Tag: sports

Footie fever for the uninitiated

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Image

For most of my life football has stood alongside who-can-stay-quiet-the-longest as a game I would never be interested in. Swimming with saltwater crocodiles held more appeal than a game where grown men run at each other in pursuit of a funny-shaped ball. Granted, hand-eye coordination has never been a strong point for me, so perhaps jealousy was an issue. Nonetheless I loathed footie. Not to be picky I hated all codes with equal enthusiasm. Until the move out west.

I was strolling through the grocery store today picking up kilos of bacon, eggs and sausages for tomorrow’s pre-game brunch when it hit me, yet again, how much my kill-joy attitude to sport has morphed.

In an attempt to avoid volunteer canteen work I purchased a rather expensive camera and these days I take photos of the games so the lads can marvel at how fit they look in short shorts. I don’t even get paid for it anymore!

Yesterday I helped string up a makeshift orange fence for Saturday’s grand final. I couldn’t think of a less useful way to spend an afternoon but I was happier than a dog in a sewage bog to attach those cable ties. The local newsagency has run out of black and white crepe paper a few times already this week. Football has replaced the weather as the number-one standby conversation topic. Surprisingly it’s not overwhelming or annoying.

It’s hard not to love the community that comes with the sport.

A few weeks ago we were called to Wog’s house for a post-footie fry up. Wog had gone away for the weekend but that didn’t stop half the footie team and their wags using his outdoor facilities. He has a better outdoor setting, apparently. (Please note Wog is a self-imposed nickname and any other politically-correct names are not tolerated.)

The coach was elbows deep in chops and bacon but wouldn’t allow any picking. The boys rehashed the big hits from the day before and the girls talked the talk as if they’d been kicking shins on the field. It was a feel-good moment, especially for someone so new to the town.

This weekend is the corker. We have a home grand final and the shenanigans that come with it. It’s hard to find a spot in town that doesn’t have balloons or crepe paper adorning their shop front, lawn, car, head, whatever. Magpie fever has swooped into town and I doubt it will be gone anytime before Tuesday.

Traditionally I have adopted an I-hate-footie stance at these sorts of events and my ignorance of appropriate grand-final etiquette has never been called into question. But this year I will be embracing the spirit with more enthusiasm than a dog with a full bladder near a lamp post. But I still have questions. For example, how early does the after-party start on Sunday morning? Will Saturday be an all-nighter or is the bigger celebration at the presentation night? And are the boys going to be so out of order that it’d better to stay home and sort out the linen cupboard? What about Monday – is that an honorary public holiday?

And of course, what happens if we lose… Oh it’s too hard to even contemplate that one. Suddenly I have respect for the way South Americans cry when they lose at soccer. I’m not saying I’ll well-up at the footie but I understand what it’s like to care about a game enough to invest emotion in it.

I reckon I’m ready. Spinach has been picked from the garden so we have treats to eat at the game, the house is clean enough to be trashed, enough meat has been purchased to feed a footie team and the camera is charged. So here we go – my first ever grand final weekend.

Dangerous expectations. How wrong could I be?

Posted in expectationsTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

If I had been given the choice, I would not have meandered down to the Charleville bowls club on Sunday afternoon. If I was offered to choose between bowls and, say, staying home to clean the scum from behind the oven, I would have tossed a coin. If a cold beer was in the offing there would have been no chance of getting me on the green. I would have missed out.

The inherent beauty of my inseparable job/life combo is that I’m forced – and not in a torturous, shoving the broccoli in my mouth kinda way, like my mother did when I was a horrid fussy-eating kid – to attend events I would definitely sidestep if the story-hunting imperative was not present. And, I’m finding that these activities, bowls, for instance or visiting the historic house and chatting with a bush tucker expert, often leave me with a broad grin.

When my expectations and assumptions are pushed aside, there is a bounty of quirky stores waiting to bring cheer to my world.

