Day 3

Stopped at the lights in the city just after midday, I reflexively opened Tinder and had a quick swipe. I matched with a woman with a kind smile and before the lights turned green I’d written to her

“You’re gorgeous”

“Must be just the light in the photos”

“And humble too!”

By the time I arrived at my AA meeting in South Melbourne we’d arranged to meet outside the Northcote town hall at 3pm and go for a walk. On the drive over I’d worked out my opening line

“Hey Sue! It’s not just the light you really are gorgeous”

She was, sparkly green brown eyes, fine features, upmarket hippy dress sense, skinny and taut. She reached up and took my sunglasses off.

“You’re gorgeous too!”

“I just got these sunnies, are they working for me”

“Totally”

We began to walk. There was no small talk we just dropped in deep. She had been married for 18 years, had a 5 year old girl, a close friend had died and the marriage had been torn apart by grief. Her husband hand ended up with the wife of the friend who had died. There was no sense that we’d just met, it instantly felt like talking to an old friend. We walked to a nearby park and sat on a bench. Stories of pain and loss and addiction and post marriage dating poured out completely naturally from both sides. An hour passed in what seemed like minutes. We walked to Northcote Social club. I ordered a Coke and told her not to not drink I my behalf

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t”

she said and ordered a soda water.

She told me she was a kinesiologist with 20 years experience. Had made a living a bought a house doing it. She said it was a mixture of Eastern and Western practice. I asked her to show me something. She stood up and asked me to do the same. She stood in front of me, locked eyes with me and told be raise my arms to horizontal. She applied some downward pressure on my forearms and I resisted. Then she flicked my shoulders and applied the pressure again and my arms moved. As she was doing this we locked eyes and I was hit with an explosion of energy and her face began to glow, she went from pretty to overwhelmingly beautiful, otherworldly. I felt full of warmth and peace. I started grinning uncontrollably. She repeated this procedure a few times but I was having trouble listening to what she was explaining to me. She put my arms back at my side and sat down opposite me. The light went out. She was back to the woman I’d been with a couple of minutes before

“What the fuck was that?!? How do you DO that?”

“It’s something I’ve had to learn to control. I only really access it for treatments. It was a problem when I was younger and didn’t know how to harness it.”

“This is a GOOD first date. Where should we go next?”

“I need to get back to Castlemaine.”

She’d explained she had a house in Northcote and a house in Castlemaine (Northcote North as some call it)

“I’ll give you a lift! We can have dinner there. Beats catching the train!”

“I dunno about that Joe. I’ve had dinner in Castlemaine too many times. Where do live?”

“Footscray.”

“Let’s have dinner there. I still have never tried Ethiopian.”

“Me neither!”

Soon she was in my car looking at the school photos of my daughters on the dash. The conversation didn’t stop. No topic led to a dead end. Everything flowed so naturally that I could relax and enjoy it. We had a quick tour of my apartment then walked through the buzzing streets of Footscray to an Ethiopian restaurant. We peered in through grimy windows at a dimly lit nearly empty room. A young kind with white blond hair gave us the OK sign and waved us in. Sue fell in love with the waitress and told her how beautiful she was. Our conversation, like a catch up with an old friend, barely stopped to sponge up the rich curry-like dishes.

“I’ll just check the trains”

she said as we got the bill

“OK, but I don’t mind driving you, I like driving.”

“It’s an hour and half!”

“I know.”

I smiled and she shook her head.

I floored it round the C shaped onramp and my powerful black Commodore hammered from zero to a hundred as we hit the freeway. I put on Tom Petty. Runnin’ Down a Dream. She said she’d never heard Tom Petty.

“I wish I was you then Sue!”

I said and turned it up to full.

It was night now, we’d been together 6 hours. I asked if could hold her hand as I drove. She said yes.

“I’m feeling this deep intense connection with you Sue. Are you feeling it too?

“Yep. I am.”

She smiled.

Learning To Fly came on and she realised she DID know Tom Petty.

We arrived in Castlemaine and the stars dazzled down on her yard. She gave me a tour of the house. We kissed. A peck. Then she realised she’s left her car in Kyneton. We were back on the road. We made it to Kyneton train station. We made out in the car. Said our goodbyes.

