A Sporting Chance


We’re at the time of year where one channel on the television is overtaken with cricket, and another channel is abounding in tennis footage.

I’m slightly less than impressed with this.

You see, I am the child of a sports nut. My dad loved to watch sport on television. Have you had to sit through a game of darts on TV? I have. Did you know they televise bowling, and lawn bowls, and cars driving around and around in circles? I do. If it involves a ball, boring commentary and extended coverage, I can guarantee you that my father would have had the TV held hostage. And don’t even think about changing the channel – because even if he was snoring, he still would have an ear turned to the coverage.

It didn’t stop with Dad. My Nan and I were very close, and she would often give me a call at night to let me know she’s watching the tennis. She was very in love with Andre Agassi, mainly because he was a gentleman who bowed at the spectators. Nan and I used to do a lot of different things together, but in summer our plans revolved around the tennis.

So when I moved out of home, I made the decision that sport would never again grace my television screen.

And then I met my beloved.

My dearest beloved.

Creative. Generous. Kind. Loving.

And a total football fanatic.

I found this out the hard way. She didn’t hide from me that she was a lifelong fan of the Manly Sea Eagles. But it wasn’t until I actually sat through a game with her that I wondered exactly what was going on. I had no idea that she was capable of such sounds, of such intensity. The yelling and the swearing and the cheering and the commentary – and that was just at the cheerleaders!

Now, almost three years on, I’ve sat through many more games. I’ve been with her through the good times:


And the not so good…


Yup, my beloved remains true to her sporting colours regardless of the situation, and is already counting down the days until the pre-season starts.

I have to say that while I don’t like watching football, I do enjoy watching my beloved watch the football. Part of me likes to silently barrack against her, so that I can see the tantrums unfold. One friend’s elderly father sat through a match with my beloved, and summed it up by saying “That little one sure knows how to barrack!”.

That she does.

But one thing is for certain: I’m bloody glad she’s not a cricket fan.

I don’t think I could deal with it for longer than 80 minutes at a time.


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