Almanac Footy (Appreciation): This is not a Liam Shiels song

Footy is just one of the things on my radar. Following our collective pandemic experience many things I thought important or familiar have been reshuffled. I suspect I am not alone in this existential moment and priorities and traditions will continue to reorder.

 

My engagement with footy is one of the things in that washing machine rinse cycle. I say engagement because my love of the game itself has not diminished. Or I don’t think it has. My love of it is as nonsensical as any ‘love’; I can hardly explain it to myself. I can see footy flaws, starting with its hypermasculinity which oozes toxins, denies its more homoerotic nature, imbalances gender and places power barely fettered ahead of legacy and custodianship. I can see all that.

 

And I can see that it is literally a bunch of boys to men running after a pigskin for a couple of hours at a time. Hardly high art. But so what? Shakespeare waxed lyrical about God’s own game when Hamlet uttered the immortal words, “in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!”. Only 300 years before the Australian game became the thing.

 

Sometimes I wonder if footy is more about the elusive (masculine) Australian identity than it is a sport. Seen as a sport it is confusing. Rules change at a rate akin to the weather in Melbourne. A lot of them don’t make much sense. The subjectivity inherent is manna for fans and commentators to argue incoherently. Self-reflection is reduced to a muddy puddle rather than an august mirror that might enable us to ‘know thyself’ through this damned and yet damn entertaining game. Maybe our identity is exactly that which can be seen in this mud-stained looking glass. Hmmm, I’ll pocket that thought.

 

And still I love the game of Aussie Rules. I love that it (finally) widened its gates for girls and women to play and contest. I love its Indigenous voice. I love how migrant communities have made a tight connection to its heart. But I’m struggling to keep up with what the AFL expects, essentially demands, of me. The two year covid freeze afforded me time to disentangle these binaries. By the way, I’ve hardly untangled them but the relative break from the AFL’s relentless engagements has been good for the soul. You know the engagements I’m talking about.

 

• mind numbing stats,
• injuries dominating conversations,
• social media ranters,
• floating fixtures,
• commentators,
• the sword of Damocles forever homing in on another coach,
• the endless byzantine drafts,
• players bad behaviour.

 

Despite all of that I enjoy watching the game we know as Aussie Rules.

 

Image: Facebook.com

 

Local footy is a real pleasure. Our son plays for Preston Bullants U19s in the Ammos. On Saturday morning they played Oakleigh at our home ground, Ruthven Reserve, one of a thousand honourable footy grounds that bless suburbs and country towns across the nation. The dignity and pride of local clubs can be seen in their grounds and amenities regardless of how far they are from ostentatious settings of the private schools and universities and well-off suburbs teams they compete with. Apparently Australia is a classless society but I still stare like a Steinbeck Okie kid when I arrive at places where Jackson’s Bullants play away games.

 

The Bullants started this season with a string of losses, including Oakleigh to the tune of 80 points. In the last eight weeks they have improved and then improved on that. Jackson has been part of this resurgence. The winner of this game would put them just one win outside the Top 4. So, high stakes. My job was to deliver for Jackson the esky full of VBs and ice to the changerooms so the boys could have a beer, win or lose after the game.

 

Bullants ran out victors by 60 points. Our full-forward kicked 10, and a mark in the last had the crowd of friends and family in ‘OMG’ raptures. Oakleigh did not stop. They chased and hunted, fought and tried valiantly to light the spark. Our boys looked great. The last game I saw, six weeks ago, the Bullants were 4 points ahead going into the last. The game went back and forth for the first ten minutes before Jackson found space on the wing, took his chance and went for goal. Putting the Bullants 12 points ahead. That play cruelled the opposition’s hopes and we won by four goals. Six weeks later the Bullants look 10 times better. Confidence, huh.

 

I caught up with old friends and had good laughs. Odd bods around us were on point with cracked wit and knowing insights that suburban footy effortlessly brings on. One of our players even got compared to Mick Moylan. (To be fair, this year Blues fans are like sprites, spreading their dare to dream dust across the northern suburbs.)

 

The pandemic has reorganised what I hold dear. Music, film, politics, ideas, community and gatherings of old and new friends to see who can tell the biggest lies have easily held their ground. Music especially. Footy took a hit. It’s the noise. The AFL noise. The constant unadulterated simpleton noise. The cacophony of greed has seen the eyebrow arch to breaking.

 

I follow my beloved Hawks. We are struggling but we have struggled before. I will ride this wave no matter how many times it crashes into an unforgiving shore. Mitch is reforming the team that is barely a facsimile of that ridiculously impressive unit of 2008-2016. I’ll give him his due and time to turn the end of the world as we knew it into his epoch. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t but he certainly deserves a chance. Even if he is messing with my fucking mind.

 

Image: en.wikipedia.org

 

Liam Shiels was never the Hawks’ best or most valuable player. But for ten years he has been the jigsaw piece that made our midfield work. I’m a big fan. Now, I’m watching Sam Mitchell, his fellow midfielder of that era and our coach, decide his fate based on building a new era which is based on building a stellar midfield. In today’s constellation Liam Shiels is apparently not required. This is not a Liam Shiels song but I do note with a quiet smile that even though he started as the Hawks medical sub last week against the Giants, he played three quarters and proved his mettle once again.

 

To read more from Trucker Slim click HERE.

 

 

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Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

 

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