Putting the boot into footy

To be honest, I don’t give a hoot about the big football weekend that is being touted around the news services and public bars of our fabulous country.

Two grand finals in one weekend? Does Australia have enough beer?

So St Kilda and Collingwood wouldn’t get their act together and deliver a professional and final result when they had their chance last weekend. Not being a football lover, I didn’t watch the game, but saw the meltdown unfold on Facebook and Twitter.

No, I’m not sorry I didn’t watch the game. But I am sorry we didn’t get a winning team because now the whole debacle has to be played out again.

What happened? Did the players forget that the purpose of the game is to decide a winner? Or maybe they were a bit upset that the NRL was doing better business at TAB Sportsbet and figured they wanted some of that lolly. And the way to do it was to stage a rematch.

What do you get if you see a Collingwood supporter buried up to his neck in sand? More sand. Or you can insert St Kilda. I really don’t mind. If you asked me which team I wanted to win, I’d say St Kilda, only because I’ve spent some fabulous nights drinking at the Espy and one of my favourite TV shows was “The Secret Life of Us” which was set in St Kilda as well.

To add insult to an already injured weekend, the NRL is posting its grand final on Sunday. If you love football, you’d be in heaven. If you hate football, you’d be in the shopping mall.

Having grown up with football mad brothers, my mum and I quickly became accustomed to retreating to other parts of the house when the television turned to football. My dad would umpire the game from his chair. He’d be gesturing and lecturing in such a passionate manner that I kept the emergency room on speed dial in case he had a heart attack.

As a teenager, I learned that it was always the most opportune time to ask him if I could borrow some money or go to some dance. He always said yes. Ask him at any other time, and he wouldn’t just say no, he’d tell me “not in my lifetime”. Or words to that effect.

It seems that men globally know how to play football better than the actual players who have done the training, are getting paid the big bucks and are on the field right now doing their job.

“You bloody moron, pass him the ball would you, you ding bat!”

“Oh for heavens sake, kick the damn thing you idiot.”

“Where did you learn to play football? From your grandmother?”

For a while there, I dated a fellow whose rugby league team consistently came last on the ladder. Year after year, they played with hope and they died in vain. I used to wonder why they bothered showing up at all, and wasting all that energy, only to get injured and lose. Much better to arrive, shake hands, say “you fellas take this one” and then everyone can go have a beer. And not get dirty.

Anyway, when his team lost, as they invariably did, he was so consumed with alternating levels of anger and grief that I literally could not speak to him for a day. Nor he to me.

Early in the piece, I foolishly said what most women who don’t give a rats about football say. “Oh for goodness sake, settle down, it’s just a game.” As I said, foolish mistake. Apparently there is pride at stake. Who’d have thought?

Happy footballing if you’re a mad keen supporter of one (or both!) of the codes. Happy shopping if you’re not.

PS: one last joke, only because it is funny. How many Collingwood fans does it take to change a lightbulb? None, they’re all content to live in the shadows.

Print this post

Tell me what you think:

*