I Love This Game

It was probably halfway through the last quarter of last years Prelim Final (GEEL v COLL) when Uncle J-Rod texted me. It simply said, “This is (expletive) torture!!!” The usually unflappable J-Rod, he of cricket blogging fame and also a Collingwood supporter (is this a good combination?), realized his Pies shouldn’t have been in this game, yet they actually were, which probably was worse in a way. They lost by five points.

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OK, rewind about four years ago. My junior year of college in the States, where I was doing the college hoops thing, and it was late one Friday night and we had just got done with a grueling preseason conditioning session. Anyway, my mind was 9000 miles away on my Bears, uh, sorry, Lions, who were going for their fourth straight flag – all won while I was out of the country, mind you – against Port.

I called Dad at quarter time: He said Lynchy had gone nuts, throwing haymakers like a drunk outside a bar. I called at halftime: Aka had kept us in it, we were up a point, the dream was still there. I called at three-quarter time: Dad said we were down three goals. We’ll be ok, Vossy won’t let us lose. Anyway, in a panic I called back again 15 minutes later, but we were down six goals. We were done. At about 1am in my dorm room surrounded by about three teammates, I just lost it. Swearing and crying. Crying and swearing. It’s kind of funny now, but it wasn’t then. My teammates sure didn’t understand, why would they, they don’t even know what footy is. Is it like rugby? My point? Footy can be torture.

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More proof: Big Daddy likes to tell me the story – well, he probably doesn’t, but I like hearing it – of crying on the day of ’01 Grand Final. Before the game, that is! He knew his Bombers (Bombres, in Kimber-speak) were done before the first bounce. His rotten pre-game feeling was justified a few hours later.

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Final note: I remember a Sunday afternoon in the mid '90s, the Pies were playing the Eagles – yes Sime, a bloody interstate team – at the MCG and it was coming down to the final minutes. What happened next is kinda blurry. All I know is that Sime smashed his radio under our carport while yelling “F**king Jason Ball!” The siren then went. That’s it. That’s all I remember. The Weagles got up, and Sime was borderline suicidal.

Another footy season is here. Enjoy it fellas.