Flying down the freeway home I messaged friends to tell them the good news. The previous Sunday a friend from AA had told me to hand over control of my romantic relationships to my higher power. Sue seemed like an instant reward for letting go. Suddenly cars were looming up behind me. I was under power. I pulled off the road just as I ran out of petrol. I called Sue who had to get up 6am, it was now 1. She was bright and breezy and said no worries. When she arrived an hour later with a jerry can I gave her a big bear hug. It was hold now, and I held her close as cars flew by. We went and got petrol together, found our way back onto the freeway and parted ways again

“I miss you!”

I yelled as she drove away. I was lit up all the way home.

The next day a long message came through. Sue had reflected on the experience and decided we should just be friends. As she’d told me the night before she’s not one give up her “womb wisdom” easily. It felt like a hammer blow. I’d pencilled Sue it for at least 20 years of glorious happiness. For a starring role in The Joe Show.  I messaged back to say that was fine but could we talk on the phone. She sounded different. Told me she was scared. The following day I got a message saying that she had a strong feeling that what we had was a one time thing and that we should never see each other again.

“Maybe I was just meant to introduce you to kinesiology? ”

“Nah I reckon you’re making a mistake. But I love you anyway. Bye Sue”

 

I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings

Comin’ down, is the hardest thing 

Tom Petty

 

Day 2

I was just on the 2 hour mark when I started to run out of things to say. It became a strain. The date had been full of good honest chat. About how we’d both been in love with people who weren’t in love with us. About her going to the Landmark cult and calling up her ex and getting closure about it. About my Bipolar, my alcoholism. Why I can’t keep these things to myself on a 2nd date I’m not sure. I guess it’s really about trying to seem dark and fascinating. C is a primary school vice principal, you can tell she’d be good at it. But as was walked after dinner a certain flatness overtook the conversation. If we couldn’t last 2 hours without keeping each other entertained what future could there be for this thing? Back at her car there was no hint that we would kiss, no plans to meet up again. Flat.

At AA the previous Friday night I had met B. I had attended a meeting I wouldn’t normally go because I was trying to stay close to someone who had just returned to the fellowship after an 8 month relapse. B was his mate. I was drawn to her the moment I saw her. Hovered near her as we walked to the Indian restaurant, sat opposite her. My brain fired in a way it only does when I get a crush. Suddenly I mad a million questions and a million things to say. She also had her shit together but in a more dramatic job as a Greens campaign manager in a tightly fought election. She was 8 years sober. Possessed a powerful focussed energy. Even when she said she was a vegan the crush grew. We all went out for ice cream after dinner. 4 alcoholics sober and laughing hard at 10:30 on a Friday night. It emerged that B was married, that it was on the rocks, that they we sleeping in seperate bedrooms. In my crush mind this was all easily overcome. After we all parted was ways I started chatting to her on facebook messenger. We chatted til 1am, I told her I had a crush on her. She gave me nothing in return. She ended the conversation with the words “Night dude”

None of this seems to be heading any closer to a relationship. So I’m left with my self. No work now so I smoke weed at night and wake up round 9 completely daunted by the day. After this writing I might try to leave my most active addiction, my phone, at home and walk along the river to the Chinese temple. I’ll break up the day with an AA meeting at 12:30. I’ve already read my first article about climate doomsday. I’ll swipe on dating apps and absorb all that loneliness by osmosis. I’ll drive over to Northcote and do some letterboxing for B as a sort of punishment for having a crush on her. By the time I’ve been to cricket training and another AA meeting I’ll be feeling great for the last few hours before bed. Endure the mornings, enjoy the evenings. My patterns as a sober alcoholic haven’t changed much from a drinking one.

Day 1

My 9 year old daughter, S, was comforting me about my dream

“But you’ve driven plenty of trucks Daddy you’ll be fine”

“I know that sweetie, it’s just fear, it often doesn’t make any sense. Like your fear of going to the supermarket at the moment’

She looked at me with big understanding eyes and gave me a cuddle. I felt blessed, and vulnerable.

The night before I’d picked up a days work that involved driving a truck. It was for my old competitors, occer blokes from down the Peninsula who always somehow made me feel small, without ever really giving me much thought. It was an opportunity really, to get some more casual days in the film industry and keep things ticking over. I can drive a truck. I’ve driven trucks every day for months. Never put a scratch on one. But this an old fear. Maybe dating back to when I touched the gutter on my truck driving test and failed. Maybe due to a truck being such a masculine object and the mastery of driving one such a masculine pursuit. Who knows, but the fear is lodged deep. Then of course I have a dream about it. I speak to S about it because she is like me, unlike her 5 year old sister R, S will live with strange fears others can’t understand. I was born this way and so was she. We’ll share this with each other I hope, halve the burden as life comes at us. We both know The Fear.