Let’s start with bowls. Mick Molloy had a good dig at making the sport popular in 2002 with his Aussie film, Crackerjack. But, the sport has struggled to woo me as a spectator. It hasn’t been actively trying, I admit, as most bowlers and indeed anyone that spends their days rolling weirdly-weighted balls along freshly-rolled turf, are self-assured enough to dismiss pesky spectators.

As I walked to the bowls club, I spotted a few ladies resting their horses at the quieter end of the main street. I adore those country moments – they give me a great sense of adventurous pleasure.

The action hotted up when I strolled onto the bowling green. One bloke was walking onto the green, casually doing up his baggy white pants when his mate told him the local journo had popped around to take a photo of him. “Aw not now, I’ve got a burning ring of fire,” he announced to all and sundry. “Yeah, he bloody does,” his mate added. “I just heard him in the shithouse.”

For a moment I realised the similarities between the hostel bathrooms in Beijing and the Charleville bowls club. An excellent incongruity.

A few seconds later I was introduced to a bloke with a broken arm, who one of the cheeky lads informed me had injured himself in a masturbation-related incident. “Yeah, he was watching at the window,” the broken-armed man told me.

The dirty jokes continued. Most of the bowlers were rather merry by the time I arrived in the early afternoon, beers nestled firmly in their palms. A few even managed to lodge their cigarettes in their mouths while focusing on their bowling with the sort of concentration Steve Irwin used to employ when feeding crocs. I left the green about an hour later feeling like I’d been welcomed into a community of people I could definitely share a smutty joke with.

The journo job here is intense. It’s a lifestyle. The constant search for information, gossip and quirky tales permeates my consciousness and takes me to places I would normally never venture. It is incredibly rewarding.

The footy has become the highlight of my week. It’s a pants-wetting event in Charleville. For the record, I have loathed the sport with venom all of my life.

The colourful language that comes off the sideline is a show in itself. It’s littered with hyperbole and fuelled by a passionate love for the footy that I have come to grudgingly respect. Occasionally it’s so rude it makes me blush, and that’s not an activity I partake in often.

I’ve developed a Sunday ritual with one of my lovely mates out here where we yarn away about Saturday’s game. I reckon our analysis, which I heartily enjoy, would put most of my footy fiend mates to shame. It’s certainly a shift from the latte-swilling girly gossip sessions I used to take pleasure in in Brissy. And it’s a long way from the beaches of Cambodia where whisky and coffee was an accepted and celebrated breakfast tradition.

But, back to the game. I’m captivated by the tackles, the penalties and exceptionally disappointed when the teams manage to rein in their aggression and avoid brawling. Of course, I run up and down the sideline like an chicken in a goose’s cage, feeling desperately out of place and constantly asking the linesman, the coaches, the players on the bench, the loitering kids, anyone, what the bloody hell is going on. I love the action. The feeling of being out of my depth and learning a skerrick more each week is as rewarding as managing to make a block of chocolate last a whole week. By the way I have just made a block of chocolate last a whole week.

It’s not just sport that is blowing my expectations away. I will concede that I am a tad lonely out here, but the biggest surprise has been how much I enjoy living in a small community. Last week as I walked down the main drag I was stopped about four times by people wanting to have a yak. In fact, it’s rare that I don’t find someone to have a chat with anytime I leave my home.

I know the name of my neighbour and I’m on a first-name basis with the postie, who honks his horn and waves at me sometimes.

On the other hand the lack of anonymity is distressing at times. Yesterday, for instance, I thought I’d bite the bullet and get some worm tablets to deal with my digestive system’s Chinese hangover. Of course, the high school vice-captain was waiting to assist me. And the tablets were behind the counter, out of my grasp. I swallowed my embarrassment and asked for some worming medicine. Tracey helpfully told me the chocolate square were the best. She spelled out a few instructions to me as I stood there and indulged in a moment of small-town-gossip paranoia, wondering if she’d tell all of her friends at the high school.

