Round 4 – Brisbane v Collingwood: Temple of Lohmann

Brisbane v Collingwood
Round 4, Thursday 2 April 2026
Gabba, Brisbane

 

Brisbane v Collingwood – Cultural Exchange Part 2

 

Part two of the cultural exchange between me and my Father-in-Law Greg is tonight, with the Brisbane Lions facing off against Collingwood.

 

Greg graciously took the time to read my previous report on part one, the Rugby League component, even going so far as to describe several paragraphs as ‘remotely legible’.

This sits proudly among some of my more positive reviews.

 

It did, however, come at a price. Greg forwarded the article to the remaining members of his golfing entourage: John, Paul and (no…but almost), Gino.

Sadly, it would appear I’ve lost the highly sought after, retired Golfing demographic.

 

Reviews like: “What the fuck is this?” were among the more flattering.

 

Where do I even begin in trying to win back this prized market?

 

Do I offer coupons? Discounts on tailored slacks? Subscriptions to Sky News?

Any and all suggestions will be considered.

 

**************************************

 

This time sadly, I cannot offer the buoyant preamble of a ride in the shared atmosphere of expectation that public transport extends.

The earlier start time won’t allow for it, so we must meet outside the Gabba gates instead.

 

So, here I am.

Hands in pockets, hunched into an anonymous approach. Alone with my thoughts and my old friend darkness. Beneath the halo of a streetlamp, my collar turned towards the cold and damp.

It all feels a little like that Simon and Garfunkel song, At the Zoo.

 

The walk means ample time for me to consider this new existence on the desolate periphery of membership.

Oh, how I long to suckle once more at the teat of Full Club Membership and feel the warm embrace a shared inclusivity affords.

The club have tossed me a 3-Game Package. It is stale bread and gruel to this fallen son, and the implication is I should be grateful for it.

 

A member since age 13 (via Fitzroy) but denied Full Membership on return from a forced hiatus by fair weathered armies of fans clambering on to the premiership bandwagon, like a Delhi-bound commuter train, thundering by with indifference.

 

I will bide my time.

One day soon, when the premierships have turned to finals disappointment, and finals disappointment to Mad Mondays in August, I know my full membership will return to me, cap in hand, seeking favour once more.

 

By contrast, it must be acknowledged, Pies fans never fail to represent. Say what you will, they will always show up. They will happily forgo friendships, vital organs, adult literacy, anything ahead of the opportunity to worship at the altar of their club.

I admire it deeply.

 

Brisbane has, of late, lost a little of their home ground swagger having dropped a few games, some unexpectedly.

I share some parallel, having checked my once confident stride for the stuttered approach of a man squinting at his phone to confirm which gate will be accepting us at this time.

Such is the Nomadic existence of on-demand seating.

 

Sitting patiently, Greg posts a familiar form, his neutral colours set against the hordes of Collingwood supporters surging past.

 

Security spot him immediately on entry:

“All units be advised, we’ve got a Rugby Leaguer at 10 O’clock.”

They pounce, brandishing their electric paddles with Federer-like precision, squeaking and whistling with each sweep of the racquet.

But, with his original hip joints and no concealed piercings, it’s a formality for Greg and he’s free to move on.

Still, you can’t be too careful with their type.

 

Greg is fast becoming a keen eyed, savvy student of the game and usually has many questions for me.

“So, where do we get good food?” is his first of the night. That’s an easy one: “Someplace else.”

Surveying the deep-fried landscape, we each spring for an $18 Steak Burger with extra gristle, hold the nutrition.

 

Entering Section 437 it becomes immediately apparent; this is our old section. Worse still, to properly ascend we must perform the Shuffle of Shame across Row DD.

 

Row DD is our old row. I choke back a tear as I spy Anne-Marie and her partner Karen, still sitting in the same seats next to where we once were.

Trying not look, I can’t help but glance briefly down at the perfectly worn ass groove, I spent 20 years crafting.

I smile engagingly as we pass. Nothing. They don’t remember me. The world moves on.

 

I know I go on a bit, but you must understand we didn’t just sit in those seats, we inhabited them. We watched a child grow into manhood beside us. We looked on as the young man in the row ahead of us transitioned through a cavalcade of girlfriends before settling on a wife.

 

 

I reference the phone once more: Row UU. I’ve never scaled such heights. We ascend.

 

Row HH – We consider establishing base camp here, but favourable winds drive us on.

 

Row MM – The air thins noticeably. Light cloud formations drift by innocuously.

 

Row RR – We’re approaching The Death Zone now. A nervous, descending Sherpa, tries to wave us back. I try to explain “3-Game Membership” with rudimentary hand gestures. He nods with pity and waves us on with a customary blessing of goodwill and Godspeed.

 

UU – This is us. Stepping over discarded oxygen tanks, we note that it isn’t all that bad.

It’s not nearly as cold as our Steak Burgers are to the touch and the height loans the view an undeniably detached charm. You can see the whole ground!

 

The lady directly in front of us, has gone for the Chicken Tenders.
Greg and I exchange a knowing glance. This was an integral part of his experience the first time I hosted him at a Lions game.

I won’t easily forget the sight of him puzzled, banging a chicken tender on the seat in front of him. No words needed to be exchanged between us, other than to speculate as to who we might contact about repairs to the seat.

 

We both wait in open mouthed anticipation as she takes her first bite of the infamous Chicken Tender, waiting on the inevitable realisation that it is neither of those things.

 

The Collingwood banner goes up.

