A footy widow’s lament

A footy widow’s lament
Ros Thomas
The West Australian
Published: Saturday, September 15, 2012
Section: Opinion

I am the Yoko Ono of footy widows. It’s been a hard day’s night, the festival of the boot in full swing, the man of the house psyched on the sofa, a love-in between him and his beloved AFL.

Actually maybe I’m the Eleanor Rigby of footy widows:  ‘waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door.’ That’d be my lonely face waiting patiently for this year’s season to draw to a close so that family life can resume and weekends can return to some semblance of ordinary. In particular, I look forward to being able to have a conversation with my husband anytime after 12.10pm on a Saturday or Sunday other than at quarter time, half time, or during my 30-second allotment during the ad break after a goal. If the ball’s back in the centre and I dare interject with an impertinent question like ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I get a complicated sequence of sign language which involves him motioning at the telly and signalling ‘eyes forward’, followed by index finger pressed against lips, the international code for ‘shush’, and a firm shake of the head. Surely it’d be quicker to say ‘No’.

If this is a lament for lonely September wives, I hope those women out there who love their football appreciate the togetherness the game gives them and their partners  – the dual barracking, the combined insults yelled at the box when the ump makes a howler, weekends planned out in advance so there’s no clash with fixtures, the exhilarating highs and crushing lows of the final result. I can scarcely score a single point with my abysmal knowledge of the Australian code, a testament to being raised in a family made up almost entirely of women.

That said, my mother, in her retirement, is one of the most loyal Eagles fans ever to walk the 100m from West Leederville train station to Subi Oval. She has barely missed a home game, sits happily by herself at the shady end, and at 76, is usually hoarse at the final siren from shouting and the cold. She was teaching her grandsons how to kick a footy up the park before my husband had a chance. She is also a (ladylike) force to be reckoned with during a post-mortem, and is to be given a wide berth for several hours after a West Coast loss, especially if she considers they ‘didn’t try hard enough’. I’m too scared to tell her that her  5-year old grandson prefers the Dockers because ‘I like that giant called Garran Sandyhands.’ He’s also quite a fan of ‘Pork Power.’

I admire Aussie Rules, but I’ve never sought to indoctrinate myself into the myth and legend of a game that has been 150 years in the making. I wish I had. It’s when you have children that sports like footy come into their own: a bond to keep families tethered to teenage sons, a common link between generations, and a conduit for social gatherings, round the telly get-togethers and half time barbecues. A grand final, moreover, can unite fans and heathens alike. It’s almost impossible not to soak up the buzz and fervor of an exuberant crowd even if you’re naïve about the rules and particulars of the paddock.

Football is a universal leveler. It is the fulcrum from which any conversation with a stranger can start – it cuts across the boundaries between blue collar worker and white, smoothes the divide between north of the river and south. It has been an icebreaker for me when the ranger threatens a parking ticket (‘How ‘bout them Eagles?’) and when I’ve called the electrical shop three times to fix the new lights that continue to blow. (How good is Pav?)

I make sure I know just enough about the weekend’s results to fire up some banter about injury or tactics, and away they go. It makes me friend, not foe, and I like to listen to people whose passion for the game gives them the authority to be assistant coach from under my leaking sink.

The footy follows me everywhere. It’s required listening on the radio when my husband slides into the driver’s seat. Sunday mornings are for tea and toast and the post Saturday carve-up before the afternoon rounds start. On Thursday nights, woe betide me if I’m settling in to watch Law and Order at 9.30 – it’s dramatis interruptus if the Footy Show is about to start. Even my 5-year-old is obsessed, though it’s tough keeping track of all 800 players in the AFL.  He was beside himself with glee watching the Dockers at training one night, and then waited in the kid’s queue for an autograph. When the giant ruckman Sandilands finally towered over him and said ‘OK mate, hand me your fan book,’  my pint-sized rover looked up unimpressed and said ‘You’re not Garran Sandyhands – on my footy card he’s wearing a cap.’

Now that I have to feign genuine interest in the game for the sake of my boys, I wonder what would life be like if Mrs Cometti and Mrs McAvaney didn’t love the code? I hope Mrs Cometti lives for all the games her husband has called: ‘Cousins runs away from Carr, not the first time we’ve seen that this season!’  I bet Den was waiting all season for a play like that, his crackerjack line ready and waiting in his back pocket. I hope Mrs C is ensconced at the game, or settled in at home, brimming with pride that her husband has that rare and beautiful attribute called ‘the common touch.’

Footy families are as fascinating as they are peculiar. I have a girlfriend whose Dockers-mad husband (politely) demands she and the kids  watch the game on the upstair’s telly, lest they distract him from a second of play, or worse, jinx the outcome by asking dumb questions or sitting in his ‘special spot’ on the sofa. (He’s good enough to text her when she’s allowed to come downstairs.)

My card-carrying Roos fanatic likes to watch the game in relative silence. He’ll spit out some pithy remark if his team’s on the nose (‘you log!’) but he’s not the leaping, flailing kind when North are soaring. I try to please him. I’m reliably informed the perfect footy wife takes the kids out of the house,  leaving behind a beer, a home-made pie and plenty of sauce.

Watching an Eagles away game with my mother is entertainment in itself. There is constant commentary: plaudits for brave tackles, clapping for good passes, but if the tide turns, so does she. She’s on her feet, gesticulating wildly at some unfortunate player who’s letting his team down, or when ‘the whole lot of them have no idea what they’re doing!’  She never gets stuck into the umpires, that would be bad manners (‘he can’t have eyes in the back of his head’) and a ‘good fight’ cancels out any criticism over a loss (‘they gave it their best shot, that’s all I ask.’)

Mick Malthouse is ‘lovely’ and John Worsfold ‘knows what he’s doing’. Ross Lyon has been ‘a gift’ to Freo, but the Eagles are the sons she never had. (All 22 of them, except that Nic Natanui – ‘he needs a haircut.’)

If the finals have sounded the deathblow for anything resembling a weekend relationship in your house, then you’re in fine company. Anytime this September you need a sidekick for shopping, an escort for a long walk, or a two-way conversation during afternoon tea, I’m your gal. Otherwise, like Eleanor Rigby, I’ll be waiting patiently by the window. For the cricket season to start.