Non-fiction / Australian Rules
My friend’s house is a stone’s throw from the Norwood Football Ground, closer than a decent car park. We walk the Parade, along with others converging for the game. Some supporters showed no outward indication of their allegiance, while others revelled in team colours that decorated scarfs, tops and beanies – these people have no intention of shopping at ‘Blooms’ or ‘Dignity and Impudence’. They are all football followers, hoping to claim victory from the jaws of conceit. The members of two tribes preparing for war.
From the Parade, the grandstand gives few outward signs of its function. It could easily be a convent or a prison. The main stand is made of red brick, with a smoky blue trim around windows and gutters. A small wooden tower sits above the red, galvanised roof. An unsuspecting witness could be left unaware that this building is a hollowed shell, merely a platform for the efficient arrangement of humans to watch a spectacle.
In the small park outside the ground fathers kick the football with their children, passing on the skills and the spirit of the game. We reach the side gate; a bearded man with headphones, sitting behind a very small window sells us our tickets to enter. We walk past the charity collectors and I purchase a Football Budget. This weekly publication provides team listings and player interviews; it is printed and distributed solely for the benefit of local footy fans. It would mean very little to a Palestinian, or a rebel from Sierra Leone.
From inside the stadium we can hear the Public Address system blare out “Macho Man” by the Village People. Was the management aware of the pride that the Village People celebrated? This ‘pride’ strikes me as being a little incongruent with a sport championed by stereotypical, Australian men – not renowned for their open-minded attitudes. Personally, I find it quite amusing to hear music with such strong homosexual overtones being played at the footy. It seems all irony is lost with the passage of time.
We give our tickets to the attendant and walk through an underpass into the stadium. I’m struck by how close we are to the playing field, as it is only a few metres away. It is a forewarning of the intimate, first hand experience of watching live football. Wearing short blue dresses with red, satin vests, the cheerleaders seem a little less attractive than my adolescent recollections. Now part way through their routine we watch as they dance and regularly kick their legs into the air. We walk around to a nearby underpass, a wire cage separates the spectators from the players, when they emerge onto the ground. The reserve players sink below the stand, and after another minute the Port Adelaide team enters the field to a corroboree of boos from the Norwood fans. The crowd is down on numbers (maybe seven thousand), but a roar still erupts as the Norwood players make their first appearance on the ground. At this point I should reveal that I am a Norwood fan, and any bias in my writing will be purely deliberate and absolutely subjective.
We make our way up to the stand before the start of play, each section of seating is a different prismatic colour – all of it is faded, chipped and dirty. At the front of the stand is a partitioned area for the player’s wives and/or girlfriends, complete with a green, picket fence and a swinging gate. The majority of these women are blonde and very well dressed. The floor of the stand is made of rough cement, the steps hard to negotiate. We select seats from these rows of elongated park benches – they are very uncomfortable.
Looking out, one half of the ground has stands, the rest of the oval is standing room. Wherever you gaze, it is impossible to avert your eyes from advertising. Large ‘No Smoking’ signs are against the back wall of the stand, curling reliefs of paint hang from the grey ceiling – the stand reminds me of a chicken coop. The crowd is of mixed age. Older men dressed in hats and sensible coats sit with their wives, they are fans for life. There is also a selection of families; some of the parents wear headphones to obtain a commentary to compliment the game. Behind us are two rows of male children, who are yelling out at the players and to each other – sorting out the pecking order. While below the stand are groups of grown men, talking and drinking. Football is a game for generations: future, present and past. The stories and the skills flow downwards, old men relive the past to inspire the young players, who, in turn initiate the children.
As we get settled the banner is spread out and presented to the crowd. On a blue crepe paper backing is the word REVENGE! in bold capitals. This banner, which the players will soon run through alludes to the defeat that Norwood suffered at the hands of Port in last year’s Grand Final. It is relevant to understand that these teams are long-standing rivals, and the two oldest teams in the South Australian National Football League (S.A.N.F.L.). Whenever these teams meet, the performance of the players is somehow elevated by this tradition. Norwood will certainly need to lift today – Port sits on top of the league ladder.
Culturally these teams and their supporters possess a different ethos. Port Adelaide’s fan base comes from the Northern Coastal Suburbs, where there is a strong working class ethic. They appreciate grit and determination and deplore anything soft or aloof. The playing style of Port Adelaide reflects this attitude – they play hard and never say die. Their black and white colours reflect their view of the world, in which few grey areas exist.
