Its an emotional thing

Last Saturday, I ventured to the G, as I have many times before.

This time was different - superficially, the old members stand had been swallowed and relocated, bay 13 was now a civilised array of seating, supporters were not "going home in the back of a divvy van", the 4n20 was now a cheese and bacon pie, no full strength beer was available and my new footy buddy was female, not a bunch of expat Sandgropers. Whilst I felt some nostalgia for the days of old, the differences were explainable, understandable and enjoyable with the exception of the beer, the pie and the absence of Bay 13.

Now the rub, which I can't explain rationally but nervously accept. By way of context, I supported the mighty royals in the WAFL as a kid, I played a bit for Claremont and followed the careers of my childhood heros to North and the Blues and more recently my peers to The Eagles and The Hawks. I supported the Eagles from their admission to the AFL, I took my life in my hands a couple of times to support them at Windy Hill, I saw them lose the chilly GF to the Hawks at Waverley Park in 91 and I was there when they won in 92 and 94.... my allegiance to them was strong and unwavering. But, something happened in 95 when Brereton played a modest (by his standards) season with the Pies.

The next chapters of my "Kurtz like trip" were charactrised by a series of typically unsuccessful wagers on the Pies against the Lions in 02 and 03 and then an increasing interest in watching the Pies with the doors locked and the blinds drawn at home.

More recently my interest in The Pies has grown to the point that I have been selectively outing myself (generally to the dismay and in most instances disgust from a select group of friends). Early attempts to explain my change in allegiance typically involved a chronology of events and modest logic and were universally rejected and generally led to abuse. What I have increasingly realised is your team choses you rather than the alternative and this is based on the feelings they evoke in you.. it hurts when they lose. A grossly inappropriate anecdote perhaps best explains the way I feel about this; "someone slipped a mickey in my drink and I woke up a Pies supporter".

Anyway last Saturday, was my first public outing. I walked to the ground with a Pies scarf wrapped around my neck (and face), took our seats in the Collingwood supporters group and got going. Whilst it was disturbing on so many rational levels the emotion was there and I loved it.

What made it even better in spite of all the changes to the G and the associated hospitality, The Pies supporters I remembered were The Pies supporters I experienced on the night, with one notable exception.

Does anyone know of a good dental plan, I think I may need one... Go The Pies and thanks Jo, without your help I would still have the blinds drawn.

Pleasure Dome

It's not called the Telstra Dome anymore, rather the slightly unsettlingly Ethiad Stadium, evoking as it does some kind of neo-colonial otherness. Wherever the oil-rich Ethiadians live, you can betcha they don't play footy there. No doubt the name will change again, given sport's compromised state when it come to the dollar, so I will keep calling it the Dome (or as my friend has masterfully coined it, the `Dee') until it becomes official again.
I love the majestic MCG, how could you not, it is the eighth- biggest capacity stadium in the world, the beating heart of our city and refurbishments have transformed it into a modern masterpiece of stadium design. But just as I love the transcendent experience of being at one with 60,000 other fans at a footy game under a winter sky at the Gee, I also love the Dome. It is the yin to the Gee's majestic yang. Footy under a closed roof is a different experience but far from an inferior one.
It is the special magic of the enclosed sport stadium, where outside reality is banished, just as it is in the intimacy of a darkened cinema. Under the closed roof, we are physically contained in our shared experience. If what we seek in footy is an escape into the drama and beauty of sport, footy under a closed roof becomes theatre in a way that it does not at the Gee, where on a grey day, with the stands half empty, the energy of the game can drift up and away into the world beyond like a small lost balloon.
Entering the Dome is like walking into a Universal Studio's set of 1940's Hollywood. Lit from above, the emerald turf spreads out like some impossible indoor living carpet, and somehow, just as impossibly, a delicate mist floats over the ground. In the still air, before the match, expectancy is heightened, and without the distractions of weather and other vagaries, watching the game becomes abstracted into pure experience. The emotional connection that we seek with each other, through and with our team, is contained beneath the sheltering sky of the graceful, curved roof and intensified in its floodlit, theatrical space. In a close game, it can sometimes feels as though the roof, powered by pure emotion, might blow clean off and spiral away, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz.
There is consternation that the `greatest home and away game of all time' (round 14 Geelong v St Kilda) has not been moved to the Gee. But I am attending and secretly pleased. I look forward with great pleasure, not just to the prospect of watching my team play in what should be a great game, but also to riding my bike to the Dee down that Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Footscray Rd, where it nestles at the end of it like my very own Emerald City. Once inside, safe from the wintering city outside, I will most certainly feel the love.

Footballer beneath the Torrent of Rain

And so the rain began to fall on the Queen’s birthday Collingwood v Demons match. Thus transforming a grey football palette into a blur of winter Romanticism. If Caspar David Friedrich was a footy fan perhaps he would have painted Footballer beneath the Torrent of Rain instead of Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (see above). In a sport that has been slowly corrupted by a raft of civilising penalties, such as ‘high contact’ and ‘push in the back’ rules, the raw physicality of man against man no longer defines the game. Likewise with the 'blood rule' duly enforced it now takes a force of Nature (or perhaps ‘brain-freeze’ Barry) to return the game to its primordial roots. Footballers’ rain-slicked bodies, their white shorts stained with mud, turned Monday’s slippery football field into a portrait of man in his surrounds battling against the elements. As the ever-darkening Melbourne skies finally opened in the third quarter, letting loose a violent downpour, it was Brad Dick who became the enduring image of the match: his lean faceless form framed against the posts as he readied himself for yet another goal. In this sublime and inspirational moment, Dick’s seeming insignificance as an individual player was overshadowed by his mastery over the football landscape.

Fev's festival of feelings

Despite rumours of a split with his wife, Brendan Fevola’s game seems to be back on track. What remains a cause for concern is his front-of-goal feeling fest. If women played football they would play like the Fev. His game is fuelled purely by emotion. The range of these emotions is determined by one thing alone: goals. More child than man, from one quarter to the next it is hard to keep track of the vicissitudes of Fevola’s mood. One minute he’s puckering his lips in a sulk and thumping his fist in his hand in disappointment. The next he is smiling with delight and punching the air, triumphant. Whilst the rest of us are worrying away about Swine flu avoidance tactics this winter, Fev has seemingly succumbed to a greater illness. He is suffering from a debilitating affliction called Peter Pandemic, a disease rampant among men of his generation. Fevola’s arrested development both on and off field steams from the fact that he remains in the 'neverland' of his career debut: goaling 12 times in the New Years' Eve Millennium Match against Collingwood. It seems that Brendan is eternally stuck in this moment and sadly his inability to grow up may prove to be fatal for the mighty Blues.