Almanac Footy: The Journey

 

Build a tower of blocks. Knock it over. Celebrate, cry, then dance.

 

I’m spending the morning of the preliminary final with my two-year-old daughter. Her emotions are big and unpredictable. Mine are utter chaos.

 

The Carlton Football Club knew my child’s name before my family. She was a member one week before she was born.

 

She doesn’t know about Peter Riccardi, Ben Dixon or Robbie Gray. The pain of an away loss in a purgatory time-slot is not something she’s tasted.

 

On my birthday last year she sat on my lap as The Blues piled on more goals in the third term against Collingwood than on any occasion since the 1970 Grand Final. Thirty minutes later she wasn’t the only one in tears.

 

I’ve missed her the past two Friday nights, instead spending the evening with 95000 of my closest friends. Against Melbourne I expected to cry at the final siren, but disbelief guarded against the ugly tears I suspected were close. Sam Docherty’s shoulder had dislocated an hour earlier, 30 metres from us. Now he was passing miniature footballs to children while wearing a Cheshire grin.

 

The club’s PR team sold us ‘The Journey’ seven years ago. We snatched at hope like a slip fielder, only to have the wind knocked out of us with several missed chances. First green shoots, then training wheels, and finally the indignation of cross-town rivals experiencing sustained success.

 

Many of our older supporters had morphed into insufferable barflys, speaking only of the good old days. The young fans flirted with apathy.

 

Being a relevant football club is not yet the lofty heights this group is capable of, but it certainly salves the existential terror of recent memory.

 

In 2018 my brother and I attended 16 games. The Blues saluted once. Today I will wear my 2018 member attire at Princes Park as we watch the final on a big screen.

 

I hope my toddler can borrow it for next Friday’s parade.