Diary of a (Drunken) Day at the Footy Finals

View from the rabid Hawks supporter section just before the game starts. 

In the last blog entry, I alluded to the fanaticism surrounding Australian Rules Football here in Melbourne. I’ve been fortunate enough to attend no fewer than six footy games since I arrived here three full months ago now. It’s an amazing game and every one of the contests I’ve been to were highly entertaining...even the draw. (Seriously? 212 total points and we get a tie and no overtime?) The game itself has everything you could ask for—serious physical contact, highly excitable fan bases, unreal skills from the players on the field, and copious amount of beer flowing from just about every tap within a 10-kilometer radius of any stadium hosting a game. (They use kilometers here, not miles. I’m trying to adjust. Leave me alone.)

September is playoff month for the AFL and the league has been running these “This is Greatness” ads on TV for the last few weeks, serving up the populous with a generous helping of past Grand Final highlights in an effort to get them even more amped up for the finals, as if that’s humanly possible. Last Saturday, I had the opportunity to attend one of the prelims (semifinal games) between visiting Adelaide from South Australia and traditional Melbourne-based power Hawthorn, which has a huge fan base. On the line: a trip to this Saturday's Grand Final, which is basically their Super Bowl. The game was played at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, known as the MCG or simply “The G”, which is the spiritual home to Aussie Rules Football and also home to the Grand Final every year.

Because it would be too difficult to try to recall every instance that occurred throughout the day (you'll soon see what I mean by that), I decided to break out the Iphone and keep a sort of diary…because nothing is more fun than looking down to type on your phone when sports drama is unfolding all around you. It also makes you look like a real asshole. But here we go. 

3:30 p.m. - In spectacular sunshine and 70-degree weather, I begin the walk to Richmond, a local suburb across the Yarra River from my apartment and sort of on the way to the MCG, which is also within walking distance of my place. On the way, I pass two Adelaide fans who are carrying—and drinking—two Coronas each while walking down a main street in broad daylight. Pretty sure that’s not legal here, but I should check into it because if it is, I’m doing it every time I head out for the night. That’s like Vegas. (And that is THE coolest thing about Vegas—walking down the street with a drink in your hand. Don’t argue with me on this. I won’t change my mind.)

4:15 pm. – I arrive to meet friends at a pub called the Vaucluse Hotel. It’s packed. Like many bars in Australia, it has a section that houses an area to place bets, or “have a punt” as they say here. Aussies will bet on which old lady will cross the street first and, today, the horseracing season is underway and it’s on the TV monitors in the pub. With the footy game on tap and the ponies running, this is a punter’s paradise, if you’ll excuse the alliteration. One general observation I can say with pretty good certainty is that Aussie men in their twenties and thirties piss away money on sports betting like it’s, well, piss. That’s not a stereotype. It just is. (I should write about this at a later date. File that away.)

4:30 p.m. - We depart the pub after a couple of $4 Coronas and walk the 15 minutes to “the ground”, their word for “stadium”. The streets are flooded with Hawthorn fans in their brown and yellow scarves, game jerseys, hats, you name it. People are chanting, whistling and generally slurring words. The game starts in an hour. We pass a girl blowing the Hawthorn fight song—which was ripped off from Yankee Doodle Dandy (seriously)—on her bagpipes (you didn’t know where I was going with that, did you?) on the way into the stadium. My friends tell me she plays the fight song of whatever team is playing that day. The guys normally drop their phone numbers in her money collection bin, rather than money. (They’re new friends.) I’ll let you guess what their success rate has been. The only things getting…you know…are those bagpipes.

5:11 p.m. - We buy our first beers (at the stadium), Carlton drafts. (Carlton is the company that just made this killer commercial. Love the barricade part. Stop. Careful. Hand it over. Don’t spill. And away we go.)

5:12 pm. - The national anthem of Australia is played—because playing the national anthem of, say, Canada, would be awkward at this moment—as the two teams stare at each other, arms locked together, in the middle of the field with the late-afternoon sun splashing over much of the stadium. The entire crowd sings along in unison in what is described by many as “the best part” of the game, which I guess means we should all go home now. It’s a pretty chilling moment that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, if you have hair on the back of your neck, which I don’t because I’m well-groomed. Still, it’s something that doesn’t happen enough in the U.S., and 70,000 people singing in unison is enough to move you, unless of course you have some sort of condition that prohibits you from being moved during moments like these. Like, say, no heart. I tried to videotape the anthem but half of it is upside-down because I was trying not to spill my beer. If I get a ticket to the Grand Final, I'll tape it and post it here.   