Ah, she’s the least of my worries, I thought, realising that it’s going to be a bigger issue when summer comes around and my skinny dipping cravings kick in.

For now, I love that my life has changed extraordinarily in the last few months. I cherish the adventures every day. And I can tell more of my useless expectations and judgements will be smashed into tiny pieces of appreciation.

What the harm in tri-ing?

Posted in triathlonsTagged , , , , 2 Comments

Fancy doing a triathlon? Running, swimming and getting on the bike? Sure, easy. No sweat! Just do half of the Olympic route, don’t set your standards too high time-wise and bring a few mates to do the other legs.

Suddenly the pinnacle fitness event is as easy as getting cash out of the ATM.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The difficulty, then, is finding the will. The motivation, that’s the real kicker. Not so easy to find. It’s more like looking for $50 notes in old winter coats. A rare occurrence, but occasionally you’ll have some joy.

My triathlon career began today after Shorn’s hot girlfriend and Shorn Lowry himself asked me to run for them. I lept at the chance. I have been in a state of frenzied excitment since last Wednesday when I got the almighty call-up. With just five days until the event I managed to get in one rather strenuous run, which I was still aching from this morning. I was not confident of my fitness.

But I had the will. I was the Glory Seeker. I was bringing home the team.

And with Kirby’s competitive streak I had some great inspiration.

She set a cracking pace with the swim, smashing out 750 metres in 11 minutes. Shorn was hot on her heels, cycling through 20kms in 36 minutes. There was really no option but for me to suck up my aching muscles and get to work. 5kms in 25 minutes was all I could manage, but that just in line with the ambitious goals Kirby had set for each of us.

“If it’s not a challenge, it’s not a goal,” she says.

As I waited for Shorn to get back from the rabbit warren of cul-de-sacs that is the Bribie Island bike route, an older lady and I began chatting. To put it in context the triathlon is chock-a-block with middle-aged folk. I’m not being ageist here, but at first take it’s surprising how diverse the field is in these gruelling events.

As Kirby was writing Shorn off: “he’s had a stack, for sure,” the lady told me her story. “A few friends and I just get in and give it a go,” she explains.

“We’re not very fast, but we just like to say we can do it.”

What an attitude!

So there we all were, just casually kicking some goals on a Sunday morning. The team-spirit kicking around was strong and organic. High fives were being bandied about as if we’d finished a cryptic crossword.

Plus, the event was done and dusted by 10am. Usually I’m still lolling around in my sheets at that time on a Sunday, but variety is spice, and all that.

All of the proactivity got me thinking about motivation and giving things a go.

Reverse parking, for example, is something I casually chucked in the too hard basket when I was about 20. I was happy to never attempt to fit my beast of a car into a tiny slot again. I’d had enough of mounting and unmounting and mounting and unmounting the kerb. Doing it in front a building site when one very nice gentleman had to come out and direct me, that was the final straw

So, no more reverse parking. “That’s not for me,” I delightedly told all and sundry, basking in the liberation of acknowledging my non-existent skills.

My mum, of course, spolied such complatency. “You’re probably a bit young to be just writing that off, Pen,” she warned me.

Smarting from the comment, I learned to back my car into tight spaces. The feeling of achivement is almost palpable. I might as well have cooked a few ducks for Sunday dinner and made Peking sauce from scratch.

“Did you see that,” I sometimes yell at complete strangers. “I didn’t even touch the kerb.”

Once upon a time marathons and triathlons would have been in the same basket. Now, I know they’re going to be painful, but try to give it a shot anyway.

It does open up the field to failure. Ewww, that horrible word. Failure! But keeping that door closed is like going through life without ever pairing Tasmanian blue cheese with a South Australian Shiraz.

It’s a life half-lived.

I reckon, if the mid-50s mother-of-five can do it, then so can I. Why not? The only thing that stands between us is motivation and determination.

