bornadog
28-09-2016, 10:07 PM
By WOOFER, Bulldogs Tragician (http://www.bulldogtragician.com/)
The First Quarter: Looking for a sign
The moment the siren goes after our magnificent win against the Hawks, we know we have to, somehow, do whatever it takes to be there when our Dogs take on the Orange Clad Acronyms.
We’ve watched our Bulldogs through interminable dreary seasons. Seasons when we won only just one game. Seasons where we were the butt of jokes and ridicule, where ten goal losses were wildly celebrated as a major step forward. Tough times when we had to rattle tins, knock on doors and dig deep, just to keep a Footscray Football Club team out on the field.
We simply had to be there, all of us who had sat, numb and grieving, after the 97 Preliminary Final That Must Not Be Named (not to mention 1998's Other Preliminary Final That Wasn’t Really Very Good Either). So we looked up flights and researched hotels and fretted about tickets: all of us who'd watched the 2008-2010 era of promise painfully evaporate. Who'd remained stoic during our slow and hesitant steps to a rebuild. Who'd shared the shock and disbelief of a beloved captain walking out.
And as we make our preparations to get there, even though nothing can ever really erase the heartache of all those lost preliminary finals, we shut our minds firmly to the possibility that it could happen again. Instead we cling to the words of our young champion The Bont who said: ‘Why not us?’ And even though I could personally rattle off dozens of reasons why this sort of glory has never quite seemed ‘for the likes of us', we make our choice and begin to ask that same question, but in a different and hopeful way, a way we never have before.
In last week’s blog I called us the Daydream Believers. Even I'm not sure whether I was referring to us, the fans, or our young team who keep carrying us with them on their magic carpet ride.
Three car-loads of The Tragician family have decide to drive to Sydney for the game. We meet up at an ungodly hour on Friday morning to make the nine hour trek. Everywhere on the long and boring stretch of the Hume, we see our red, white and blue colours are flying proudly. Whenever we stop for a break, I try and claim I'm suffering hayfever as I see large family groups who are on the same epic quest as us. People drape their scarves and pose for photos in front of the Gundagai 'Dog on the tucker box'. Flash cars and battlers’ cars, all making their pilgrimage, kids waving out the back at people they don't know. Fellow travellers in every sense of the word.
I'm travelling with my fellow Libber sister, of course. We’re in rollicking high spirits, on the alert for signs and omens as the miles fly by. We pass Beveridge, and Sutton, and Murphy Creek, and a town called Ruffy. The towns with unusual names don’t faze us either. ‘Mittagong? I’m sure I've read it’s an Aboriginal word for Western Bulldogs!’
We bypass any songs that are sad and maudlin on the sound system and sing along, loudly, to those that are uplifting and inspiring. We’re with Aretha in an off key version of ‘I Say a little prayer’. We're with Paul Kelly as he sings:
I'm high on the hill
Looking over the bridge
To the M.C.G.
And way up on high
The clock on the silo
Says eleven degrees
The live version of The Boxer comes on. Just like the Central Park crowd, we sing ‘lie lie lie’, the chorus, with all our hearts, the beautiful anthem of defiance, pain, struggle and resilience.
The second quarter: A Harbour City awash with red white and blue
We’re staying in Parramatta. On Saturday morning we take the ferry trip to Circular Quay. They say 10,000 of our supporters have made the trip. And I reckon we see 9995 of them.
Everywhere you turn, people are wearing our colours with pride; kids are everywhere in the inordinately popular number four guernseys. We strike up conversations everywhere we go with our fellow true believers.
How did you get here? Where are you staying? Do you know how to get to the ground?
We talk about lucky scarves, and how we came to barrack for the Dogs, and do we know anyone who was actually there in ’54?
But for some reason I can't quite explain, we don’t talk about the game, or match-ups, or how we might win, or whether we will win.
I don’t see a single Giants' ‘fan’ before the match. I must disclose, to the shock of many of my loyal readers that I haven’t been an enthusiastic supporter of the Acronyms, failing in my usual obstinate way to appreciate the necessity of spending millions of dollars to create and then sustain them.
I’ve variously described them as a bullet point on a strategic plan. A soul-less and artificial construct. A manufactured entity with stakeholders, not fans.
And that was even BEFORE they not only lured that player who used to wear number 16 for us. And then thought it would be hilarious to do a little bit of social media banter showing two of our life members – that former captain, and their coach, along with Callan Ward smiling broadly under a Lost Dogs Home sign.
Almost as strong as my desire to win for all the hundreds of reasons I can muster, is the bitter insult it would be to our club, to see that team, gifted millions of dollars and countless draft concessions, garner a flag before us who’ve waited so long.
