FOOTFALL
Saturday used to be football and if
the crystal set was on the blink,
cat’s whiskers all scratchy, they knew
by the sound of his boots whether
it was a loss or a win, before the door
was closed, crashed, a black night,
or the other, dancing, singing, snoring.
Weekends are now three days of games,
Foxtel for some, smart phone Lilliputian
footballers squeezed into the screen,
angry coloured ants, smart screens as
big as the back wall of the shed. Pubs
with big screens and the sound of music
to the ears of the winners.
At the goals, team witch doctors, club
coloured livery, club hair, face paint, wild
warriors, and scream, open your eyes you
white [depends on the AFL theme colour]
maggot,
cut your leg off – my grandmother could have
kicked that one – back to the seconds.
Polly used to handball it through the open car
window, then the rover would drive it to the
goals, car horns all honking.
Barry Cable, short arse, wove
magic, close to the ground, out of reach,
focussed, took to mud and rain like a bull frog,
earned his money, respect, little man,
big man, conjuror, now you see me, now
you don’t, Kadaicha. Thousands watched Ron B.
in blue, play for the Blues, his first game at
Princes Park, parky, but sunny, good moves,
a good move for the Blues.
Shoulder to shoulder, bright sunshine, still in
the West, Krakouer Brothers at Fremantle Oval,
playing games, ball on a string, marijuana puffs
rising from the crowds in the afternoon light,
in the shade of the old stand,
on their way to Melbourne,
everything humming,
game too fast for comprehension.
Those days it was jumper swapping at the Grand
Final, now jumper swapping for bank transfers,
heart on sleeve, easy peasy, loyalty a commodity,
easy pickings, super boot for lease, name your
price, as knees twist, groins groan and hamstrings
play different tunes on different days, twing your
twang, drop a mark, pick up a Twitter, truncated
season, careers, and who really plays for the other
team, the best kept secret.
AFL logos on the grass, on jumper numbers,
players’ buttocks, spray painted on clouds,
except for Etihad, where the roof is closed, minds
closed, winter football without rain and wind. Hope
in the six-foot recruit from Eaglehawk has dimmed
as towers of men make six-footers into small forwards,
200+cm becomes the lingua franca, mobile light
towers, rent out for mobile phone towers, and off field
it is double or nothing for next year’s income flow
on-line a separate economy, million dollar men
counting their moolah.
The old ruckman from the city club,
VFL Reserves, knee bandages,
leaning on his reputation, cash in his boot,
elbows flashing, past it, like an old chook
trying to fly. I saw him out of the corner of
my eye, too late. Next time I saw him it was
the return fixture, at their home ground. Like
me, stretched out he was, stretchered out, angry,
too bad they have short memories that lot. Near
the MCG, old pub, five minutes walk across
to Richmond, jugs flowing, spectators, players,
glass canoes, sawdust on the floor, smoke screen,
batting the breeze on full volume, instant action
replays over and over again, the pace slowing down
with hoarseness, loss of detail.
Mr Football exhorting his players, pointing the way
in the mud and the rain, under his gabardine raincoat,
Kevin B drop kicking goals from the flank,
on the run, hair flowing like his ego, nice navel Nicky,
we’ll remember that one, stop the game for stretcher
bearers, just follow Jack D. stretcher bearers more like
coffin bearers, I would die for a gold jacket like that.
Hope in the 205cm Number 1 draft pick from
who knows where, got his specs on-line, watch him
from my specially moulded plastic seat in the XXXXX
stand, changed the name again, too much of a mouthful,
rather give it to the ump, it’s all too defensive, both
teams squeezed into the 50m arc, the push, [used to mean
gang on the street] could be a rugby maul, see the maulers
on Crackers Keenan, scything the pack like the grim
reaper, reap as you sew, like the old girls on the
boundary fence, a Greek Chorus, knitting through
it all, whipping up a storm to go with their perfect
scones, for their boys.
Used to be a team sheet in the Newsagent’s Window
on a Friday morning, like magic it was, full-back
again, now just a page in a scrap book, scrapping
non-U, big Jack D turning in his grave, no wry smile,
a raised hand, ready for the chop,
this will do you good son,
what team do you play for?
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