From now until Monday morning when I’m in that truck The Fear will bob up from subconscious. I’ll meditate and talk to friends and play cricket and do another job and go on a date with a vice principal. And whenever my thoughts relax the fear will bob back up. It’s almost not worth the money, which isn’t great, to do this job on Monday. But if I’m going to tell S she just has to brave the supermarket I have to drive that truck, because it scares me.

Before AA I didn’t used to think of it as fear. I thought of it as anxiety. Fear is the AA term and fear is a word I like. Fear is something you can do battle with. Fear must be defeated, anxiety can mostly just be medicated. .

 

A few things I’ve learnt since leaving Essendon for the Bulldogs

None of my Essendon supporting mates, and they are legion, are going to leave the club over injections, mystery potions, the cult of Hird, whatever it takes, hard-right Liberals or any other moral/ethical issues.

Many neutral mates also think I have done a very stupid thing. To quote one St Kilda fan “you just don’t change teams after you’re about 7 years old.”

Bob Murphy is not just a small-town intellectual, he’s also a very, very good footballer.

My new Bulldog comrades are a warm, world weary, generous bunch of people who’ve done things like: take me into their homes and bought me pizza and beers after knowing me for two hours, given badges, toys and memberships to my kids, arranged for me to hoist the banner and get into the rooms after the game and generally taught me how to face up to the footy every week knowing that your team is probably doomed to some kind of ritual humiliation.

Watching Footscray at the Whitten Oval after a short train ride, with a cold can and a huge bag of chips, and change from 10 bucks, is a good way to start a weekend.

If Jake Stringer was the size of Tom Hawkins we’d be in the finals.

When the Bulldogs win their next flag it will mean more than I’ll ever really comprehend as someone who hasn’t lived it their whole life. But it’ll still mean a lot to me.

You can watch a whole season of AFL and not visit the MCG. But it’s not good for your soul.

Even some Bulldog fans think my decision is incomprehensible “Look, basically, if the Bulldogs decided to hire Rolf Harris as their coach next year, I’d find some way of justifying it. If Tom Liberatore spent the off-season in Iraq, fighting with the ISIS, I’d think, he must have his reasons. You just don’t change teams.”

If Jake Stringer took that chest mark against GWS we might have missed the draft pick we need to help Jake Stringer up forward

The Western Bulldogs should be called Footscray. I live in Sunshine, but I understand that the Bulldogs are the “team of the mighty West”. New arrivals to this massive growth corridor would work it out too, give people more credit. History and heritage matter.

4:40 on a Sunday is a time you make a club regularly play footy only if have something against them.

The Bulldogs are an open, honest, community-engaged footy club, led by a Coach and a President who are genuinely good and principled people. They have a long way to go to get the players and the belief to win another flag. The future can be bright, but it must be fought for.

Essendon is…a nationally recognised corporate brand…good at winning games of footy…the team my Dad barracked for…a huge pile of fond memories…morally bankrupt…that ex I’ll probably never really get over.

Jake Stringer is my new favourite player, but I’ll always love Jobe.

There’s a bloke I met just last week who’s been a Bulldog all his life. His Mum always told him he’d see plenty of flags in his time. On the day she died in 1989 he walked out of the hospital and turned on the car radio, and heard the Bulldogs were going to have to merge or fold. He went to the pub, and stayed there a long time.

Whether James Hird has one hand on Essendon’s next Premiership cup or not, I’ll be barracking for the Scraggers.

Natural Justice

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written anything about the Doggies. In that time, I’ve watched a Gold Cost game where the bloke sitting next to me forensically went through why all the Bulldogs recruiting had been wrong and they needed to start from scratch. It was depressingly convincing. A Dockers game I remember nothing about, and last week’s game against the Lions that was so bad I left at half time and caught the train back to Sunshine station, only to find that the back wheel had been stolen off my pushbike. I trudged home in the freezing cold, cursing football, the Western Suburbs and anything that combined the two.

