There is a season

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… And it is coming to an end.

You see, I come from a family that has ridden the waves of different sporting seasons. My Dad loves it all. Football. Cricket. Golf. Darts. Nothing – and I repeat, nothing – says boredom like the hushed tones that commentate a game of billiards on television. Lawn bowls is another one that comes with whispered reverence as black balls are rolled towards a smaller ball. And my god, we watched them all. The second my siblings and I tried to change the channel, with Dad fast asleep on the couch, his eyes would open mid snore and he’d inform us that he was still watching. We’d slink back in our seats and wait until his eyes closed again, to stage the next flick.

I honestly had it set in my head that this was solely a male trait.

So when I met my beloved, it didn’t occur to me to ask her if she watched sport on TV.

We met towards the end of football season. I know this because it meant that my flatmate and I weren’t using channel nine in that period of time, which was the channel that televised the footy. Beloved did confess to being a fan of footy, in particular her Manly Sea Eagles. But a part of me assumed that it was something she had caught from her own father, like hair colour or height. I was wrong. Her love of the Sea Eagles is more akin to blood flow, so vital is it to her life. By the time I realised this I quite liked her a lot, and I figured that it might be a handful of Manly games I’d have to watch just once a year.

Wrong.

Every game. Every year.

That first year we were together was the year that Manly won the premiership. And I feel dirty, knowing that it is called a premiership and not just the whole game. But it was at the grand final shenanigans that I really became aware of the world I had become ensconced in. Manly wasn’t just a team playing some game involving crash tackles and tummy sliding and a ball. To my absolute delight they were also a team that once housed the infamous Hopoate, who liked to poke his finger up the bum holes of other players when they least expected it. To date, this is the greatest source of amusement to me throughout football season, even though Hopoate hasn’t played in some time.

This year, I adopted “If you can’t beat them, join them” mentality.

I adopted a team to barrack for. I’m still uncommitted though, because to be honest the Panthers let me down this year. We started having Friday Night Pie Night, which is exactly what it sounds like: a home made pie to eat while we watch the footy. Yes, we. This is possibly why my crocheting has stepped up a notch. I encouraged beloved to start her own football discussion page on Facebook, Lozzy Talks League. It’s great. Because first and foremost, my beloved is full of passion and she really does love her footy. So when you combine the two, you get a footy fan page that is knowledgeable and clever and funny and above all, accurate. It’s also home to many a rant. However, luckily for you, there are some rants that have been censored from appearing on her page. I have no such ability to censor, and therefore it is my great delight to present to you:

The Top Three Footy Rants of 2015.

It is important to remember that these rants usually occur in the second half of the game, after the pie and usually at least one beer with a second in her hand. For this reason I am offering you a language warning. I will cleverly disguise some of the more extreme words, because while I have no problem with sharing the rants I am aware one word is the kind of word that is only uttered in these extreme circumstances.

Coming in at number three is a short but succinct evaluation of the referee’s ability to see what beloved sees. These happen quite a lot, but on this occasion, the words flew out of her mouth before she realised what she had said. This was towards the end of the game, and from memory it was at a vital stage of the game. Thus my beloved let loose with the following: “What knock on you queer caterpillar!!” I looked at her in horror then dissolved into giggles, making a mental note to include the phrase in my vocabulary at the next opportunity. The opportunity to use the phrase has yet to present itself.

Number two was a moment that thrilled me to the very core. It was a comment on the local team, the Newcastle Knights. We both fell into the habit of laughing them off as a bit of an embarrassing joke, kind of like when someone farts at a formal dining situation. But wouldn’t you know it, they bloody well up and won a game. This is how my beloved told me: “They couldn’t play to save their mother’s arsehole all season and then they finally get one up!” I wondered what had happened to endanger their mother’s arseholes, however that wasn’t important. What was important was that my beautiful beloved had given me another turn of phrase to use as soon as I possibly could. I haven’t been able to yet.

The top footy rant of 2015 happened on Friday night. It was the Bulldogs versus someone. The thing is, the Bulldogs have earned a horrible reputation for having an army of thugs as their fan base. They throw stuff and they get violent and should be banned from the competition. I was tucked up in bed when this one happened, but from what I can gather, the game unfolded with the other team kicking the Bulldogs in the bottom and beating them very nicely. However, as the win became more secure, the Bulldog fans got rowdy (as they do). And after a happy cheer from her recliner, she spoke the words that I repeated to myself again and again as I drifted off to sleep, so desperate was I to remember them forevermore. It worked. When she awoke to go to work, I immediately rolled over with a sleep drunk grin on my face, and repeated the phrase back to her:

“Why don’t you throw some shit you Bulldog supporting wankers!!!!!”

Ah, footy season! It’s nearly over once again, and this time I think a very small part of me will miss it. It’s a very small part. And I’m yet to survive the grand final. So that could change.

I’m just thankful that she’s not a cricket fan. Deal breaker, right there.

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