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.
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.
You don’t need to have written an Honours thesis on Vida Goldstein’s contribution to first-wave feminism to know child beauty pageants are unnatural.
Six year olds plucked, shaved, injected and waxed, sprayed orange and sent out looking like mini drag queens so their parents can feel better about their own accumulation of failures. Really, how can any decent person see this as anything other than insanity? Let alone exploitation.
Descendants from Planet Barbie believe you can never be too young to embrace stereotypes about female beauty. No amount of hairspray is too much. No pout is too pouty. No pose is too contrived. For them there is only one type of physical beauty and it’s heading our way in July.
Actually there is a way to make this whole scene more palatable – all you have to do is turn a blind eye to negative body image, eating disorders, depression, anxiety and low self-esteem. There you go. Book me a front row seat.
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You don’t need to have written an Honours thesis on Vida Goldstein’s contribution to first-wave feminism to know child beauty pageants are unnatural.
Six year olds plucked, shaved, injected and waxed, sprayed orange and sent out looking like mini drag queens so their parents can feel better about their own accumulation of failures. Really, how can any decent person see this as anything other than insanity? Let alone exploitation.
Descendants from Planet Barbie believe you can never be too young to embrace stereotypes about female beauty. No amount of hairspray is too much. No pout is too pouty. No pose is too contrived. For them there is only one type of physical beauty and it’s heading our way in July.
Actually there is a way to make this whole scene more palatable – all you have to do is turn a blind eye to negative body image, eating disorders, depression, anxiety and low self-esteem. There you go. Book me a front row seat.
By the way did you see Pippa Middleton’s maid of honour arse in that white dress the night of the royal wedding? I missed it. I was upstairs exfoliating the dry skin off the balls of my feet.
Not wanting to feel excluded from the mass hysteria I checked it out online. There it was staring at me – an arse in a white dress. Groundbreaking stuff. Life-changing even. Rumour has it her buttocks are in deep contract negotiations for their own chat show, clothing range and fragrance – I can’t wait to spray on some ‘Royal Crack’.
Meanwhile in talkback radio land a caller had whipped herself into a real state of agitation: “Our Prime Minister should either travel alone or as a married woman, not with her livid partner!”
I couldn’t agree more. I wouldn’t want to travel overseas with a livid partner either. We’ve all been there and god it’s boring – the frosty reception you receive as you hand over your complimentary bag of airline nuts, the puckered mouth and the head shaking. Do us all a favour and stay home.
Not to be outdone, another caller followed up with something along the lines of our PM should respect the values of the vast majority of Australians and get married. It’s wrong she’s representing us overseas with her live in partner.
Oh I see, the First Bloke wasn’t livid after all. He was something far more sinister. He was a live–in.
The horror. The horror.
How can we as proud Australians live with ourselves while our leader is gallivanting around the world with her de facto? The shame of it all! How can we as proud Australians embrace a leader who hasn’t picked confetti out of her hair? Or danced that special dance to Bryan Adams?
How will Silvio Berlusconi bring himself to look her in the face at the next G12 meeting?
Hey, read this SMS out on radio: “Throw her in the river and see if she floats.” There’s my contribution to the debate.
Media release – “The Australian Womensport and Recreation Association condemns decision by World Badminton Federation”. Read on.
In a nutshell the sport’s ruling body is making it mandatory for women to wear skirts or dresses, even over shorts, in an attempt to raise the profile of women’s badminton.
Holy shuttlecock why not grease them up and send them out onto court nude. That should fill the stands. Because that’s what it’s all about isn’t it?
Deep sigh… I know I should be grateful. (Another deep sigh.) We’ve got the vote, we’re allowed to drive – occasionally we’re allowed to read a map, in some states we’ve got control over our bodies, we’ve almost got equal pay, we’ve had the debate about normal sized models, it hasn’t gone anywhere but we’ve had the debate, there are about three women on Australian TV over fifty, and most countries have banned stoning.
I know I should be grateful, but you know what, sometimes grateful just doesn’t cut it.