The next bastion is water polo. Since a particularly gruesome season in my second year of uni I have shied away from that sport. “I almost die when I try to play water polo,” I delightedly tell my pals. Once again, if you acknowledge that you’re not good at it, you never have to try.

Perhaps I need to change my ‘tude.

“Water polo is an evil sport and I have no desire to play it,” is what I’ll start touting. Or I could gather some inspiration and dive in again.

Silly point.

Posted in deep backwards squareTagged , 3 Comments

I’m sitting in the Southern Upper at the Gabba devouring a barbeque chicken with Shorn Lowry. We both freely admit that we are more excited about feasting on the bird than the cricket. Warner hits a belter, straight to the boundary, but I’m more interested in my drumstick.

The first of the One Day finals, Australia versus Sri Lanka, was a ripper match. It had everything; impressive one-handed catches on the boundary; balls smashed out of the ground for six; rowdy Sri Lankan supporters; a jump-out-of-your-seat finish; and, of course, beachballs.

There’s no need to stop reading if you’re unfamilair with cricket and perhaps missed out on the six-and-out, one-hand-one-bounce fun we had as kids. This is more a post about the off-field shenanigans. For me, the crowd’s antics are the sole reason to hoof it to the stadium. Let’s face it, you do get a better view on the telly.

The atmosphere though, is where it’s at.

I’ve never seen more Sri Lankan flags flapping and Sri Lankan people chanting. They have a pretty imposing flag, too, with the reds and oranges and a big bloody Lion staring at you. The commotion the away-fans created tonight was reminiscent of someone giving birth. There were drums, tambourines, hand-painted signs. A cannon, even. In my opinion the ruckus surpassed the Swarmy Army and the Barmy Army. Only South American soccer fans have showed me more enthusiasm.

For the home team, the local lads often provide a bit of an ambience.

The guy behind me, for instance, insisted on commentating the entire match. “That’s wide,” he’d say, very laconically. Or “that’s a four.” The match did include several fours and wides, but never when he called them. He was determined to give me a bum steer. I’m not sure if he was trying to trick me, but I was decidedly confused about the match whenever I tuned into his observations.

In fact, I spent much of the game confusedly trying to understand the field placings.

I successfully used the phrase “that was a good cover drive,” in context early on in the match and fancied myself a cricket buff. I was determined to know more so I could one day trade the grandstand for the plush commentary booth. With Lowry’s assistance I managed to lock down Off Stump and Leg Stump. Long On and Long Off followed relatively easily.

Mid Wicket and Square Leg is where it all started going wrong. They are in exactly the same place.

But it did not stop there. “What’s the difference between Fine Leg and Deep Backwards Square,” I demand of Lowry, “they’re the bloody same thing.”

“About 20 metres,” he answers, a smug grin on his face. He loves knowing about these things.

After half an hour’s extra tuition, I think I’ve got it. I can name almost all of the cricketers and their possies. I even know their numbers.

Without warning, however, the batsman changes and it all goes awry. Left-handedness and right-handedness have never created such crucial changes. Except maybe in golf.

Fine Leg, or was it Deep Backward Square, is now the Third Man and there’s another dude up near the First Slip.

“Who’s that,” I ask. “Oh dear. It’s a new one.” Lowry puts his head in his hands. “That’s the Gully,” he tells me, a note of resignation in his voice.

I do the maths and there’s still about two hours left before we’ll be clinging to the edge of our seats. I change tactics.

Despite my obviously inferior cricket knowledge, Shorn Lowry, did not mind making a few bets with me.

We wagered icecreams on how high Australia’s tally would be. The drumsticks were my shout.

Then we bet on when the game would finish. I owe Lowry a bloody dinner for that one.

Just for good measure I decided to back Sri Lanka. They were down and out for a while, but teased me with a come-back and hit some brilliant runs. Ultimately, however, I’ve also been charged with mowing the lawn this week.

Really, I’m lucky to get away without owing an oven clean and a car wash.

A big shout out to Amber for the tickets. Thank you!

Photo from ESPN Cricinfo