The red and the white v the brown and the yellow;
That’s the game to be played in the warm autumn gleam.
Same hue attired fans, be them lass, be them fellow,
Fill the stands, eat the pies, shout the rules, carn their team.
I’m the guest of a friend but the friend couldn’t make it,
So there’s two of us acting as substitute fans.
Been a year since I’ve been to the arena to fake it.
I’m afraid these emotions aren’t stowed in my glands.
I don’t follow sport; I’m confused by the legal.
Is this one the one where you can’t play off side?
But I love its theatre – the players so regal!
It’s food for the masses, the critics one-eyed.
The players – half fumble, half ballet – play forward.
The smell of deep heat permeates through the air.
All action heads south and then suddenly nor’ward
The crowd squeals like kids on the rides at the fair.
A man right behind me shouts animate slogans.
Watch ya doing? Pick the ball up! Get a move on! Domineer!
On the oval the coloured teams battle like shoguns.
When one scores a goal the entire crowd cheer.
A young girl beside me reads Roald Dahl’s “The Witches”.
Her sister, in contrast, eyes the game intense.
She’s covered in badges, from her cap to her britches,
The other just yawns… it’s all mere pretense.
Four beers and a pie with tomato sauce later
It’s time to head home. All is lost. Game is done.
Were the Swans overwhelmed? Did the Hawks just play greater?
Let’s just say, on the day, that the better team won.