In 1937, a devilishly handsome young man by the name of Spiros Pippos came out to Australia from the Greek island of Ithaca in search of a better life. He settled in western New South Wales, where he peeled potatoes out the back of a Greek cafe. From there, he headed north where he found some work on a banana plantation and this is where the story gets juicy.
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When the Pippos clan gets together the stories flow. Some more authentic than others. High on the list is the one about my brother dacking me in front of my first ever crush. Hard to tell who was more horrified – me or the boy next door? To this day I haven’t been able to wear a tracksuit in public.
Then there’s the hilarious tale of my sister getting tangled up in the net at the base of the giant waterslide at Dreamworld in front of hundreds of other captivated Griswolds. Even now the image of Marina trying to extricate herself, her face locked in horror, makes me chuckle.
For gruesome value, nothing beats my brother’s extreme nosebleed on a family holiday to Sydney. Most onlookers thought he was an extra in a B grade horror flick. He always did have a knack of finding new ways of getting out of sightseeing.
All three are true and compelling in their own right but one story, more than any other, demands to be told over and over again.
In 1937, a devilishly handsome young man by the name of Spiros Pippos came out to Australia from the Greek island of Ithaca in search of a better life. He settled in western New South Wales, where he peeled potatoes out the back of a Greek cafe. From there, he headed north where he found some work on a banana plantation and this is where the story gets juicy.
He broke the golden rule – he fell in love with the property owner’s daughter – which wasn’t a good idea in the 1930’s with a name like Spiros Pippos.
The star-crossed lovers met whenever they could, wherever they could, away from the prying eyes of her family and the local community. Thankfully Spiros was resourceful like the most famous of Ithacans, Odysseus – “A man of brawn who thinks.” If he weren’t, I probably wouldn’t be here today.
My pappou and his Australian sweetheart ran away in the middle of the night to be married, returning more defiant than ever. “You accept my husband or you don’t accept me”, my nanna told her parents. Even today at the age of 90 she raises her voice when she gets to this part of the story.
Her family’s unwillingness to accept my pappou was based on irrational fear and ignorance. He looked different, sounded different, smelt different, he liked different foods and he went to a different church. He was kind, hard-working and he adored his wife but that didn’t matter. He was just different. “Not one of us”, was the phrase so often heard in those days.
In time they accepted my pappou and for both families it became an enriching experience. From the sharing of food to the sharing of language, laughter and ideas it was mutually rewarding. And continues to be for the generations that followed.
Why do I love this story? As a young girl I loved the romance of it. It was my family’s version of Romeo and Juliet without the unfortunate poisoning in Act V. And yes, I’d be lying if I said the “up yours” to authority didn’t appeal to me too. But as I grow older the story takes on added meaning, especially now as the nation debates the merits of multiculturalism.
For me this story is now about hope and optimism.
Stories of racism targeting Greek (and other post war migrants) have largely disappeared. My father is now proudly Stavros after years of being “Steve” and my mother’s name, Athena, doesn’t attract the same confused look it once did.
And this weekend tens of thousands of people will flock to the Antipodes Festival Glendi in Lonsdale Street – a souvlaki in one hand and a slice of baklava in the other – celebrating all things Greek, not thinking too much about the struggle that came before. Non-Greek coffee lovers may well know the difference between a sketo, a metrio and a glyko and most non-Greeks will have some idea of what to do when the bouzouki starts playing the Zorba.
For this we can thank multiculturalism.
The hope and optimism I take from my family story is for those who have come to Australia after my people – whether they be migrants searching for a better life or refugees seeking asylum. My own little story shows attitudes change. People change.
Let’s celebrate difference not denigrate it.
Sometimes words can hang in the air for an eternity. You know the ones – we need to talk…; I have this rash…; my mum’s coming to visit… – all frightening in their own right. But nothing could prepare me for the recent bombshell dropped in my kitchen which, by the way, is still hanging in the air with last night’s curry.
We’re going cage-diving with great white sharks for your birthday.
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Sometimes words can hang in the air for an eternity. You know the ones – we need to talk…; I have this rash…; my mum’s coming to visit… – all frightening in their own right. But nothing could prepare me for the recent bombshell dropped in my kitchen which, by the way, is still hanging in the air with last night’s curry.