Meanwhile, my former team the Bombers hand been hanging into the 8 by the skin of their teeth. Then Jobe went down. There’s no player I love at the Bulldogs like I still love Jobe. Then the show cause notices. I felt quite guilty when I heard that news. The main reason I’d forsaken the Bombers is because they refused to take responsibility for what they’d done to the players. Now it seemed like the players could be forced to take responsibility and if they copped 2-year bans, basically destroy the club. The team I’d abandoned had looked top four, now another season was sputtering out. It was all pretty grim.

By silent agreement none of my Bulldogs mates or I had decided to go the Collingwood game. After last week, what was the point?

The first quarter is lively, fast moving, both teams look sharp. Towards the end, scores are level and Bruce says something about the Bulldogs having plenty of good first quarters this year. Let’s not get too excited.

 I see on Twitter that Gerard Whateley is going to interview Essendon President Paul Little at 4pm. I watch the 2^nd quarter whilst listening to the interview. It’s a strange experience. Little is talking tough about the injustice befalling Essendon as I watch a slow motion replay of Libba being mauled by three Collingwood thugs. Liam Jones chases hard and lays a brilliant tackle, as Whateley asks why James Hird is joining in the Federal Court appeal. Cloke kicks a goal as Little continues the corporate spin about the principled stand they are taking. Some bloke wearing number 25 for the Bulldogs keeps bobbing up, and, as Whateley is comparing the Essendon case to the Lance Armstrong case, he kicks his 3^rd goal. I flick the sound back to the game, and what a joyous, pulsating game it is. There’s some hope here for the Bulldogs, and some of their supposedly dud recruits are starting show a bit of something. I keep Paul Little switched off.

In the 3^rd quarter, Bontempelli, the young bloke with the World Cup worthy name and nose, and the one player all Doggies fans believe in, kicks his first goal. It’s a crucial one and a heart swelling moment and his teammates ruffle his hair and hug him. At the other end Jamie Eliot, a classic model lairy little Collingwood tip rat, too scrawny for his stupid tattoos, is keeping them in the match. For the Doggies it’s the suave and debonair Giansiracusa getting it done at the end of the 3rd.

 The young and the maligned keep the Doggies in front all through the last but Cloke continues monster them up forward. With a couple to minutes to go it seems like the eternally evil Magpies might triumph over all that is right in the world. After the last few weeks it’s pretty much what I expect to happen. But then, a turnover, a fast break and ball ends up in the hands of Tutt, another of the “unfulfilled talent” brigade. He slots it through beautifully and the upset is complete. Channel 7 cuts straight to the news, denying Bulldog fans the natural justice of watching our team sing the song. One for the Federal Court I reckon.

 

The final frontier

As I neared the top of the escalator a woman in Bombers gear leant forward to get a closer look at the badge on my chest.

“It IS Stewart Crameri.” she said “Good onya.”

with an unspoken “wanker” at the end.

I laughed it off. If only she knew I was a treacherous bastard who was going to my first ever Essendon game as a non-Essendon supporter. Perhaps less would have been unspoken. I was late to meet my Bulldogs mates, two separate groups.  They were getting to know each other when I finally got to the bar. Bringing people together, I thought, and gave myself a silent pat on the back. The mood was upbeat. The whole pub cheered the Dees home on the TV and then spilled out towards Docklands stadium.

My Doggies mates stayed upbeat. Their biggest concern was that we would play Carlisle into form. None of the Bombers mates I’d invited had shown up yet, but I was hoping to see them inside. I thought the Bombers would be far stronger, almost in a different weight division. I worried about a blow out, a 15 goal flogging, but realised this was classic “Danny from Droop St” thinking and tried to put it to one side. After only 6 weeks training I was already thinking like a Bulldogs fan.

Before we even found a spot to stand a huge roar went up for the Dons first goal. It was scarily loud. I felt the power of a Dons home crowd from the other side and it was intimidating. Two more goals and my pre-match dark worries resurfaced. The crowd around me was mostly Bombers, though I wondered if the guy next to me had just yelled Go Dons or Go Dogs? Or was I just projecting? Maybe I was unsure what I was going to yell when the moment came? My Bombers mates arrived, not all greeting me warmly. What did I expect?

Suddenly the game started to turn, the Dogs smashing in and winning the ball. When Dalhous marked in the square I let out my first full-throated “Go Doggies!!!”

