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Bob Murphy
WHEN I was nine, I asked my dad if I could change the team I barracked for. Up until that point I'd been a Tigers man (just like my dad), but having endured another flogging on the TV, I thought it was time for a change.
So I asked - or rather, told - dad that I would now be barracking for Collingwood. He didn't really react at all, just said ''no problem'', or words to that effect, and walked off into the kitchen.
As soon as the words had left my mouth I regretted them, and I could tell dad was disappointed. It didn't take long for me to reassure dear ol' da that I was a Tiger again.
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That was in 1991. Just the other day I was subjected to a similar event, and I've been unsettled ever since. Horrified, in fact.
The weekend before last, I took my little family to the footy at Port Melbourne to watch the preliminary final between Williamstown and Werribee. I took Jarvis by the hand and we walked up ahead as the girls tucked in behind us on the footpath.
Jarvis is a chatterer; he could talk a glass eye to sleep. Anyway, he was jabbering on about all sorts of things when he asked me a typical question of a boy coming up to four years old.
''Dad, do you like magpies?''
To which I replied: ''They're all right mate, but sometimes they can be a bit mean and swoop you.''
Then the unthinkable took place. I'll let my son take it from here.
''Yeah, I like magpies, magpies are good. They're good players. The Magpies are my team …''
My wife's face shot up and we both looked at each other in utter confusion and panic. Where had all this come from?
Up until this point young Jarvis had shown no interest in football of any kind. I didn't know he was aware of the Magpies, never mind the notion of pledging allegiance.
What happened next is not something either Jarvis's mum or myself are proud of, but we did kind of, sort of, snap back with: ''No Jarvis! Dad's team is the Bulldogs! Your team's the Bulldogs too!'' I can't remember who said what, but that was the crux of it.
A few seconds passed before his little chin began to shake and a few tears trickled down the cheeks. For the time being it would seem that the Magpies really were going to be my son's team. As perverse as that was, I had to let it be and hope he would crawl back into line like I'd done two decades earlier.
The season began (for this columnist anyway) with me being shat on by a Magpie. It could all come full circle and end in a Magpie cakewalk - with my son cheering them on as the cherry on top of a disastrous 2011. Oh dear, I need a lie down.
Speaking of the Magpies, they are lucky to even be in the grand final after Hawthorn gave them the scare of their lives last Friday night. I almost hit my head on the roof when Lance Franklin dribbled through what I called at the time ''the best goal I've ever seen''.
It's a shame we won't be seeing ''Buddy'' or Cyril Rioli on the big stage on Saturday, but you have to give credit to Collingwood, which got itself off the canvas to sneak home. Luke Ball is one of my favourites, and his goal to put the Magpies in front was full of thought and class.
The whole drama of the night and of the knife's edge of one's football life was too much for Mick Malthouse, and his tears once again showed how much people invest personally in the bounce of an oval ball. It serves us well to cry once in a while, just as it serves us really poorly to stand on a rotating wheel in front of a TV camera. Blimey.
My fancy to win on Saturday is Geelong. The Cats are like the Beatles - they are just that good, and their style of play is pure. They have Luke Balls on every line, players who think about every possession.
I love watching players create things with the ball in their hands, and this year's grand finalists have plenty. They'll line up and face off on Saturday as the anthem plays, and the silence will be sucked out of the stadium by the roars of the opposing tribes. You don't need to have an interest in football for that to give you tingles.
I'm also pleased to report that Jarvis did sidle up to me last night and whisper: ''The Magpies aren't my team, dad, the Bulldogs are!'' With that kind of turnaround and a new coach as well, I can feel good things for my Bulldogs just around the corner.
That's me signing off for another year, without even mentioning my dog. It's been a ride and never dull, just as the premiership decider is bound to be.
WHEN I was nine, I asked my dad if I could change the team I barracked for. Up until that point I'd been a Tigers man (just like my dad), but having endured another flogging on the TV, I thought it was time for a change.
So I asked - or rather, told - dad that I would now be barracking for Collingwood. He didn't really react at all, just said ''no problem'', or words to that effect, and walked off into the kitchen.
As soon as the words had left my mouth I regretted them, and I could tell dad was disappointed. It didn't take long for me to reassure dear ol' da that I was a Tiger again.
Advertisement: Story continues below
That was in 1991. Just the other day I was subjected to a similar event, and I've been unsettled ever since. Horrified, in fact.
The weekend before last, I took my little family to the footy at Port Melbourne to watch the preliminary final between Williamstown and Werribee. I took Jarvis by the hand and we walked up ahead as the girls tucked in behind us on the footpath.
Jarvis is a chatterer; he could talk a glass eye to sleep. Anyway, he was jabbering on about all sorts of things when he asked me a typical question of a boy coming up to four years old.
''Dad, do you like magpies?''
To which I replied: ''They're all right mate, but sometimes they can be a bit mean and swoop you.''
Then the unthinkable took place. I'll let my son take it from here.
''Yeah, I like magpies, magpies are good. They're good players. The Magpies are my team …''
My wife's face shot up and we both looked at each other in utter confusion and panic. Where had all this come from?
Up until this point young Jarvis had shown no interest in football of any kind. I didn't know he was aware of the Magpies, never mind the notion of pledging allegiance.
What happened next is not something either Jarvis's mum or myself are proud of, but we did kind of, sort of, snap back with: ''No Jarvis! Dad's team is the Bulldogs! Your team's the Bulldogs too!'' I can't remember who said what, but that was the crux of it.
A few seconds passed before his little chin began to shake and a few tears trickled down the cheeks. For the time being it would seem that the Magpies really were going to be my son's team. As perverse as that was, I had to let it be and hope he would crawl back into line like I'd done two decades earlier.
The season began (for this columnist anyway) with me being shat on by a Magpie. It could all come full circle and end in a Magpie cakewalk - with my son cheering them on as the cherry on top of a disastrous 2011. Oh dear, I need a lie down.
Speaking of the Magpies, they are lucky to even be in the grand final after Hawthorn gave them the scare of their lives last Friday night. I almost hit my head on the roof when Lance Franklin dribbled through what I called at the time ''the best goal I've ever seen''.
It's a shame we won't be seeing ''Buddy'' or Cyril Rioli on the big stage on Saturday, but you have to give credit to Collingwood, which got itself off the canvas to sneak home. Luke Ball is one of my favourites, and his goal to put the Magpies in front was full of thought and class.
The whole drama of the night and of the knife's edge of one's football life was too much for Mick Malthouse, and his tears once again showed how much people invest personally in the bounce of an oval ball. It serves us well to cry once in a while, just as it serves us really poorly to stand on a rotating wheel in front of a TV camera. Blimey.
My fancy to win on Saturday is Geelong. The Cats are like the Beatles - they are just that good, and their style of play is pure. They have Luke Balls on every line, players who think about every possession.
I love watching players create things with the ball in their hands, and this year's grand finalists have plenty. They'll line up and face off on Saturday as the anthem plays, and the silence will be sucked out of the stadium by the roars of the opposing tribes. You don't need to have an interest in football for that to give you tingles.
I'm also pleased to report that Jarvis did sidle up to me last night and whisper: ''The Magpies aren't my team, dad, the Bulldogs are!'' With that kind of turnaround and a new coach as well, I can feel good things for my Bulldogs just around the corner.
That's me signing off for another year, without even mentioning my dog. It's been a ride and never dull, just as the premiership decider is bound to be.
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