We’re going cage-diving with great white sharks for your birthday.
I could have sworn he’d said we’re going cage-diving with great white sharks for my birthday.
Despite not believing it for a second I broke the sentence down into bite-size chunks. Much the same way a shark would do me. I don’t particularly like people invading my personal space let alone voracious, man-eating carnivores, I don’t like putting my head under water, I don’t like swimming where I can’t touch the sand, as far as I know (and it’s a fair assumption) I don’t like being trapped in a cage underwater and I don’t like breathing in and out of my mouth.
I was given a nose – and quite a spectacular one at that – for the dual purpose of smelling and breathing. End of story.
Happy with my own analysis I looked up only to see my partner standing there with an eager, “well, well what do you think” grin. Eyes wide open waiting for a response. Oh my god he was deadly serious about this. And it was the deadly part that concerned me the most.
He’d caught me in the middle of making lamb Madras so I had to switch to that cluttered side of my brain that processes outrageous comments from boyfriends. Surprised there was any room left. By that I mean because of my age not my numbers. Relax Mum.
He may as well have said we’re going to sky-dive naked and land in the middle of Federation Square at lunch time. It was a preposterous idea but not altogether surprising. Simon grew up in awe of sharks with hammerheads, grey nurses and great whites plastered all over his bedroom wall. The much less ferocious Michael J Fox adorned mine.
I began processing where all independent feisty women begin processing – my life insurance policy. Surely if he wanted to “do me in” he’d find a cheaper and less messy way of doing it. You can never be too careful though. One of the first stories I covered as a journalist in Adelaide involved a woman, a partially filled bath, lower leg bruising and a “grieving fiancé”.
I should’ve known something was fishy when Simon who’s an “A” grade film snob made me sit through Jaws II with him on a Saturday night. Well, half of it. I think we gave up when the shark jumped into the pilot’s seat and took control of the helicopter.
Two weeks, 3,125 shark jokes and 2,422 life insurance jokes later I’m on the Calypso Star with 17 other punters from all over the world heading out to the Neptune Islands in rough seas, two and a half hours off the coast of Port Lincoln – THE GREAT WHITE SHARK CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.
Did I have to be talked into it? Not really. Bizarrely, turning 40 has given me more zest for life which, according to those who know me, is an incredibly frightening prospect. Beginning with the conquering of four fears at once – sharks, deep water, the breathing thing and cages. Euripides was right; “A coward turns away, but a brave man’s choice is danger.” I’m right with you Euripides with one small feminist correction.
To take my mind off six ravenous sharks feasting on my flesh I made a move on a Frenchman standing alone on the deck. We got chatting about my trip to Paris last year, the sheer pleasure of getting lost in the Louvre for five hours, my love of French onion soup and my preferred way of eating it; that is, the sodden chunk of cheesy bread last. He didn’t say much so I seamlessly moved on to French cinema classics and my experience of riding the Paris Underground at night. It was at that point he turned green and politely excused himself to throw up into a mini bin-liner I hadn’t noticed he’d been holding throughout our conversation.
Undeterred I tried my flirting techniques on my partner instead with less demonstrative consequences. And then it came, the moment I’d been quietly dreading – “SHARK! SHARK!”
We’d planned for this moment around the dinner table. I’d go into the cage first and Simon would carefully (and lovingly) follow, watching my every move to make sure I was calm and in control. That’s the kind of bloke he is.
So there I was sitting on the edge of the cage adjusting my unruly fringe, flustered and a little panicked by the first sighting of the monster fish. I turned to Simon for encouragement and strength only to see him literally jump over my head and into the cage. So much for our game plan.
There was only one thing to do – channel my inner Valerie Taylor, pull down the mask, stick the breathing apparatus in my mouth and get the hell in there. Hey I’ll be fine. 16 years in the media. I’m an expert on sharks.
The next thing I know I’m in the cage with my weight belt on sinking to the bottom. So many things are freaking me out I don’t know which one to focus on. Controlled breathing; controlled breathing. Yeah right. Then came the distraction and at that moment the terror disappeared. No more than a metre away a black eyeball passed by my mask. Holy Chief Brody! This beautiful creature is looking right at me. And that’s the moment I’ll never forget.
