Ghost Dog
12-07-2012, 09:15 AM
Great article. Wonderful when he writes about football. :D
ONCE realising we weren't quite ready for the peace and tranquillity of suburbia, I must admit I miss my morning train ride to the Kennel.
There's something romantic about nursing your cup of coffee and your book as you gently sway back and forth, snaking your way through town.
There's also something irresistibly childish about arriving at Dennis station on the Hurstbridge line and smiling as the announcer calls, ''Next stop, Dennis.'' I could never resist looking at my fellow commuters, trying to pick if there was an actual Dennis among us.
The Hurstbridge line was my Mississippi River, and allowed me to indulge my inner Huck Finn. Like I said, I miss my train trips. These days I have to settle for the odd tram ride into the city; it's not the same, but it'll have to do for the time being.
Advertisement
Last Friday night, I headed to the MCG with a few other cripples (Gia, Cooney and Addison). We play Carlton in a couple of weeks, so I guess you could call it a business trip. I hadn't been to a non-Bulldogs game all year, and I like to get to at least a couple. It's good for a different perspective, but mostly I find it's good to occasionally just enjoy the game for the spectacle, even lose yourself in it.
My tram only took me about halfway there, but I didn't mind as I reckon the walk to the MCG is as meaningful as anything you might see at the ground. I enjoyed watching all the different people the game draws, especially the young family who walked a few yards in front of me. Two little girls weaving in and around mum's ankles and swinging from dad's arms, all decked out in their Carlton navy blue.
It took me back to when I was a little boy and we'd park the car at our friends' place just off Swan Street and join the march to the MCG. We were decked out in our tribal colours of the time, and the build-up of excitement as the Great Southern Stand came into view is something that has never left me.
You just don't get blase about playing AFL footy if you made that walk to the 'G as a kid, I reckon. I thought about my family, my dad, and made a mental note to go to a game with him soon.
Arriving at gate seven I almost bowled over Gia, who had the tickets. Adam and Dylan showed up, and we were moving towards the turnstiles when a Collingwood supporter sidled up to me and said hello, before asking a question that took a minute to sink in. ''Not playing tonight?'' It was a strange moment, but not the strangest for the night as it turned out.
We took our seats and only then did I start to ponder the big question: ''Who am I barracking for?'' Opposition research aside, one does not simply go to the football as a neutral observer. Carlton or Collingwood … it was almost perverse. I figured I'd just let the game start and let my heart decide - best to keep logic out of it.
As a somewhat neutral supporter it's the characters that draw me in, and both sides had a few. Daisy Thomas plays the way a schoolboy attacks the game in the first minutes after the lunchtime bell rings - flat out and without a care in the world. Travis Cloke is like a student teacher let loose in the same playground, bigger and stronger than everyone else. It's not until he walks back for a set shot that he becomes everyman and 75,000 supporters feel the anxiety of lining up for goal through him.
I watched Matthew Kreuzer for Carlton. I've been a fan of his for a while; could he be more humble? His game this night is heroic. And then there's Mitch Robinson, now he's a character. Mad probably, good fun to watch, and he's turned himself into a bloody good player.
The game was a beauty and I found myself willing for an upset by the Blues. The crowd's roars dipped and lifted like an old fishing boat, then the world stopped. Sharrod Wellingham smashed into Kade Simpson, and like a vacuum, the air was sucked out of the lungs of the entire stadium. Then one Collingwood supporter two rows behind me let rip with, ''Weak as piss Simpson!''
The comment was so outrageously false that it drew a few awkward laughs. Simpson was brave, and is now badly hurt. You don't have to be a footballer to feel his plight, but me and my three injured teammates sat in silence and watched it all unfold.
After a week of extraordinary pressure on them, and with an injured mate in their thoughts perhaps, the Blues skipped to a lead that wouldn't be clawed back, not with Chris Yarran carrying the ball like that anyway. Halfway into the last we decided to leave early; you can't do that as a fair dinkum supporter, but you can as a neutral.
It was bitterly cold, and as I headed for my tram I lifted my head for the briefest moment and saw the hot jam doughnut van. I thought about dad again. That was his thing too - after a cold day at Waverley Park watching Peter Daicos, we'd have a doughnut each. I grabbed two, one for me and one for dad.
Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/next-stop-hit-by-injury-sitting-on-the-sidelines-20120711-21w9l.html#ixzz20M3n33zx
ONCE realising we weren't quite ready for the peace and tranquillity of suburbia, I must admit I miss my morning train ride to the Kennel.
There's something romantic about nursing your cup of coffee and your book as you gently sway back and forth, snaking your way through town.
There's also something irresistibly childish about arriving at Dennis station on the Hurstbridge line and smiling as the announcer calls, ''Next stop, Dennis.'' I could never resist looking at my fellow commuters, trying to pick if there was an actual Dennis among us.
The Hurstbridge line was my Mississippi River, and allowed me to indulge my inner Huck Finn. Like I said, I miss my train trips. These days I have to settle for the odd tram ride into the city; it's not the same, but it'll have to do for the time being.
Advertisement
Last Friday night, I headed to the MCG with a few other cripples (Gia, Cooney and Addison). We play Carlton in a couple of weeks, so I guess you could call it a business trip. I hadn't been to a non-Bulldogs game all year, and I like to get to at least a couple. It's good for a different perspective, but mostly I find it's good to occasionally just enjoy the game for the spectacle, even lose yourself in it.
My tram only took me about halfway there, but I didn't mind as I reckon the walk to the MCG is as meaningful as anything you might see at the ground. I enjoyed watching all the different people the game draws, especially the young family who walked a few yards in front of me. Two little girls weaving in and around mum's ankles and swinging from dad's arms, all decked out in their Carlton navy blue.
It took me back to when I was a little boy and we'd park the car at our friends' place just off Swan Street and join the march to the MCG. We were decked out in our tribal colours of the time, and the build-up of excitement as the Great Southern Stand came into view is something that has never left me.
You just don't get blase about playing AFL footy if you made that walk to the 'G as a kid, I reckon. I thought about my family, my dad, and made a mental note to go to a game with him soon.
Arriving at gate seven I almost bowled over Gia, who had the tickets. Adam and Dylan showed up, and we were moving towards the turnstiles when a Collingwood supporter sidled up to me and said hello, before asking a question that took a minute to sink in. ''Not playing tonight?'' It was a strange moment, but not the strangest for the night as it turned out.
We took our seats and only then did I start to ponder the big question: ''Who am I barracking for?'' Opposition research aside, one does not simply go to the football as a neutral observer. Carlton or Collingwood … it was almost perverse. I figured I'd just let the game start and let my heart decide - best to keep logic out of it.
As a somewhat neutral supporter it's the characters that draw me in, and both sides had a few. Daisy Thomas plays the way a schoolboy attacks the game in the first minutes after the lunchtime bell rings - flat out and without a care in the world. Travis Cloke is like a student teacher let loose in the same playground, bigger and stronger than everyone else. It's not until he walks back for a set shot that he becomes everyman and 75,000 supporters feel the anxiety of lining up for goal through him.
I watched Matthew Kreuzer for Carlton. I've been a fan of his for a while; could he be more humble? His game this night is heroic. And then there's Mitch Robinson, now he's a character. Mad probably, good fun to watch, and he's turned himself into a bloody good player.
The game was a beauty and I found myself willing for an upset by the Blues. The crowd's roars dipped and lifted like an old fishing boat, then the world stopped. Sharrod Wellingham smashed into Kade Simpson, and like a vacuum, the air was sucked out of the lungs of the entire stadium. Then one Collingwood supporter two rows behind me let rip with, ''Weak as piss Simpson!''
The comment was so outrageously false that it drew a few awkward laughs. Simpson was brave, and is now badly hurt. You don't have to be a footballer to feel his plight, but me and my three injured teammates sat in silence and watched it all unfold.
After a week of extraordinary pressure on them, and with an injured mate in their thoughts perhaps, the Blues skipped to a lead that wouldn't be clawed back, not with Chris Yarran carrying the ball like that anyway. Halfway into the last we decided to leave early; you can't do that as a fair dinkum supporter, but you can as a neutral.
It was bitterly cold, and as I headed for my tram I lifted my head for the briefest moment and saw the hot jam doughnut van. I thought about dad again. That was his thing too - after a cold day at Waverley Park watching Peter Daicos, we'd have a doughnut each. I grabbed two, one for me and one for dad.
Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/next-stop-hit-by-injury-sitting-on-the-sidelines-20120711-21w9l.html#ixzz20M3n33zx