Half Time Review – Friday Night Footy
By the time I get on from work in the bush it’s dark. By the time I’ve goofed around with the kid, eaten, had my sneaky bourbon, unloaded the work tools, it’s just gone half time in the Suns v Cats game.
Normally, I cheat, watching the game from the start, 30 minutes later, so I can fast forward ANY bullshit, but Kayo have been improving their security. I can’t freeload on it like I used to.
First thing noticed, as the players walk off, is it’s white undies vs red undies. They just look ridiculous without hoops and bold club emblems giving them that guts, their mojo. How the hell can I take two teams in playing in lifeless knickers seriously?
Anderson’s being interviewed as he walks into the race. In his red knickers. It’s odd. He looks so skinny. He seemed extremely happy, even though his side are half the score of the blokes in the white knickers. But he’s fine, I reckon. On and off the oval, it seems he’s an animated fellow.
Then there’s a sea of ads. I’m drowning in them, to the point of waterlogged rigor mortis. They really build the anger in me. Especially Wives for a Farmer, or whatever. Pretty, soulless male sluts and pretty, soulless female sluts, being soulless, for soulless mainstream audiences. A parody of humanity. I do not miss owning a television.
It reminds me of the time I was waiting in the tyre shop reception and had to listen to commercial radio on the house speakers. Abrasive ads SCREAMING at me, the rat-race, there, in all its grating, scrambling, clawing banality, clawing at the menial, tacked on and hateful. Product after product after product, occasionally peppered with an old, bland song they insist you remember as a classic.
Dickhead DJs telling me; “Ahh, ohh, wowie…”, how amazing my shit-kicker job is, trying to pump me full of quick-fix, sugar energy, so I can go out and work for the man and lump it!
Advertising that’s the sound of your hamster wheels, so loud and constant you barely notice.
Then there’s an awkward looking man on the oval, spruiking something. Not the bloke or woman at the pub next to you. A man of the system, trying to look all bubble-and-bounce and all I can think is “Who the fuck are you?” Clearly no footballer. There’s not one whiff of mud about him.
In that moment, I have a vivid waking dream; at half time, the tv producers run one of those small box images in the corner of your screen of the kids playing, their smiles, heartache, the proud glow of their parents. Every minute of it. Even while commercials are playing. 1000% more people would watch, rather than use the break to fart, poo, doom scroll, eat, whatever. Even the ad men would benefit.
And many of us would once more fall madly in love with football. Even the relentlessly loud AFL variety.
Then there’s another tsunami of ads. But I now better now, and go cross-eyes, blurred vision shut-down mode – full zombie life support, until they’re over.
I don’t mean to feel so negative, but they’re the ones who keep slapping all this cardboard in my bowl and insisting it’s a delicious parma.
Then there’s Richo on the screen, saying a bit about some stuff. Richo’s good. Still seems likeable, if somewhat muted, as if that goofiness we all adored about him, that made him so goddamn easy to barrack for, has been crafted back into the more standard presenter wallpaper. I wonder what the new generation of footy fans think of him? If they know he was once the dictionary definition of heart-on-sleeve? That he got the gig because we all adored him!
Then, there’s another avalanche of ads. The commentators talk more, surrounded by advertising, showing a few highlights, the oval covered in digital product placement, then the game’s about to start again.
The pretty Arian woman with fake blond everything is walking on the oval, talking to a player. I can’t help but think – high cheekbones, long blond hair, unnaturally tanned skin, white jacket, white beanie similar to an oversized headband – how much she looks like Bailey Smith. It’s uncanny.
And means nothing. I’ve been watching Bailey lately, and taken more of a shine to him and how he plays footy. He runs his bloody guts out! More than anyone. What more can you ask of him? (Maybe ditch the umpire’s eye, vote seeking headband, but whatever.) Like Bradley receiving from Williams, both types of footballer are needed. The media’s dribbling obsession with stats is not his fault. For all I know it annoys him.
He’s one of those blokes who I’d like to meet. Share a beer and footy and life talk with. Away from the glamour. Just so I could figure things.
Then a few more ads, and there’s footy.
Sweet footy.
A game between a contender and a middling.
I watch, volume down, as it has been throughout the break, discombobulated for the rare experience. Feeling a bit unclean, to be honest. Wondering what Richo is thinking? Is every moment of footy still glorious to him, or are some matches just a job these days? A hamster wheel that he adds his voice to?
Another bloke I would love to have a beer with and talk about things.
The highlight of the second half is Jeremy Cameron kicking a goal so freakish, even the Suns backline simply stops and laughs. Or maybe that was in the first half, and I saw it on a replay. They’re all freaks compared to me, and the footy I play, but still, the game is not a great one, and passes through me.
Who knows? Maybe the bland undies they’re all playing in helps detract from my passion.
GEELONG 4.1 8.3 10.11 15.15 (105)
GOLD COAST 3.1 3.5 5.9 8.12 (60)
GOALS
Geelong: Cameron 3, Wiltshire 3, Neale 2, Dempsey 2, O.Henry 2, Atkins, Dangerfield, Holmes
Gold Coast: King 3, Walter, Lombard, Petracca, Rowell, Z.Uwland
BEST
Geelong: Smith, Holmes, Dempsey, Humphries, Dangerfield, Mullin
Gold Coast: Anderson, Noble, Rioli, Rowell, Collins
INJURIES
Geelong: Nil
Gold Coast: Nil
LATE CHANGES
Geelong: Jack Bowes (hamstring tightness), replaced in the selected side by George Stevens
Gold Coast: Nil
Crowd: 30,276
Read other round 14 match reports HERE
Read more from Matt Zurbo HERE
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bleh
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