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The nature of meaninglessness
I must have been about 5 when dad first took me t the football. We’d go in his car, two of my brothers and me, go into the pub for a raspberry cordial and listen to the excited chat of men revving themselves up to watch a game of football.
In those days it was about each game - singular. Carlton was not about to challenge for the flag, Barrass had yet to eventuate. Each game then was taken on its merit; them against us. The men would build themselves up, we’d rush to the ground for the 2:10 start and away we’d go.
Later it was my brother Pat who took me - he and I would catch the train to Royal park or Glenferrie or Windy Hill or Victoria Park. Whatever ground the Bluebaggers were playing at he got me there. Often I’d take a bundle of newspaper or a plastic toy and kick it to the ground and back again. Win, lose or draw, I’d kick that toy and every kick was a goal by Brian Kekovich or Jezza, every mark a Jezza or a Gray Crane grab, Jezza’s were the species, Gary’s the brave running into the pack.
Later still the brothers and I with dad would journey to the beloved Princes Park, by now we were the club and every game was an expected win, every game still burnt the veins though with hate for the foe and a desire to roll ‘em again. Each game, still, made the heart flare into the crowd, ignited by the players and by the passion of the spectator. It was what the game was for – release!
The premierships were fantastic because they gave the biggest release, but still, each game had worth.
Then game the day I went with my family and dad to see the game against Melbourne. It was the day Heaver played his first game for the Dees and kicked 5 against us. A game we lost and yet it remains to this day of the thousands of games I have seen from about ’62 to now the most important game, the game that holds the most meaning in the pantheon of memories stored in the essence of who I am.
You see, it was the last game I ever shared with Dad. It was his last game. Not a great game, but ad had seen the great games. He’d seen ’68 and ’70 and ’72 and so on. Yet this game, this meaningless game in a meaningless season, became the most meaningful game I’ve been to.
That’s the thing about sport. It is not about flags or champions or priority picks. It is about the shared moment, shared with friends and strangers. Games, parts of games, moments never forgotten - like the tie Keith and I saw Kouta pick the ball up one handed, the time Porter ran through an Adelaide player and my four year old son’s face turned white at the sound of body on body, it’s the meaningless game against Melbourne a few weeks ago when I sat with two of my brothers and their children and my sister’s son and I just remembered dad and that made that game meaningful.
This Saturday I am going to the football with my niece and her man. I have never been to the football with her, she lives in Queensland and so this is another meaningful game. A game that will connect back to dad and to me as a kid and to millions of memories I have, like stars in the navy blue sky.
That’s football. That’s its meaning.
All games are meaningless
And all games are not.
And we will never know which is which until after the event.
It is up to the club to do what they think is best.
It is up to the players to bust a gut
And it is up to me to scream and shout and ignite my senses because this may just
E the most meaningful game ever
Win lose or draw
Turns to leaf litter eventually
But memories make meaning of life.
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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