angela pippos

The happiness I feel is even more than I imagined.

Our gorgeous boy burst onto the scene on January 28 – robust and beautiful.

At this early stage he looks like his handsome dad. I’m hoping my genes will kick in soon!

My summer baby is almost here and I can barely contain my happiness and excitement.

Thanks to my trusty girlfriends for celebrating with me.

Many of you will know I take my football seriously. Very seriously.

I’ve barely slept a wink since hearing the Adelaide Crows have put Kurt Tippet’s contract negotiations on hold until the end of the season, I spend way too much time worrying about whether Jason Porplyzia’s dodgy shoulder is going to pop out again and I live with a life-size cardboard cut-out of our former captain Mark Ricciuto – who when draped in tinsel conveniently doubles as a Christmas tree in December.

I told you I was serious.

There certainly is a kind of religious zeal to my obsession, but whether this could be called a religion, and whether or not I would want it to be labeled that – I’m not so sure.

The question posed today is, ‘Is Football a Religion?’

Well to me it’s obvious that it isn’t, because – and no offence intended to the believers amongst us, I find religion all a bit preposterous – there may be amusing parallels between the two ‘codes’ but at the end of the day I can’t put football in a sentence with religion – because the latter has little credibility. And with finals approaching, this time of year is all about credibility.

In order for me to stamp my authority on that statement I need to first examine the word, religion. The Oxford dictionary defines it as –

“The belief in a superhuman controlling power, especially in a personal god or gods entitled to obedience and worship.”

Now, I have a real problem. There’s just no part of that definition that I can take seriously.

The bizarre notion of an omnipresent puppet master manipulating our helpless strings and watching, beady-eyed our every move? It’s terrifying. I hope he wasn’t watching last Tuesday….

We Sirens have never really got on that well with the gods. Just ask Zeus.

Oscar Wilde has a definition I can relate to:

“Religion is like a blind man looking in a black room for a black cat that isn’t there, and finding it.”

Perfect.

We are but a speck in the wondrous universe, a grain of sand in the desert of the cosmos. To try and explain our very existence by interpreting ancient scribblings and jibberings is a dangerous task and requires a dangerous leap of faith.

Having said that, I’m no atheist, because to me the Dawkins position, with all its aggressive certainty in what is so uncertain, seems to me like an offshoot of religion itself – we just don’t have the answers yet – but when we do I know they won’t involve a bearded man in a fetching white robe, a sacred elephant, the arc angel Gabriel or a giant all knowing all seeing …parrot.

Tonight I’m sticking to facts. I’m focusing on what is real. What I do know. What we all know.

Football is REAL.

The founding father of football is Tom Wills.

He invented the game as a way of keeping cricketers fit during the off-season.

Tom Wills, owner of a rather aggressive side part which started a few centimetres above his right ear – a pioneer of the comb over.

His story ended in tragedy. Wills killed himself by stabbing a pair of scissors through his heart.

Rumour has it he’d just come out of chairing the first Rules Committee meeting. They’d been discussing holding the ball.

It was 1859.

We don’t have footage of Christ walking on water but we do have evidence of Tony Modra.

I don’t know how many times I’ve screamed out Modra – some of the time while I was watching the footy.

We don’t know much about the Ten Commandments – despite Charlton Heston’s energetic performance.

But we do know who governs the rules of Australian football – the AFL Commission and the Laws of the Game Committee. How effectively they govern is a debate for another time.

Having said that, the deliberate out of bounds rule makes a whole lot more sense than “thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.”

As I said earlier we don’t know if there’s a God.

But we do know there’s an Andrew Demetriou.

We don’t know if Hell exists, but we do have proof of the existence of the Richmond Football Club.

We don’t know if Christ turned water into wine but we do know Brenton Sanderson turned 14th into second – on the ladder.

Football is more than religion because the magic is real.

The 1997 and 1998 Premierships are real – not just a figment of a deluded fan’s imagination… and proof miracles can happen in football.

Against all odds, the Crows ran over the top of St Kilda in the ‘97 Grand Final and North Melbourne in the ‘98 – thanks to the miraculous feats of Darren Jarman.

If anyone should be beatified it should be Darren Jarman.

These two events cannot be explained by natural or scientific laws.

I was there at the MCG to watch the heroics of Jarman on those two glorious Saturday afternoons in late September.

I prefer to witness my miracles from the Ponsford Stand.

For me it’s quite simple.

Football is not a religion – it’s more than that.

It’s real and it provides a real sense of community – no one is excluded.

