It’s years since I’ve been to the footy. I’ve never been a serious fan, but for a while there, footy attendance was a regular part of my life. Last Sunday, I went to pay tribute to Jim Stynes, and found myself swamped with nostalgia.
Jimmy was a big part of our lives in the 90s. We had just moved to Melbourne from the country, and our kids, aged eight to one were of an age to get interested in the football. Our second, a son, rugged individual that he was, followed Essendon; the rest of us went for Melbourne with varying degrees of passion.
That was Jimmy’s decade. He never missed a match, and we watched him week after week. Our oldest, a daughter, wore a Melbourne jumper with Jimmy’s number 11 stitched on the back. We went to a MFC family day at Luna Park and, in between rides, chatted to Jimmy and David Neitz, Shaun Smith and Adam Yze, Garry Lyon and our favourite – the Wizard, aka Jeff Farmer.
We had another good reason to go to the footy. My parents lived on Hoddle Street, a short walk from The G. We parked at their place, caught up with them and then walked to the match, laden with back packs full of food for six – packets of home brand chips, apples, fruit cake, tetra packs of juice and a thermos of coffee for the grown ups.
Needless to say, we took the footy, and all the way the kids and their dad played kick to kick along the quiet, East Melbourne lanes. We had red and blue jumpers, beanies and scarves in abundance, and those little flags that threatened, every time, to put someone’s eye out
The rule was that we didn’t start eating till quarter time, and after the match, the family would pour onto the ground with the rest of the excited crowd and play kick to kick again. I watched from the stands, mesmerised by the arcs created by multiple footballs, and the seagulls swooping between them.
A check in with the grand-parents and then home in the heavy, post-footy traffic, listening to the post-match commentaries all the way, our scarves flying out the car windows.
Last weekend it was just my husband and me. Dad no longer lives in Hoddle St, so we parked with thousands of other cars in the paddock surrounding the MCG, and all we took for sustenance was a bottle of water. The ground itself has changed since I was there. We used to walk up interminable concrete ramps and stairs to the top; now there are escalators that ascend smoothly past tasteful décor.
The Stynes tribute was beautifully done; the highlight for me being David Bridie’s soulful rendition of ‘Oh Danny Boy’. I thought, as I have numerous times since Jimmy’s death, of what a relief it is to have a sportsman in the news for admirable reasons – a role model in the true sense of the word.
Then the match began. It was vintage Dees, alas. Apart from ten glorious minutes in the third quarter when we piled on goal after goal and caught up with the Bulldogs, it was pretty miserable.
Unlike my husband, who is a true believer, I didn’t really mind. I sat there happily, drinking in the memories of all the matches I had attended over 17 years of living in Melbourne. I had forgotten the living roar that rises from the stands, the power of a groan uttered by every one of 30,000 spectators when a player lands awkwardly on his neck, the held breath of 30,000 as they wait to see whether he will get up of his own accord.
I had forgotten the furious cry, ‘Ball!’ which seems to be what fans get most upset about, closely followed by ‘In the back!’ I had forgotten how the umpire really does get blamed for everything, the quaint but ferociously yelled ‘You bloody mongrel umpire!’ that was about the most vulgar utterance I heard last Sunday.
I had forgotten that though feelings run high, there is seldom violence between spectators, and that supporters of both teams sit happily in the stands together; a state of affairs that would not be possible for the soccer crowds in Europe and the UK.
Most of all, I’d forgotten the different reasons my husband and I go to watch a football match. I was fascinated by the crowd; the remarkably good looking family in the row in front of us – a father and several adult children, the antics of the kids sitting just behind, the weird guy close by who kept shouting ‘Nathan Jones, I love your bald head!’
Even more than crowd watching, the weather provided an endless sound and light show. Last Sunday we had thunder and lightning, rain and sunshine – at one point both at once, as it poured on half the G while the other half was dry. For a few minutes, a glowing double rainbow hung in the heavens for Jimmy, and as the sun set, a series of lurid pink clouds blew across the sky, only metres above where we were sitting at the top of the stands.
‘Look at the clouds, just look at them, they’re fabulous,’ I kept urging my husband who, every time, replied tersely, ‘I’m not here to look at the clouds!’ Finally, to keep me quiet I suppose, he said he’d look at half time. By half time the sunset was long gone, but there was still a spectacular show provided by the MCG lights reflecting off the bellies of the soaring seagulls, sharp and bright against the deep grey of the sky.
It’ll probably be a while before I go to the footy again. The treat of an entire Sunday afternoon with the house to myself is irresistible. But I went home happy – a lot happier than the die-hard Dees fan. A tear of sorrow and gratitude for Jimmy, memories of a hectic but precious time in our lives. And a breath-taking panorama of clouds.