As the game went on it became obvious that the Bombers tonight were not the same Bombers that nearly beat Hawthorn a few weeks back. It was surreal to see their best forward, Hurley, playing on our best forward, Crameri. It wasn’t that long ago I expected these two to take the Dons all the way, standing next to each other in the forward line. Now they stood next to each other in different jumpers and neither team looked like it was playing top 4 football. I mentioned this to my Bombers mates as we went into half time with the Doggies 14 points up. This time they genuinely blanked me. They were pissed off. It occurred to me that this game was actually a must-win for the Bombers. All their early season promise would be snuffed out if they lost tonight.

The full strength beer flowed freely in the Locker Room at half time and I ran into an old Bomber, one of my father’s generation. He saw the Crameri badge, and we had an awkward conversation above the din, but he walked away looking confused. It was hard to yell in a few words why I’d changed teams. A ran into another Bomber mate who was there with his wife and three kids. When he asked about my conversion I gave him my usual spiel about Hird’s million-dollar holiday in Paris on members coin, and he nodded along. His 12-year-old boy looked aghast though, like he was going to cry, I found this a touch unnerving. Meanwhile my Bulldog mates were cock-a-hoop. A half of footy like that, with young Doggies crashing in bravely and knocking bigger opponents off the ball was enough for them to feel warm and fuzzy at half time.

We didn’t quite make it back out of the bar til half way through the third quarter and things started to get a little hazy. The Bombers ground their way back into a lead by 3 quarter time and they looked like they had a bit more on the line.

Late in the last quarter the Dogs kicked a goal to get us back in with a chance. My Bulldogs mates and went up as one. An Essendon supporter turned to us and and said

“When did you last win a flag?”

What a smug prick. His voice reeked of entitlement at being from a powerful club, and disgust that his team couldn’t finish these minnows off. I wondered if I’d ever come across like that as an Essendon supporter? Probably.

The Dons get home, “winning ugly” they’ll call it, like the Crows did after last weeks game. I’ve made it through the toughest test so far. I feel a little punch drunk, and a lot actual drunk, but it’s over. It’d be easy to say the Doggies were gallant in defeat, but that kind of thinking becomes a bad habit. Old habits are hard enough to break God knows I don’t need any new ones.

 

 

 

We bundled our 4 year old, Scarlett, into the most Red White and Blue clothes we could find and I headed off with her to Sunshine station. It was her first ever live game of AFL and my first as a Doggies supporter. She jogged along beside me keeping pace with my long stride and when we got to the platform there were a few more Doggies fans soaking up the Autumn sun. As the train doors shut someone from the station overhead yelled “Go Doggies!” Scarlett started and looked up at me, unsure. I smiled back, chuffed that we were now both proper Westies.

We found a spot high up on the wing. The surreal sight of a half empty TV studio with the roof ripped off was a long way from the first game I’d been taken to at Windy Hill or the ‘G but it would have to do. There was a definite lack of atmosphere, and the Crows didn’t seem to show up for the first 20 minutes. As we banged on the first 4 goals, Scarlett made some friends with a tribe of three Doggies siblings. I tried to get excited about our great start, but something seemed false about it, and no Doggies supporters around me were smiling. One of them joked to Scarlett that Dogs are always in front like this, and though too young to quite get sarcasm, she looked skeptical.

By half time the game was an even, low standard affair. My technical explanations to Scarlett consisted of “we’re the blue team trying to kick it through the two big sticks”.  She nodded that she got it, but it was hard to tell. She definitely got the hot dog. By the 3^rd quarter she and the 3 pups were more interested in playing on the gadget she’d brought, and I could hardly blame them. This game was not climbing to any great heights. The consensus at three quarter time was that the teams were pretty evenly matched, but that the Bulldogs would likely lose, as losing is what they were more expert at. My Bulldog mates were dragging me further from my old habits of hope and into their wintry certainties of failure.

There were a few high fives as we hit the front in the last quarter. But then the seemingly inevitable forehead-slapping mistake, and defeat was sealed. When the siren sounded Scarlett was having a little nap across the seats, with her Bulldog toy as a pillow. My fellow Doggies seemed to cheer up once the game was over, as if they’d all got what they came for and could get on with their lives. This was all very different from an Essendon/Collingwood match on Anzac Day, but the less said of that the better. On the train home a woman in her 60’s in full Bulldogs regalia got up to get off at Middle Footscray station. She looked Scarlett and I with our Bulldog toy and scarf and matching Stewart Crameri badges. She shook her head and just said

“Child abuse.”

and hopped off the train.