To read all other blog entries written by Bulldog Tragician, visit http://www.bulldogtragician.com/
The First Quarter: Looking for a sign
The moment the siren goes after our magnificent win against the Hawks, we know we have to, somehow, do whatever it takes to be there when our Dogs take on the Orange Clad Acronyms.
We’ve watched our Bulldogs through interminable dreary seasons. Seasons when we won only just one game. Seasons where we were the butt of jokes and ridicule, where ten goal losses were wildly celebrated as a major step forward. Tough times when we had to rattle tins, knock on doors and dig deep, just to keep a Footscray Football Club team out on the field.
We simply had to be there, all of us who had sat, numb and grieving, after the 97 Preliminary Final That Must Not Be Named (not to mention 1998's Other Preliminary Final That Wasn’t Really Very Good Either). So we looked up flights and researched hotels and fretted about tickets: all of us who'd watched the 2008-2010 era of promise painfully evaporate. Who'd remained stoic during our slow and hesitant steps to a rebuild. Who'd shared the shock and disbelief of a beloved captain walking out.
And as we make our preparations to get there, even though nothing can ever really erase the heartache of all those lost preliminary finals, we shut our minds firmly to the possibility that it could happen again. Instead we cling to the words of our young champion The Bont who said: ‘Why not us?’ And even though I could personally rattle off dozens of reasons why this sort of glory has never quite seemed ‘for the likes of us', we make our choice and begin to ask that same question, but in a different and hopeful way, a way we never have before.
In last week’s blog I called us the Daydream Believers. Even I'm not sure whether I was referring to us, the fans, or our young team who keep carrying us with them on their magic carpet ride.
Three car-loads of The Tragician family have decide to drive to Sydney for the game. We meet up at an ungodly hour on Friday morning to make the nine hour trek. Everywhere on the long and boring stretch of the Hume, we see our red, white and blue colours are flying proudly. Whenever we stop for a break, I try and claim I'm suffering hayfever as I see large family groups who are on the same epic quest as us. People drape their scarves and pose for photos in front of the Gundagai 'Dog on the tucker box'. Flash cars and battlers’ cars, all making their pilgrimage, kids waving out the back at people they don't know. Fellow travellers in every sense of the word.
I'm travelling with my fellow Libber sister, of course. We’re in rollicking high spirits, on the alert for signs and omens as the miles fly by. We pass Beveridge, and Sutton, and Murphy Creek, and a town called Ruffy. The towns with unusual names don’t faze us either. ‘Mittagong? I’m sure I've read it’s an Aboriginal word for Western Bulldogs!’
We bypass any songs that are sad and maudlin on the sound system and sing along, loudly, to those that are uplifting and inspiring. We’re with Aretha in an off key version of ‘I Say a little prayer’. We're with Paul Kelly as he sings:
I'm high on the hill
Looking over the bridge
To the M.C.G.
And way up on high
The clock on the silo
Says eleven degrees
The live version of The Boxer comes on. Just like the Central Park crowd, we sing ‘lie lie lie’, the chorus, with all our hearts, the beautiful anthem of defiance, pain, struggle and resilience.
The second quarter: A Harbour City awash with red white and blue
We’re staying in Parramatta. On Saturday morning we take the ferry trip to Circular Quay. They say 10,000 of our supporters have made the trip. And I reckon we see 9995 of them.
Everywhere you turn, people are wearing our colours with pride; kids are everywhere in the inordinately popular number four guernseys. We strike up conversations everywhere we go with our fellow true believers.
How did you get here? Where are you staying? Do you know how to get to the ground?
We talk about lucky scarves, and how we came to barrack for the Dogs, and do we know anyone who was actually there in ’54?
But for some reason I can't quite explain, we don’t talk about the game, or match-ups, or how we might win, or whether we will win.
I don’t see a single Giants' ‘fan’ before the match. I must disclose, to the shock of many of my loyal readers that I haven’t been an enthusiastic supporter of the Acronyms, failing in my usual obstinate way to appreciate the necessity of spending millions of dollars to create and then sustain them.
I’ve variously described them as a bullet point on a strategic plan. A soul-less and artificial construct. A manufactured entity with stakeholders, not fans.
And that was even BEFORE they not only lured that player who used to wear number 16 for us. And then thought it would be hilarious to do a little bit of social media banter showing two of our life members – that former captain, and their coach, along with Callan Ward smiling broadly under a Lost Dogs Home sign.
Almost as strong as my desire to win for all the hundreds of reasons I can muster, is the bitter insult it would be to our club, to see that team, gifted millions of dollars and countless draft concessions, garner a flag before us who’ve waited so long.
To read all other blog entries written by Bulldog Tragician, visit http://www.bulldogtragician.com/