by Vin Maskell
We drank tea in the kitchen on the hill
Listening to the players wandering
Looking for their football in the fog.
The kettle boiled, the whistle blew
The steam from the cups
Caressed our faces.
Below in the white still darkness
The players kept calling:
Nicknames and coaches’ orders.
A foghorn marked the quarters.
Some nights bored
We flicked on the telly.
Pictures rolled over and over
Wave after wave.
On a clear night
We could make out jumpers
Stripes and sometimes numbers.
We could make out voices
Muffled words
Fading in and out
Bobbing up and down
Like buoys in the dark blue sea.
Little voices
Calling out across the strait.
About Vin Maskell
Founder and editor of Stereo Stories, a partner site of The Footy Almanac. Likes a gentle kick of the footy on a Sunday morning, when his back's not playing up. Been known to take a more than keen interest in scoreboards - the older the better.
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