 

A nice day on the hill

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” – Martin Luther King

The planning started early in the week. Saturday was my daughter’s 1^st birthday, it was also the day my partner, L, was returning to work and to top it off the Bulldogs were playing not one but two games against Richmond. My Doggies mates were pretty pumped that a re-born Footscray had a home game at the Whitten Oval for the first time in years. Getting to either game was going to be a challenge.

Ruby was born in Sunshine and I made the argument that a morning at the Whitten Oval would be a perfect way to spend her first birthday. L eyed me sceptically and called her mum to come out for the day as “back-up”. My eldest girl Scarlett said she’d rather hang with her Nanna than go to the game. Then, on Friday evening, little Ruby coughed, three times. L gave me “The Look”. My chances of dragging her to the Whitten Oval the next morning evaporated.

Plan B: At least watch the game. When my mother-in-law arrived I was frantically cleaning the house. Surely I could be the perfect house-husband/father and still watch the game? As the first bounce approached I started to get the kids ready to go to the park. I packed the stroller, got hats on, loaded up the snacks. I must have been getting a bit frantic by the time I was putting on their sunscreen and Nanna enquired “Are you trying to get rid of us or something?”

Suddenly I was Basil Fawlty and footy was my rat.

“No, no, not at all! Get rid of you? Nonsense, take your time, by all means. Lovely day out there though, sun is shining. What’s that Ruby, park? Wow Nanna she just said park for the first time. Anyway is there anything else you need? No? Good. Great. No rush. Oh you’re heading off, already are you? Off you go! Have fun girls!”

They trotted off happily with about two minutes to spare and I raced into the office, pulled out the iPad, plugged it into some speakers and closed the blinds. It was a perfect day for football, 25 degrees and sunny, and I was sitting in darkened room watching on a mobile device while the game was played in a TV studio with the roof closed. So much for my day of community footy! I checked in on the 2’s. Will reported they’d won by 117 points. Nice day on the hill, he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The Tigers start with a quick goal and my head drops. Three games as a Bulldog and I’m already a fatalist. Then we swing forward with real purpose and I swell with pride. Watching my new team gives me the same feeling as watching Friday Night Lights, where our team is always up against insurmountable odds and any ground gained has some underlying moral significance, a sub plot. After two losses it already feels like the season is on the line, and we’re playing to prove ourselves worthy of the competition.

Crameri gets an early one and the team seems to find another gear. Fast moving, hard tackling and a fierce drive, this is great footy to watch. After our 2^nd goal, Shane, a Doggies mate, texts me “Hope we play the Hawks in the grand final. I wanna beat the best.”

We immediately start making forehead-slapping mistakes, turnovers and kicking into the man on the mark, but before the dread can set in Lin Jong bursts through with a sensational running goal. The #Linsanity dad jokes start flying into my dark little room: great Linside midfielder, straight off the Linterchange bench, Lincredible, Linpressive. This is a good day!

My girls get back and my four year old sits on my lap. Look Scarlett, I say, the Doggies are winning. They can’t lose all the time, Daddy. She’s right, I hope. The Tigers start finding something, Riewoldt stops sooking and starts marking and slotting goals and by three-quarter-time I’m feeling a bit shaky about the result. I wander into the front yard and Scarlett has her Bulldog toy and is bandaging it up with toilet paper. As I head back inside she whispers “Night night, dog dog”. Ominous.

The smartarse texts stop during the heart-in-mouth final quarter. Surely they won’t be overrun? Crameri kicks a crucial goal with 6 minutes to go. My bond with Crameri as a fellow Essendon turncoat grows ever stronger. Down the other end, Riewoldt misses a crucial goal. We’re gonna find out a lot about this side in the last five minutes…

They fall behind with only three minutes to go. The arc of this game has been short and it has bent towards injustice. Maybe the improvements in the side will have to be consolation enough, maybe victory and premiership points are too much too ask.

But then, GIA!!!!!!! We’re back in front. We dig in to muscle the ball to the line for the last 90 seconds and victory is ours!!! Strangers are hugging each other in the stands, or so I imagine. It’s time to get dinner on.

As I fire up the oven Shane texts me to see if I can sneak out for a pot, but my day of perfect parenting is nearly complete and I’m not going to blow it now. We’ll go watch the Giants game somewhere next week I reply.

