As I walked into the Cora Lynn change rooms to see all my team mates talking shit and slapping asses as footy players do, I felt a sense of pride knowing that this wasn't another game that we would travel all over Gippsland after Ren and Stimpy cartoons and rice bubbles.......preparations of a finely tuned athlete @ 16.
But this time was different, there was an air of the "big dance" flowing into those single brick, urine slash liniment oil smelling rooms. We made it to the grand final. A feat that only a select few will ever feel. You are constantly reminded by the volunteers that give up their saturdays to rub you down and stick tape on your ankles. The bloody Grand Final. The last Blue light Disco of the calendar year. The Big one. But its not the same excitement as the disco, where you might touch a boob or even get stinky finger. This disco is different. This Dance you are partnered by a shadow called nerves. This disco will pop up in your dreams for the rest of your life.
As the best day rolls out, for the male species on that one Saturday in September, where we have a "f*#k up" pass from the missus, my mind always takes me back to that burning feeling in my gut that I had when walking into that corrugated ironed, single bricked style club room. The same feeling that these 44 professionals that walk inconspicuously underground into the tripled bricked rooms so sophisticated that is the envy of sportspeople around the globe. This burning feeling is not quite the same as when your sixteen and your proudly telling all your mates how many pubes you have (as your putting on those wetsuit under shorts) With todays Athlete, it is a far different burning feeling that the big boys have. They have a growl. A rapid animal on a chain in their guts.
As the Siren sounds and the first bone crunching sounds hit the TV speakers from 20 million dollars worth of talent, the beer gets spilled, the sausages get squeezed out of their bread holders and dammit its on. The Big dance is underway and your standing with your mates taking it all in. You look around the room the are females stop their chatter to see their Boyfriends erections chub their jeans because that one day in September has begun.
As the first five minutes quickly get lost in the first quarter and the siren sounds to send that teams into their first huddle, all the excited male species move out for a ciggie and a re-cap of what they just saw. As all eyes are fixated on the "cyril centre of attention", my eyes slowly disengage from the speaker to graze ove the attentive faces. This is when my pupils come to a stop and study that look of nostalgia in the eyes of one. That look of being taken back to being a skinny sixteen year old hero that could use gel to keep in place those long gone locks that would get a boob touch after the game.
This look is easy to spot. The glazed over eyes, the look of distain at the one "cyril centre of attention" bragging about his footy days but looking right through them at the same time. Clearly accompanied by that third beer deep, balding, tight shirt wearing guy at the GF bbq. That look is of a late thirties something male that now still has the burning feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. This is a look of a ex teenage footy star that wishes he could turn the clock back and thumb a ride back to those glory days. Before you is the look of a yesterday hero who wished he was Superman and fly so fast around the Earth's atmosphere to rewind the clock and win a Grand Final.
They are at every BBQ around Australia on that one day in September silently reminiscing while fixated on the screen. They are the ones trying to take that drunk screamer at the half time kick with the boys. They are the ones drilling that pass at the group who want it kicked high instead. Or calling out nicknames on a lead while losing his Haviannas on a lead.
As the game finishes and the medals are handed out and the BBQ group tends to wither away, there is that same guy slouched in the chair half asleep with glazed eyes still fixated on the TV asking whoever walking past to grab him a beer in the esky outside. That beast inside now just drowning in whatever he could get his hands on during the day. The beast is just too drunk to stand inside the gut anymore and floating on a lie-lo on top of the cocktail of stolen esky liquid.
As I walked back through the cheering crowd into those Urine smelling rooms as the final siren went, I now could see the looks of despair, the looks of hurt and the tear covered faces of my teamates. I knew that the beast within was quiet. I knew he retreated into the shadows. Funningly enough I would feel him again one day. That one day becomes everyday as the beast within is always stalking that elusive victory.
One day I shall unleash him. One day I will have my Victory and he can run free from his chains and Bruce Springsteen can soundtrack some new glory days for me.
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