at the g

I’m under-dressed in a cotton tee-shirt, cotton windcheater and Gore-Tex jacket. The air is gelid. The smokers are heaving nicotine into their lungs and guiltily exhaling what’s left into the night air before going where no smoker dare tread—the members’ stand of the MCG.

Text messages join us—Outside Gate 2; Four minutes away; By the statue of the first ever game; Heading in your direction.

Jim and I haven’t seen each other for two and half years since his Darwin wedding that didn’t happen.  I’d booked the tickets so went anyway. He’s a teacher who’s given too much of himself, now care-taking a millionaire brother-in-law’s vineyard. Danger there for the lapsed Catholic son of a Papal knight.

Jim grew up in Hawthorn, supported them when they’d won no premierships. Now he’s seen nine. I’ve seen eight of the Blues’ flags. My team hasn’t beaten his team in seven years: I don’t expect that to change tonight.

We’re supposed to meet MC-G, another rabid Hawk, dubbed “dial-a-quote psychologist” in the big paper’s Heckler column two weeks ago. Jim says MC-G’s dialled in crook; it’s just Jim and me. I prefer it that way.

I hand him my dosh and he flashes his medallion at the visitors’ ticket window, buys me a barcode. Scarves and coats reserve every seat in the lower deck, so we ascend to the gods. We might as well be in a helicopter. Jim sips a coffee, I polish off my cheese roll brought from home. No hospitality thieves rip me off at the footy.

The pre-game entertainment—a boisterous, bum-waggling calypso band—make conversation difficult. Jim tells me about his departure from Darwin, from school. I talk about my change of job. The game begins and his team quickly assert themselves. We don’t barrack; we analyse this game and the game of football generally.

Jim shifts to politics: he’s apoplectic at greedy miners, the shit-storm lashing Julia Gillard, Abbott’s George Pell connection, off-shore processing of asylum-seekers. We’re of one mind—radically compassionate—but I no longer let myself pop blood vessels over national politics.

Walking to the station after Carlton’s fourth consecutive defeat, one that surely consigns the coach to death row, I remark that we’re older than the thousands of fleeing fans surging round us. We laugh. What else can you do?

We’ll catch up again, soon, at the vineyard near Avenal where 66 year-old Jim wakes each day stress-free. The silly bastard still wants to teach. You just can’t beat the Catholic martyr out of the son of a Papal knight.

Rock on.