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School-yard hatreds carry us through our adult lives
There was a book I once read that stated every useful lesson the author knew about life he learnt at kindergarten – clever idea. So I'll nick it for this week's blurb. For a football supporter, though, there is a difference. The author was talking about the niceties of life, about trust and sharing and stuff like that. This is football and, as we all know, football has no room for niceties – not even for handshakes, eh Brock?
So the things I learnt in the playground (with regards to football mum, the rest I learnt; I am, after all, a good son, mum – cross my heart and hope to barrack for Richmond if I lie), so back on track – the things that stick with me through each and every journey through the football season are the old rivalries, the old hatreds learnt while playing football on the school-yard tar, skinned knees, torn shirts, the horrible sweat in the classroom after lunch, and the memories of all the sides particularly hated, remain as vivid today as they were when I first learnt them all those years ago.
I am talking a long, long time ago. This is the time of Brian Kekovich in the goal square and Gags and Big Nick just setting out. In the time when my brother Pat took me by train to all the different suburban grounds and the sisters of Mercy were still allowed to give you a decent whack in class, just for the hell of it.
In that faraway land of childhood, I learnt early to hate Collingwood; that was an easy one, more so because my Nanna had a statue of a magpie on her porch and a million of my cousins seemed to follow the Pies and stroke that dumb bird every time they entered her house. I must say 1970 was all the sweeter and visiting Nana was never a greater pleasure that after that GF, oh and a couple of others of course.
Richmond I hated after '69. I was there with dad at the G watching our beloved Bluebaggers go down. I hated the TIgers that day, hated that stupid song and their fat slash of yellow across their chests - though, secretly, I loved the way Royce Hart played football.
I grew to hate North, which was hard considering this was the era of Teasdale and lots and lots of losses. I should have pitied them, I really should have, but I didn't. I think it was the pathetic whine in the voices of their supporters, the way their moist eyes looked at you, begging you not to talk football on a Monday after they had lost – again. Hatred for the weak who lie down, expose their bellies and whimper for mercy. People always sprout on and on about the famous Shinboner Spirit – seems to me though their spirit only occured after the generosity of the ten year rule, their stealing of Barass (who we never stole, we just trained) and Tiger Crosswell and then, later, their fortune in landing Carey might have given them a bravado for a while but truly, in my mind, the Shinboner Spirit will always been a hangdog look and a pleading, licking of dry lips, hoping the boys will not talk football in the playground.
So as a kid there were a few sides I hated but none, not even the Pies, came close to the hatred I felt for the black and red. There are a few reasons for this hatred so I'd like to list them before the advent of this week's blockbuster – and how is it that with everyone tipping us to crash we have played 3 blockbusters in a row with plenty more to come!
So for the list;
1: Supporters. I went to school in Glenroy and fair dinkum every cat and dog and rat and mouse barracked for Essendon* in those days. Each and every one of them was a loud-mouthed ignoramus – think black crows with red slashes - who waved their clawed-hands around while whispering about how great their Coleman was, or worse, would take a mark in the playground and wave the ball above their heads like Alec Epis – I hated Alex Epis, give me Ragsy Goold with his flying locks and and white ankle and wrist bands any day of the week. Brendan Deacon barracked for Essendon* and every 'end of term' day, winter or summer, he'd insult Ragsy and I'd insult Alec and then we'd thump at each other while his little sister held our bags and waited for us to finish.
2: Whinging: Sheedy may have perfected it, Knights might have embraced it (easy really, he played for the yellow and black whiners) but it began after the 1968 Grand Final. Now I admit, even dad said as we left the ground that day, laughing and singing the grandest song ever sung like we were two cowboys at the grand old oprey, that his friend Wes did tug the jumper of bug-eyed Blethyn, but so what! So what!!!!!!! I mean Jezza that day missed about a thousand shots at goal so that we really should have won by ten or more goals, but was that ever mentioned? Oh no, not by those sooky-la-la, drive ya ga-ga Essendon*, oh look at me and my stupid bomber insignia – supporters!
3: Their Ground. Windy Hill. I mean I got no Thrills on Raspberry Hill! I hated that stupid ground of theirs! Worse, I hated the trip back across that bridge when clusters of their inane supporters would gather and seek to fight single or stray supporters of other clubs. I never worried about the Pie supporters at Victoria Park, they gave as good as they got, Tiger supporters just turned on their own like a pack of feral dogs chasing the same old bone, but the Essendon* supporters looked out for the solitary traveller and sought to jump on him with their gutless packs of spineless barrackers. Give me even a hundred Saints supporters for a long chat on a Sunday than a single Essendon* scum for single hello before or after a game.
So I learnt early to hate the Bombers and their whining voices and excuses after each and every loss. Its important, those early lessons, its why, I think, the new clubs from interstate do not worry me so much. They came after my childhood, after all the important lessons. I am sure for younger kids the interstaters are hated, for me they are just a nuisance because I hate watching the game on the telly instead of live, beside me brother, a beer in hand and my voice hoarse as dingo's bark after it has crossed the Nullarbor.
So this week lads, this week its on again! And this week lads, this week its time we buried the red and black bugs. Squished them flat and watched their whining voices dribble out in the aftermath of the shellacking we'll give them this weekend!
No excuses lads, no faltering footsteps, just a four quarter effort!
Santy for 6
Yazz for 4
Jammo to lead brilliantly
and Waitey for B.O.G.
Go Blues!
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This type of slight is alien in the more cultured part of the world - Walsh. Its up there with mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun!
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