5:13 p.m. - The anthem ends and the crowd around me breaks into song before the opening bounce. It’s a perfect afternoon and there is no place else to be in Melbourne. 70,000 fans are on hand. If two Melbourne teams were playing today there would be more people, but fan support in Melbourne is divided between 10 AFL teams that are based within an hour of the city. Next week, 100,000 screaming lunatics will fill the place for the Grand Final.

5:15 p.m. – The crowd noise rises as the opening bounce gets the game underway. Is there anything better than the anticipation and sound that comes when a big sporting event begins? I think not. 

5:29 p.m. – Second beer arrives, delivered by the courier with the weakest bladder—seriously, 15 minutes into the game? Beer No. 2 is also a Carlton draft, if you’re scoring at home. (And if you ARE scoring at home, go get another pencil. You're going to need it.) 

5:32 p.m. - Myself and about 10 other people around me are ready to kill the visiting Adelaide fan standing behind me who has complained incessantly since the game began for EVERY call to go the way of his Crows. It’s a virtual certainty that he will get himself punched by the third quarter at this rate. Not by me, of course, but there seem to be a number of volunteers around me who would be more than willing to make it difficult for him to speak. It doesn’t help that he’s dressed in tight jeans, a white clubbing shirt and some white shoes that make him seem extremely comfortable in his own skin. Maybe a little too comfortable for this crowd, actually.     

5:48 p.m. – Two more Carlton drafts arrive in a carrier (which costs an extra $1). Riding shotgun to the Carlton drafts are two 10-ounce Jim Beam and Cokes. Uh, oh!

6:02 p.m. - Hawthorn started slowly and their fans are restless. Some of them are using language that would not require a foreigner to pick up a Thesaurus or translation book. At the moment, the object of their affection is an Adelaide player who is having a splendid game, but really should be more judicious when selecting his hairstylist (he has a mullet). From behind me, I hear: “F-ckin 1980s hairstyle, f-ckin get in there…f-ckin el...” (which means fucking hell, I think). Sorry, mom.  

6:04 p.m. – On the flip side, the fans are hysterically well mannered when complimenting the play of one of their owns, usually with a subtle, “Well done, Buddy.” Or “Good on ya, Sam.”   

6:06 p.m. - The Hawks kick a goal when goals seem hard to come by. This comes at 14:06 of the second quarter and the goal scorer’s first name is Luke. The Hawthorn crazies immediately break into song: “Luke, There It Is”. Wait, is that…? Why, yes, it is. That’s a take-off on the 1993 No. 2 billboard hit “Whoomp, There It Is” by the legendary musical group Tag Team. Of all the stadiums in all the world… You know, when the lyrical geniuses of Tag Team penned that little ditty, I bet they envisioned it would be sung by drunken Aussie footy fans 19 years later. Marketing geniuses, those guys.

Pregame outside "The G" with Melbourne as a backdrop.

Halftime arrives after a couple more Carlton drafts and the Hawthorn faithful around me are in full-on panic mode. I know this because I’m a Boston Red Sox fan. We invented sports panic. It usually comes about three games into a 162-game baseball season. Like in American sports, the crowd seems to be populated with an amazing number of experts who could really help their team get over the top if they were simply allowed into the locker room for the halftime strategy session. It’s amazing professional coaches don’t allow this.  

Sometime late in the six o’clock hour – Someone must have let the super smart Hawks fans into the locker room to share their brilliant tactical ideas; their team has come out on a mission. In the third quarter, they storm back from six points down to take a 20-point lead in a matter of minutes. It’s an exhibition. The mood of the home fans changes drastically, from pearls like, “Ohhh, shit...get the f-cker!!!” to a more proper sounding sentence like, “Oh geez, he’s done well to get there, hasn’t he?” which they say to no one in particular when a player makes a smart, effort-driven play.

7-something p.m. – Someone hands me another Carlton draft and I think about how I love going to footy games. I’ve moved up to the second level to say hello to a friend who provided me with the ticket. He’s in the company of two of his mates, one of whom has brought his young daughter (maybe age 4 or 5) with him. She is wearing her Hawthorn jumper (game jersey) and when it comes to footy she is “switched on”, as Austin Powers and the Aussies would say. One thing that I’ve noticed in going to these footy games is that fathers seem to really share their passion for the game with their young daughters. Obviously, fathers and sons share sports moments pretty regularly in most cultures, but it’s very fun to see so many young girls going to games with their dads and really getting into it. This particular little lady climbed over my friend, grabbed the open seat next to me and proceeded to dish out several high-5s in my direction while yelling relentlessly for a supremely talented Hawthorn player named “Spiro Rioli”, whose name is actually Cyril Rioli. No matter. Who would have the heart to tell this face that she had the name wrong? Not I. I was digging the high-5s. 