“Sounds good”

“Sounds like 2-2”

“You haven’t been doing this long have you?”

 

Unlucky Dan

-There was once upon a time a youth called Unlucky Dan. Wherever he went, and whatever he did, and with whomsoever he served, nothing came of it: all his labour was like spilt water, he got no good from it.- Ukrainian folktale

I rode my pushbike at dusk through Melbourne’s industrial heartland, trying to hold my nerve as trucks rumbled past me on the trip from Sunshine to Yarraville. Will, a Bulldog-supporting mate, had invited me round to watch the first game of the season, my first game as a Doggies supporter. Danny, another Bulldog mate, was making the trek over from Carlton to witness the conversion. It was a bit awkward on arrival as the last time I’d watched a game here we were with Will’s housemate Dave, a Bombers man. Dave was like most Essendon supporters I’d spoken to, sympathetic to my disgust with the club, but never contemplating acting on it themselves. To Dave I was like a general without an army, charging into battle with no clear path to victory.

The contrast between this game and Essendon’s was stark, even in the scheduling. Friday night in prime time on Channel 7 versus Sunday night on Foxtel at the fag end of a two-week opening round. The pre-game talk was all about Robert Murphy’s 250^th. Both Dan and Will were reminiscing about witnessing his first game, where he’d kicked the winning goal. Just before the bounce Will’s mate Nerida arrived. She mentioned that Footscray had just made the district cricket final for the first time in 34 years. It wasn’t hard to tell she was a proper Westie. I couldn’t imagine a Bombers fan discussing how the Essendon cricket team had fared, but then, had I ever met a Bombers fan who was actually from Essendon?

Stubbies were cracked and there was hope in the room as the ball was bounced on a new season. It took 7 seconds to feel the pain of being a Bulldog fan, a lightning clearance out of the centre and an instant goal to West Coast. I had my first hint of the fatalism that lies just beneath the surface of every Doggies supporter, as they groaned a tired and well-worn groan. Two minutes later the Doggies got one back and hope was restored. The season had started, a goal had been kicked, and anything was still possible.

Crameri was looking likely and when he slotted one I jumped out my chair, and told the others he was Essendon’s best forward and they were going to love him. Crameri got half a million dollars when he switched from Essendon to Footscray. So far all I had was an ill-fitting members hat and two stubbies from Will’s fridge.

After that things got pretty grim. I definitely felt passion for the team, but it was expressed as frustration. Half way through the 2^nd quarter I uttered my first ever “We” when referring to a team other than the Bombers. After another failed sortie forward I yelled,

“Why don’t we have a bloody forward line??!!”

All three Doggies fans laughed, and started an obviously familiar refrain; Forward line, why would you have a forward line? Well there was Barry Hall. Ah yes but he came too late. Maybe if we’d kept Acker and had Barry Hall, maybe we could have won a prelim. Another group sigh. Prelims. Prelims are the end point of most Bulldog conversations. 97, 09. These were traumatic events that no Bulldog fan seems to have in any way come to terms with.

The Eagles, led by that crafty Frenchman Le Cras, extended the lead past 6 goals.

Nerida mentioned her Pop had forked out for Foxtel this season so he could watch all the Doggies games. Waste of money, she said with a bitter laugh.

I thought this all seemed a bit grim for round one, but Danny, who’s wife’s Ukrainian, pointed out that though they were Western Bulldogs their outlook was very Eastern European. Where Essendon have our King Arthurs and Camelots, the Bulldogs have only tales of shifty foxes and cruel Czars, of faint hopes tragically dashed by evil stepbrothers .

At half time the pizza arrived and we got talking. Nerida and Will were born and bred Westies, Nerida in Footscray, Will in Williamstown. Danny had asked his football agnostic Mum to buy him a footy jumper when he was a kid. A Footscray jumper was what came back from Northcote K Mart and he’d been Footscray ever since. They talked about obscure games from 2004 the same way Bombers fans talked about Premierships. Already they were discussing when they could check out Footscray in the VFL as a way not to think too much about the hiding they were copping in Perth. Ah well, I said, at least Bob Murphy’s playing well, and we all agreed.

In the 3^rd quarter the ball was fumbled across half-back and Nerida cried out, I miss Addison! Will was shocked and amused, Addison? I know. Sorry. That must be one of the saddest phrases in the English language.

