and I was watching closely.
It was around this time that my family would travel down to Waverley most Saturdays to watch the big league.
It always seemed that Collingwood was playing someone, and my brother and I used to watch Peter Daicos and marvel at his wizardry. We still barracked for the Tigers, but we felt that Daicos was the player we most wanted to be like.
As I rolled into my teens in the mid-'90s, my hero worship morphed itself into a two-headed dragon — Britpop had taken youth culture by storm, and my love affair with the brothers Gallagher began. My love for football remained intact, however, and the Tigers of '95 were as exciting as the quartet from Manchester.
It may have had something to do with the hair of Richardson, Daffy, Campbell, Harrison and Bond. I was so enamoured with these style icons that I tried to grow my hair long so I could also play football with it tucked behind my ears. But my curls proved most difficult in this experiment, and I've cursed my locks since.
It wasn't too long after this, in 1998, that the Richmond Football Club accepted me for a week of work experience. Most of my heroes were still there. Richo, Cambo, Harro and Daff. The hair was much shorter, but it was them all right, and I got to hang out with them before and after training. I was like a pup with two tails.
Except, of course, for the moment when I was locked in the players' video room happily watching Richo's highlights package, unaware that the big fella himself stood behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Mind if I have a look at that, champ?" The temperature in my face rose sharply and my legs threatened to give way. Richo was a hero to me because he gave everything he had, like a Pro Hart painting, but even more thrilling.
He was a gentleman through the whole ordeal, but as I handed over the remote, I shuffled out of the room as quickly and as quietly as I could to avoid further embarrassment.
It's been nine years since my time on the Tigerland payroll ($5 a day), and I have met Matthew on many occasions since as we share mutual friends.
I have recalled that little anecdote for him many times in front of some of these friends, but he denies the story and claims he would never call anyone "champ".
But it's in print now, so I guess I got the last laugh.
It is quite bizarre to spend time with people and call them a friend when a decade ago you had a poster of them on your wall or their number on your back. Since I've been at the Bulldogs, my own hero worship has changed.
While I still marvel at the skill and toughness of the best AFL players, I now know that they are not from another galaxy — just different neighbourhoods.
The game has taken another heavy hit this week. Not one winner among them. The game is so competitive now that a "win at all costs" attitude has spread through all 16 teams. But there are costs — heavy ones.
Players and the league should always be thinking about the bigger picture. The game in that sense for me is about a 12-year-old boy or girl buying their team's jumper this week and deciding which number to put on the back. I know that when I was that age and I stitched No. 9 to the back of my Tigers jumper, it meant a lot to me.
The Tigers and the Bulldogs have quite a recent history of angst and tension.
Terry Wallace and Nathan Brown used to be in the red, white and blue, but the list is a lot longer. Leon Cameron, Jade Rawlings, Ben Harrison, Gordon Casey, Chris Bond, Oberon Pirak and my hero himself — Wayne Campbell. These football identities have all changed sides in recent times.
There are a few layers to this rivalry. We meet again tomorrow night. Will it be war? I don't think so; there are real wars happening around the world. But it will be some battle.
I really hope that it will be a night of victory for the Bulldogs, and also a night for all kiddies to come along in droves to watch their favourite players. If only I could convince Jimmy, Joe and Billy to come along as well. Apparently a Spider-Man film is a more enticing option.