 

I do enjoy Greg’s unabashed insights into the game as an outsider. What he immediately notices, is the overwhelming number of umpires taking the field of play.

He’s not wrong.

Try as we may, between us we can’t think of a sport that has more on-ground officials than Australian Rules.

I would invite others to try.

 

The Lions emerge through open flames. It’s not quite the Suncorp pyrotechnics but the two columns of fire have Greg and I speculating on past professionalism and footballers of a bygone era and wonder how many might have fired up a quick dart on the way through in decades past.

 

Josh Dunkley is forced to take the toss. Injuries and suspension have hit us hard. We’re down to our last Captain.

 

Game starts a whole minute late. The NRL would not tolerate such tardiness.

 

 

We’re away and in a flash we’ve goaled. Kai Lohmann’s goal song ‘Daddy Cool’ by Boney M fills the stands.

Goal songs are back in the headlines and Greg enquires after the perceived disdain. It’s another tough one to answer.

I suspect it’s largely south of the border and incensing Victorians is reason enough to keep it for mine.

The alleged argument, online at least, appears to be the ‘Americanisation’ of our sports in general. It can’t be that simple.

If it were, I must have missed the same level of outcry over salary caps and drafts, which almost certainly originated in said States of Unity.

Besides, I suspect sing-alongs were a staple at British football games long before America took the baton and ran with it.

I think the rejection of change, anything new for that matter, is just part of the human condition. I confess to being a little unsure at first, but I’ve come around.

 

Another 60 seconds and Kai goals again. That’s more Boney M than I’ve had endure in the previous decade. Perhaps I should rethink my stance on goal songs.

 

It only takes two centre clearances for the absence of Nick Daicos to filter around the stands.

Is he injured or still scouting property in Tasmania? Either way, today’s absence is bound to inconvenience umpires as much as Collingwood fans.

They will need to adjust their Brownlow votes at halftime.

 

Draper climbs high and pulls in a solid grab. He’s building nicely. He goes back, his mullet suggesting little to no breeze, but misses the chance.

He has that hint of unpredictability about him that he could be seconds away from doing something equally brilliant or farcical.

He’ll win something soon. It might be Mark of the Year. It might be an Archibald Prize. Anything’s possible and nothing would surprise.

A mere four years of Joe Daniher left us wanting more of precisely that and it seems another, moustached Essendon expat is willing to fill the void.

 

Oscar Allan marks and goals. I like him. A solid, old school forward with the congenial looks of someone who could be wearing a turtleneck and forecasting the weather.

 

A Charlie Cameron kick to Linc McCarthy in the first quarter to the top of the square is as good as any kick I’ve ever seen.

If there were a Hall of Fame for individual disposals, it wouldn’t look out of place next to any Darren Jarman or Bill Goggin highlight reel.

 

Greg laments the seats. They are torture. The Americans probably have a Venezuelan President strapped to a Gabba seat as we speak, extracting confessions. It’s a ritual now for so many people, to stand at the Gabba between quarters, just to re-establish contact with their legs.

How many other sporting arenas in the world are willing to offer you world class entertainment and an epidural?

By half time I can’t feel my bum, or as security have calmly explained to me, the guy’s next to me.

 

The rumours abounding Victoria Park are plentiful, in terms of what we might one day have.

Good food, comfortable seats and goal songs and consider me satisfied.

 

A Neale tackle slides high. The Collingwood contingency scream foul in unison. Anything below the scalp is fine as far as I’m concerned.

 

The Kiddy Coleman hit on Sidebottom was poetry. Slam poetry but poetry, nonetheless. Brutal but fair. We felt it all the way over on our side of the ground.

I felt for him. A younger body would struggle to rise from that, but you’d forgive his 35-year-old body signalling for the last rights. Still, he got up. He did the haircut proud.

 

A different level of competition and competency of course, but the one thing I prided myself on during my playing days was, no matter how hard I’d been hit, I always willed myself to my feet. I simply refused to give my coach the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt me.

 

The usual questions around Collingwood sans Nick Daicos will resurface but things are looking up for us again. Andrews, McCluggage and Answerth should be back for our traditional Gather Round rival in North Melbourne, at an abandoned cornfield just outside Oodnadatta, I’m led to believe.

The spoils of premierships.

It does beg the question, where would they send us if we’d been wooden spooners?

Pine Gap? Snowtown?

 

Another Cultural Exchange is complete. We walk to our respective vehicles, shake hands and part ways.

Smiling turns to humming.

Dare I elevate humming to singing? Why not, it’s nice to be back:

 

“She’s crazy like a fool. Wild about Daddy Coo…?” Wait…what? Oh, for fuck sake Kai!”

 

BRISBANE                  6.4     9.8     11.13     17.17 (119)
COLLINGWOOD          3.1     5.3       8.4        10.5 (65)

 

GOALS
Brisbane: Lohmann 4, Morris 3, Allen 3, McCarthy 2, Bailey 2, Zorko, Reville, W.Ashcroft
Collingwood: McStay 4, Sullivan, Steele, Schultz, Membrey, Elliott, De Goey

 

BEST
Brisbane: W.Ashcroft, Morris, Coleman, Bailey, Neale, Fletcher
Collingwood: J.Daicos, McStay, Maynard, Houston

 

INJURIES
Brisbane: Nil
Collingwood: Nil

 

LATE CHANGES
Brisbane: Nil
Collingwood: N.Daicos (calf) replaced in selected side by Allan

 

Crowd: 34,648 at the Gabba

 

 

To read more by Jamie Simmons click here.

 

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

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