Norwood’s fans are predominantly from the Eastern Suburbs, a higher socio -economic area. Yuppies! – The scourge of many a Port fan. Dressed in expensive boots, blue jeans and fancy rain jackets they are easy to pick. However, within Norwood a dichotomy exists; as there is also a working class sub-culture – dressed simply, like their Port counterparts. The red of the pure bloods and the blue of the worker’s collar make up the Norwood team colours. Port, in contrast exemplifies the egalitarian nature of the Australian philosophy – we are all equal, and we’ll drag you down if you start climbing on anyone’s shoulders. Then put the boot in!
A sinister undercurrent exists at football games, a feeling that violence is always just below the surface – waiting to bubble over. The Police circulate the ground, aware of this potential. The stadium is made up of wire, brick, cement and asphalt – hard and dirty. There are no soft edges, only the soft grass of the field, where the players must show a hardness of flesh. While in the crowd, men and women scream abuse at other people, generally the players and umpires, with relative immunity. However, the wrong words, around the wrong people can be psychological dynamite; ripping the fabric of civil relations, and resulting in grown men coming to blows. Families come to the football – children love the game; but it is a domain whose principle predator is the white, Australian male. Fuelled by alcohol and aggression they have a commanding presence; self absorbed in their football world that transcends the graces and constraints of normal society.
On the field players exhibit a unique form of expression – full contact ballet. Men pit body against body as the two teams battle for superiority, under the guidance of Australian Rules. During the game there is a different law, a carnal law that spills over from the boundary and through the crowd. These rules become the focus of debate amongst the spectators, contesting the legitimacy of decisions made by the umpires – those small men resplendent in white. The followers raise their objections to points of law, calling for fairness and swift justice. Those willing to commit the body and take risks must be protected, those who infringe on freedom and liberty must be punished. Seldom is consensus reached within the crowd, the cultural difference and subjective bias makes objective reasoning highly unlikely. These debates are usually littered with offensive language and foul intent.
Australian Rules football is a primal sport. It taps into primary urges, and the basic symbolism of two tribes competing for limited resources. The ball is an oval lump of red flesh; its movements are unpredictable – as if it takes up a life of its own. It is a wild animal, set as prize for the two teams to attack and take control. The players hunt in packs, there a few obvious tactics beyond the forward thrust of the ball, but wonderful skills are displayed. Behind the big white sticks are the rest of the tribe; waiting to receive the spoils of victory. Each goal is celebrated – as if it is basic sustenance. The greater the score, the better off the tribe becomes – provisions to last them through the harsh winter, until summer arrives. Maybe the Village People are not as inappropriate as I first thought!
Football is a celebration of flesh. Around the ground meat pies are consumed en-masse, the ripe red sauce dripping to giving the impression of a fresh kill. Sausages and hamburgers are cooked on barbeques in a tin shed, the smell of charred flesh wafts up through the crowd in the stands – wetting their appetites. The predators are ready for the kill, kicking and punching and grabbing the red flesh to provide for their loved ones.
Still, I don’t dwell on this undercurrent as I watch the proceedings of the game. I’m entranced by the majesty of football. Before half time the noisy kids have gone, only to reappear on the ground to play mini-league. The old couples open up bags to share containers of biscuits and sandwiches, washed down with coffee kept hot in thermoses. There is no need to spend money if you can provide your own.
As I walk down to the communal toilets I can hear the banter of the crowd, however, as soon as I walk through the door I’m struck by the silence. Men stand shoulder to shoulder at the urinal; but conversation, debate or ridicule dries up as soon as the urine begins to flow. Conformity of action is crucial; any flamboyance threatens the whole equilibrium that allows men to achieve this vulnerability and exposure in such close quarters. It is fear that drives the ritual, a fear of being exposed – literally and metaphorically. With so much tension it is no surprise so many get stage fright!
These digressions from the game itself cause me no concern, the score (Norwood in front at half time) is not important. Needless to say, we then head to the bar with a spring in our step – ‘Macca’s Bar’ – I’ve been looking forwood (sic) to this all day. Gary Macintosh is a former Norwood player who typified the blue side of the Norwood equation: tough, working class, and committed to the team. For all his years of faithful service the management denied him a coaching position – he has since moved to Tasmania. However, as a living monument to this inspirational player, this great leader and captain, they have created ‘Macca’s Bar’.