Supporters aren’t turned away because of their gender, sexual preference, social status or ethnicity. No-ones going to be stoned, burned, crucified, beheaded, bombed or told when they can make love – who they can make love with – how they can make love and how many times. And quite frankly with an omnipresent peeping tom watching why would you bother!

My club, for example, is a club for all South Australians.

We’re unfairly depicted by those who clutch at stereotypes (something I would never do) as chardonnay-sipping, pretentious snobs. That’s not true. I drink Shiraz.

Other clubs actively seek out the less fortunate in society and nurture them in a protected environment known as the Collingwood cheer squad.

There’s a place for everyone in Australian Rules football.

Women make up 49% of the crowd on game day, 40% of club membership and 43% of the TV audience (and they control their own bodies too).

Women are not subordinate to men… actually best I don’t dwell on that point.

My point is football provides a real sense of community. We laugh together, we cry together, we have a place to visit together, we have a routine we delight in, we marvel at the human endeavour, we embrace the euphoric highs and we comfort each other during the lows – we relish the sense of belonging to something that we understand – something tangible, something that has no secrets – something beautiful. Something really beautiful.

Of course football is not a religion – it’s more than that.

The Sirens have arrived – what a fabulous breath of fresh air!

Check us out on afl.com.au

Send your footy questions to us via Twitter @Sirens_AFL for the Sirens Top 5.

Enjoy!

Well done to all involved in the Starlight Five Chefs Dinner in Melbourne. The money raised goes towards Starlight programs to brighten the lives of seriously ill children and their families.

The life of a sports journalist and MC can be cruel. Most of the time I’m looking up the nostrils of athletes.

Christmas greetings from basketball star Liz Cambage and the short chick.

For me the build up to this year’s Spring Racing Carnival began back in round two. I’m an Adelaide Crows fan. That hint of warmth in the air couldn’t come quick enough after my own personal winter of discontent.

What does a lady do when she’s got a touch of the blues? Usually I would buy shoes. This year I bought horses. Sorry let me clarify that. I bought a spectacularly small atom of a four-year old gelding. To complete my equine spending spree I lashed out on a second – I own the third eyelash on the right eye of a three-year old filly named Lady Jouster.

Ms Jouster will take her place in the Oaks over 2500m at Flemington on Thursday. Under normal circumstances I’d be fine-tuning my champagne lifting arm and flapping about getting my eyebrows done but how fickle life is. I’m in the UK watching my partner’s father die.

We got the dreaded call and a few hours later we flew to London not knowing if Francis would be alive when we landed. The journey was sheer last minute hell. What happened next was straight out of a movie – the frantic phone conversation in the hospital car park screaming at us to hurry; the sprint to the oncology ward; the uncertainty of which corridor to take – all the while precious seconds ticking away.

Two and a half lengths behind Simon I felt pain and love like never before. My heart was bursting. I willed him to run faster. For as long as I live I’ll never forget the horror of a son rushing to see his father before he passes.

I waited outside the room. Time lost all sense. I heard my name and went inside. Simon was crouched on the floor, sobbing, holding his father’s hand. The monitors informed me he’d stabilised.

I found myself speaking. “Hi Pops.” I gently kissed his forehead. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Not knowing how much time he had left I told him the one thing I came 17,000 kilometres to tell him, “I love your son very much.”

“That’s music to my ears”, he said fighting breathlessly between each word and squeezing my hand as he spoke. It’s difficult to relay the feelings you have during moments like this. Everything’s amped up. Everything’s magnified. Everything you feel – love, sadness, relief and numbness reach levels previously untravelled. It’s exhausting and beautiful and life affirming.

The bond between us was instant. That night I didn’t leave his side.

I’ll never regret my decision to drop everything and fly to the UK. I didn’t shop in London or catch a show in the West End and I didn’t get to experience a good old-fashioned boozer – but what I have are memories and memories are priceless. The autumn leaves outside his hospital window in Oxfordshire, nurses wiping tears away and most importantly an understanding of the man doctors described to me as “simply a remarkable patient”.

My partner told me before we left all I want you to do is meet him. I don’t care if it’s for just a second. I just want you to meet him while he’s alive.

According to the doctors he should be dead. As I write this now Francis continues to fight. It is a testament to the man.

I’m not sure if I’ll be at Flemington to watch Lady Jouster tough it out against her more fancied rivals but it doesn’t matter.

The Spring Carnival will be back next year. The odds are Frank won’t.

Lady Jouster strutting her stuff for us at Caulfield this morning with another shocking poser.

She’s so placid and elegant – a true performer.

Thanks to Anthony, Dan and Brendan for allowing me a little time with her as we look ahead to the Oaks.