7-later-something p.m. - A massive call goes Adelaide’s way with just over nine minutes left and they cut the Hawthorn lead to 84-79. We’ve got a ballgame now. The Crows won’t go away and the Hawthorn crowd seems more than a bit unnerved. They jump from their seats and their arms go up and out collectively in the international signal for “WHAAAAT? Umpire, you blew the call! What the F were you looking at?!?” I’d recognize that move in any stadium in the world.

Approaching 8 p.m. (I think) – Someone deliver yet another Carlton draft and I think about how kind Aussies are? On the field, out of nowhere, Adelaide scores from 40 meters out to take the lead, 85-84, and we could have a massive upset. Moments later, the Hawks strike back, as good teams do, with Rioli leading the way. He zigzags through the midfield like an NFL tailback and sets up a massive goal. My little friend next to me yells “Spiro” repeatedly and pumps her fist. The Hawks hold on to win, 97-92, in a game that was much closer than anyone expected. Downstairs, the Hawks supporters look emotionally destroyed considering their team won. It’s never easy when you’re expected to win, I suppose. It could also be the Carlton drafts and Jim Beam. It’s hard to tell at this point.  

I think this was important to them. 

Sometime around 8 p.m. - The crowd empties out of the MCG and we make our way to a local pub, where they will have something besides Carlton draft and Jim Beam, I presume.

Later p.m. (my watch is blurry) – Yep, they have rum. Here's a good idea: I feel a little full on beer. Let's switch to rum!

(Sunday morning addendum: Turns out, this was not the greatest idea I’ve ever had.)

Moments after first rum and Coke - We encounter a supremely over-friendly girl who has definitely been out longer than us, or at least has been trying harder. She’s tenuously holding a glass of really red wine. “That’s going on someone,” I say to a buddy, before turning away to look elsewhere. By the time I turn back three seconds later, one of the guy’s shirts has a massive blotch of red wine on the shoulder and chestal area. Bad luck, Dave. Bad luck.

11:30 or so p.m. – A cabbie rakes all five us over the coals and charges us, if I am remembering correctly, $5 apiece to drive 10 minutes to another part of town. Time seems to be going by slowly at this point.

1-something a.m. – It’s well past my bedtime. I’m not writing down anything that happens at this point. It will be too hard to decipher on my Iphone tomorrow and I don’t want to get a hankering to text friends in the U.S. who are probably going about their normal Saturday morning routines. You know, regular adult things like taking the kids to soccer practice or mowing the lawn. God, I feel guilty.

Five minutes later – OK, I’m over the guilt. Lot of girls in here with accents, it seems. Oh, wait, I’m in Australia. Sweet!

2:01 a.m. – I make one last note on my phone: “It’s 2:01 a.m. and I’m dancing to 'Rumpshaker’. What a day!”

Yep, I’m dancing…and me dancing is too cool a sight for me to blog about. Think:  Timberlake, but taller and with more moves. I’ll leave you with that.

 

Bringing the (Blog) Thunder from Down Under

OK, it’s been far too long since I sat down and wrote about adapting to life in Australia (actually, I haven’t written at all) as a resident of the great city of Melbourne; pronounced Mel-Bin; like “Mel Bin Laden” but without the “Laden”. I've been slow to write anything  because I’ve been out crushing Foster’s oil cans, hunting kangaroos, putting additional shrimp on my barbie (not in that way!), and narrowly avoiding the daily shark attacks while looking for “Bode” with Keanu Reeves down at Bells Beach.

NONE OF THAT IS TRUE at all. So the sooner you can get your head around the fact that life in this Australian city of three plus million people is not like Crocodile Dundee or a terrible beer commercial—no one here drinks Foster’s, I’ve never even seen it—the sooner you’ll have a proper idea of the place. Glad we cleared that up.

In reality, I’ve been slow to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard) because moving to another country creates an endless To-Do list that seems to grow three times as fast as things get crossed off of it. It’s been sensory overload since day one—learning to drive on the left side of the road, starting a new job, buying a new (to me) car, insuring said car, finding a place to live, insuring the contents of said place to live, setting up a bank account, and then spending money from that bank account like a drunken sailor on shore leave in Thailand while going to IKEA and Target 35 times each week (kill me, please!) in an effort to fill said place to live with items very similar to everything you just sold in the U.S. on Craig’s List for 10 percent of their original value. Fortunately, most of that is in the past at this point, aside from the 20-page employee life insurance packet sitting on my desk at home, which seems to show up weekly with more questions to answer about joint pain history and the like (they better have plenty of space in that section for this guy).