Located under the main stand, followers flock during half time to pay homage to the man. Inside there is wood panelling as far as the eye can see – though the room itself is fairly modest. The walls are studded with photographs of old teams, montages of former greats and highlights from premiership years. Above the bar, emblazoned in red and blue letters are the immortal words, ‘Macca’s Bar’. In the far corner is a bronze statue – umm, this may be an exaggeration. The statue is really just a blown up picture of Macca’s head stuck to a tin silhouette. In one hand is a football shaped moneybox, for donations without hint of a cause, though I would say it’s pretty obvious. My friend and I are both amused and saddened by this graven idol. It seems humiliation, not homage was its maker’s intent. We imagine a more fitting memorial, a marble colossus such as fabled in Rhodes. Macca’s legs, either side of the Parade, captured in eternal stone while in the motion of one of his gigantic hand-passes.
People move around in Macca’s Bar, taking in the atmosphere. There are no windows, just wood panels and memorabilia. The followers face the walls and talk about the great hunters of the past with reverence. Two young guys, looking at a montage of Phillip Gallagher agree that he resembles a football playing Bob Dylan. Unlike the toilet, Macca’s Bar is full of confident chatter – hypotheses are presented and challenged. Evidence is outside the rigours of scientific enquiry, but case studies are presented with all the assertion of a PhD. Over a few quick beers football philosophies are discussed, the politics is deliberated upon – and football, as a religion is celebrated.
Back for the second half, the children behind us have returned, now stretching their thin voices to breaking point to support their team. The vicious nature of the game is instilled early, disregard for personal safety is commended and acts of aggression applauded. No matter, it has been a one sided affair for most of the day, well before the final siren blows the result is barely in contention. Norwood has indeed exacted their revenge; so the tribe cheers, and joins in a victory song. They will eat well this week.
There is a gentle shower of rain as we leave the ground. For no real reason we look around, just in time to see a magnificent rainbow spreading across the sky – a full spectrum of arching colour. This is a fitting tribute to the day’s hunt, provided for us by the gods themselves. Within the rainbow, red and blue can be found amongst the refractions. A thousand years would pass without black or white ever appearing in such a natural wonder, if it were so the rainbow would surely blur into grey.
The scope of colours hints at a unity beyond tribal rivalry and aggression. As we walk home I wonder if humans will always need these rituals? It seems as humanity splinters from our primal nature, the theatre of the hunt becomes even more important. Any other day of the week you may struggle to recognise the tribes going about their business. And while words may not capture the complexity of their existence, the metaphor is not just literary – it is a weekly reality.
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Haha I loved this. So typical as well. Although I have not been to a SANFL game, I have been to NRL and Soccer matches, and can relate to this. It was exceptionally well written, I could only pick up a couple of things:
with relative immunity
Don’t you mean impunity?
there a few obvious tactics
there are few obvious tactics?
Good stuff! Some insightful reflections of our tribal society, from the urinal to the bar!
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The only thing that seemed to throw me in this piece was the tense I think it should be in past tense for some reason
I realize that our football is very different than yours. Yet I am a fan. You took something like going to a football game and made it into a great, descriptive piece of writing. I enjoyed the way you described the stadium, the sounds before you went in. I also really enjoyed how you made the stadium sound so hard and rough, but yet ended with a rainbow. The final senetence, “And while words may not…,” are very profound. I didn’t pick up on any grammatical or spelling error, but my focus was more on content. The flow was very good.
I guess I just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed this and will look for more of your postings.
Very well done. I like your willingness to go beyond reportage for this story, to wear your heart on your sleeve for a subject that clearly you are passionate about.
I once spoke with an Aussie who was getting an amateur league of Australian Football started in the States and when I asked him if there was much interest in it, he said:
“Well if we could get the silly buggers to stop lowering their heads when they’re tackled we’d have a lot fewer injuries and we could finish an entire game.” Apparently, many of his players, used to playing American style football, routinely forgot they weren’t wearing helmets and shoulder pads and would attempt to punish tacklers with their bare heads. Oh well, I reckon we’ll learn eventually.
Great story. In the future, what about doing a story about the Australian drought? I think there’d be a lot of interest here, especially out west with our seemingly endless cycle of drought, wild fires and tornados.
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