We played at home this week, against the bottom side. Everybody says to everybody, always, “Don’t take them for granted!” and “It’s not just gunna happen,” and “Go hard!” but they say it without the fire in their eyes, then Saturday comes and they play without fire.
Then, at half time, when the bottom side is two goals up, we say to each other: “Get some mongrel in yas!” and “Have a bloody dip!” and we pull away and win by eleven or twelve.
It’s always more complex than that. Our team has outs. Some blokes didn’t show. Their team has ins. And it’s always not. Hitting the ball hard goes a long way. Either way, sometimes I get sick of yelling cliches.
We found some mongrel, or the other team, being bottom, ran out of puff, or both, and we sang the song and beer went down.
The seniors won by 40-something goals, which blew away any and everything we did in the Twos. It was just plain boring to watch, on a perfect autumn fishing day. Still, it was great to see Murph kick ten from the flank, to watch Tommy be as good a player as he is a bloke. To know the boys are running hard.
The players went to the pub after, seniors and reserves. We played pool and bet and watched a bit of footy on the telly. It wasn’t your typical Saturday night after a home game. The place wasn’t crazy with drunks and life and trouble. Maybe there were a few other things on, I don’t know? Sometimes, the after game is simply the luck of the draw.
When we were all fueled up, half-tanked and bored, some of us drifted to an 18th, while the rest of the pub climbed into the back of my ute, with my dog, to chug-a-lug back down the road to the clubrooms again, where one of the trainers, a top lady, was having her 50th birthday.
Bucket drove my ute, easy, sober, loving it, while I sat beside him, cranking the stereo, and the boys laughed and carried on as if the final siren had never gone.
Next, we play a real contender, in the Ones and Twos. The ones are up for it. The McGoos is gunna be hard. The week will fly.
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