The game was clearly a goner, and we were talking over the top of it now. Will was philosophical, It’s OK when it’s like this and you know it’s over early, it’s when they give you hope it really sucks. The others murmured in agreement and I asked them if they’d rather have Essendon’s moral problems or the Footscray’s football problems.

“Football.”

They all responded in unison.

It was at this point they all made it pretty clear they wanted me to shut the f*** up about Essendon and allow them to wallow in the loss. Giansiracusa was subbed on and again Nerida was the harshest, Gia always likes to stand up when it doesn’t count. He’ll probably kick 3 goals now.

There were a few glimpses of a better future as the game petered out. Young Libba started to get the ball, Jake Stringer took a mark in the forward line and I said I thought he looked like a likely lad.  Will responded, yeah and he’s only 19!

The game finished and I was starting to contemplate the ride home, the trucks now coming at me from the pitch darkness, when Danny offered to give me lift.

On the way home Danny and I talked about anything other than footy.

“Thanks for the lift mate.”

“No worries, you comin to the game next week?”

“Yeah mate, I’ll be there.”

 

First Essendon game on the outer

I sat down on my own to watch the Bombers game on TV.  We…. sorry….. They  banged on the first 4 goals and that classic opening round question popped into my head. How far this year? North was backed into raging favouritism by the time the game started and we’d  (sorry, force of habit) blasted all that away in an instant. Underrated again. Only a fan knows how good his team’s players actually are. How to remain neutral with Jobe getting in and under, scooping out possession after possession, Fletch bombing long and new recruit Chappy slotting through classic Chappy goals?

Do neutral observers actually appreciate all this? Besides if I was really a Bulldogs fan now I’d be barracking for North. But try as I might I couldn’t pay much attention to the players in blue and white. Granted they didn’t get near it much but it was more than that. I’d always watched footy seeking out black and red jumpers and their proximity to the ball. The other side’s players were just a blur of obstacles, their goals cursed, feats of rare brilliance all that was acknowledged. This is how most fans watch the footy, one eyed. My eye was supposed be elsewhere. But it was not.

I told myself I was just watching for the sake of numbing myself, so I could watch the Bulldogs on Sunday and really barrack.

Then late in the 2^nd quarter Joe Daniher ran back with the flight of the ball and took a pack mark. He stood up and I saw his face. A Daniher face.  Unmistakable. When I was a kid my Dad used to get free beers cos bartenders thought he was Terry Daniher, they looked that similar. There’s nothing more Essendon than a Daniher, and this one was a giant Daniher. Could he be as good as the mythic Neale, who every Bomber kid was told about in hushed tones

“You think Terry was good, shoulda seen his brother”

So as  we/they romped home I found myself thinking the same thing as last year. The only thing that’ll stop this team is ASADA. With a cloud still hanging over 10 players, it’s something all Essendon supporters have in the back of their minds. The commentators drew the day’s events into the narrative; they’d avoided all the distractions, winning had healed the wounds. Like Kennett before him at another club Paul Little was shown grinning, as if this win somehow legitimised his presidency.  Bruce McAvaney declared it  “one of the great days for the club, only the last day in September could compare”.

I remember this well from last year too. I remember one game in particular in Perth where Hird was likely to be sacked that day and the boys triumphed and Hird was dragged into the huddle to sing the song. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, and neither could I. But how had last season ended?

Before the game Timmy Watson had said Jobe and the players were “in a bubble”. Perhaps when a team wins like the Bombers did last night that bubble expands to take in all the fans. Everything seems right with the world, all sins are forgiven.

The TV screen was full of more legends from my childhood; Bomber Thompson purring in the coaches box, Tim Watson giving him a hug after the game, and Fletcher, of course, eternal and eternally humble. Even Wayne Carey was there, perhaps proving that anyone’s reputation can be rehabilitated in the AFL. The truth was I loved seeing Bomber and Timmy grinning from ear to ear and embracing after their interview, both had seemed quite tortured last year. At that point I got a text from my oldest mate, a bloke I used to collect cans with at Windy Hill as a 5 year old. We must have been to hundreds of Bombers games together.  He wrote

“Come back Joey! Don the sash mate”

When I watched the team sing the song I found my mind ticking through the names of all the players as the camera scanned around. When I watch the Bulldogs on Sunday I’ll know just a few. I’ll be desperately hoping to feel some passion. And at some point James will get a phone call in Singapore, and Essendon will want to have a little chat.