A knock like a mini-bus hit the cage behind us. That’s when I saw the jaws from the second shark in all their glory. I wouldn’t have touched the sides. Just one swallow would’ve done it. In TV terms it was the money shot. Then I did what any brave, self-respecting woman would do in that situation. I pushed Simon in front of me.
I couldn’t stop smiling on the journey back to harbour. I’d just done something I never thought I’d do and I loved it. So much so I might hijack Simon’s birthday and head back to Port Lincoln for a sequel worth watching.
My left gluteus maximus is angry and screaming out for the bag of peas in the freezer that has become my new best friend along with my massage therapist, Anna. My left hamstring is tight, so tight it feels like it’s going to eat itself and I have a sharp pain on the outside of my left knee.
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My suspicion is my dodgy glute has been working in cahoots with the other two as a cruel reminder of the milestone birthday I’ve recently had. They clearly don’t know who they’re dealing with. I won’t be beaten. It’s a trait that runs through all the women in my family. (To complete the somewhat tragic picture the blister on my right foot that was close to popping before my run has just exploded, and the affinity I have with my little feet, which borders on a fetish, does not extend to excretions.)
I’ve just returned from my daily run with Nick Cave and my body is aching. Friends say I should choose something more uplifting to listen to while I’m pounding the pavement. I think the two complement each other beautifully. The north eastern suburbs Adelaide girl in me still has a soft spot for Eye of the Tiger but sadly these days The Weeping Song is a more appropriate training anthem for me.
Why does exercise have to come with so much throbbing and pulling? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself over the past six weeks as I prepare for Run Melbourne. It never used to be like this. Growing up I conquered all surfaces; asphalt netball courts, corrugated footy grounds and pot-holed tennis courts without too much fuss. In 1984 I even dedicated my victory in the 100 metres on Sports Day to Zola Budd. By which I mean I ran barefoot – as far as I can remember I didn’t trip anyone up.
The truth is I’m putting myself through all this throbbing and pulling for a very good cause – to promote diabetes awareness, and in particular type 1 diabetes; also known as juvenile diabetes. In type 1 diabetes the pancreas stops making insulin. Without insulin, the body’s cells cannot turn glucose (sugar), into energy. To survive, people with type 1 diabetes depend on up to four insulin injections a day and they must test their blood glucose levels several times a day.
The exact cause of type 1 diabetes is not yet known but we do know it cannot be prevented. We also know that it has nothing to do with lifestyle and 10-15% of all cases of diabetes are type 1.
My sister Marina was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at the age of ten. In those days we shared a bedroom and a love of Abba, The Bee Gees and Shaun Cassidy. We disagreed on Air Supply. I can recall Marina was always thirsty and would get up two or three times a night to go to the toilet. We later found out these were symptoms of type 1 diabetes.
After her diagnosis Marina spent the next two weeks in hospital to stabilize herself and learn how to inject insulin, first on an orange and then on her own body. A diligent straight “a” student she adapted to her new circumstances immediately with a level of maturity that blew us all away. Marina’s acceptance of her disease empowered all of us.
When she was diagnosed my family was told there would be a cure in five years. 33 years later nothing can be done to prevent or cure type 1 diabetes. For Marina, it’s not so much about her any more. It’s about future generations. “I hope there’s a cure for our children and grand children. That’s my wish.”
Today Marina is as diligent about her disease as the day she was diagnosed. The only difference is she uses an insulin pump worn on the outside of her body. She just punches in the numbers and it delivers a surge of insulin. The most difficult and nerve-wracking time for her was when she was pregnant. During both pregnancies she tested her blood glucose levels up to nine times a day to maintain good control. Without it, she risked foetal deformities.
I don’t need Paul the octopus to predict how I’ll be feeling after my 10km run tomorrow but the pain won’t compare to what Marina has been through. And this is what will be driving me on Sunday morning with perhaps
Eye of the Tiger thrown in for old time’s sake.