In short, I guess I sort of underestimated it all a bit. Although a move to Australia from Ron Burgandy’s San Diego isn’t exactly like uprooting to Somalia or Syria on the culture shock scale, it’s been more of a transition than I expected. It’s been frustrating at times, but also quite rewarding. I will say that everything you do in a new country takes longer. You make a wrong turn on the way to a grocery store and then spend 20 minutes finding your way back. The things you did in the blink of an eye in the U.S. now take planning. You think of things you say before you say them. You’re aware of your accent because people look at you and sort of double take every time you open your mouth at a place like the grocery store or a pub. It’s also a decidedly diffferent feeling to have it happening all the time, as opposed to when you visit a foreign country and expect it as a tourist. You forget that you sound different as you go through simple day-to-day tasks. You say something, they look at you funny, you spend the next few seconds trying to figure out why they are looking at you funny, and then you remember you sound different; it's not because you ARE funny, it's because you sound funny. It’s a weird phenomenon. On the bright side, I find myself aware of it less and less, which is a good thing. I guess it’s a sign that I’m settling in. And by that I mean I know the difference between a schooner, a pot, a pint, a stubby and a jug.

I’m finally sitting down to write about it all because my dad told me to, because it’s therapeutic, and because I’ve got six more hours to spare on this flight to Thailand (which ought to give me plenty of ammo for a future blog entry). I can’t seem to zero in on a singular topic to expound on while attempting not to spill this Singha Lager (not bad, by the way) on my laptop as the two compete for space on the tray table here, so I figured I’d just pick a couple of things I’ve observed in my first two plus months and we’ll get this party started that way. And won’t it be a party…sure it will. (No one forced you to read this anyway.)

Language barrier

I’ll dive into this further at a later date—when I have more of a clue what people are actually saying—but so far I can tell you that I was meant to be writing this blog a month ago, so it was far past time that I got stuck into it. Figured I’d have a crack. Hopefully, it will be half decent and not a shocker. 

The one thing I can say is that Aussies are very good with their slang terminology, and it's wonderful to learn. They even use it on TV in sports broadcasts. My second favorite sports lingo (that's a tease) is when a guy in Aussie Rules Football lines up a kick from, say, 50 meters out, and the announcer says: "Not sure if he's got the journey from here." They  love using slang. It's great.  

Let’s check the Sexyland Scoreboard”

Melbourne’s winter revolves around “the footy”, that’s Aussie Rules Football, the AFL. I’ve taken in about six games now and it’s growing on me quickly. But one of my favorite parts of the footy games is when they announce the scores during a radio broadcast using the corporate sponsor of the scoreboard. In the U.S., this would go something like (insert Jim Nance’s voice here): “Friends, let’s check the Cisco Out Of Town Scoreboard and see what’s going on around the rest of the NFL on this third Sunday of the season.” In Australia, it sounds like this: “6.4.40 for Geelong to 4.8.32 for Hawthorne on the Sexyland Scoreboard.” Sexyland, of course, being a chain of adult stores that sells, I think, novelty items and the like. You can tell the announcers relish the moment they get to say “Sexyland Scoreboard”; it rolls off the tongue. It would be the equivalent of Al Michaels on Monday Night Football saying, “Patriots lead the Chargers 35-3 with 2:03 left to play in the first quarter on the Bob’s Triple X Video Store Scoreboard.” The day that happens in the U.S. is the day ESPN has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy and is dying for ad dollars. Sadly, I don’t see the Sexyland Scoreboard making an appearance on ESPN anytime soon. And that’s a shame.

On a side note, while driving a couple of weeks ago, I heard a radio ad throw out this little pearl: “Furgasm…that sounds like a swingers’ party for ferrets.” I don’t have a clue what they were advertising. I also can’t think of anything else to say on the subject of parties involving swinging ferrets and their ability to sexually climax, so we’ll just move along.

Australia—one big town

One thing that has struck me about living in Australia is that, despite being a country the size of Europe, the relatively small population of only 30 million people (about the same as California, I think, to give you perspective) means that this island’s inhabitants act like a small state in certain ways. It’s an odd dynamic for a place so vast. During the London Olympics, the people seemed to support the athletes as if they knew them personally, which they clearly didn’t. They refer to them by their first name in many cases and with the sense that they are on the team themselves. “Sally won the hurdles for us.” “Our swimmers must be drunk.” I think our swim team lost their arm floaties on the way to London.” “Hey, we won another silver medal. Silver is the new gold.” (They were touchy about the swimming troubles.) Even newspapers often run headlines that refer to athletes by their first names. It’s part of a pretty passionate national pride that is more evident here than in the U.S. In America, too many people are patriotic on the 4^th of July, 9/11, and that’s it. We could learn from the Aussies in that area. 

Another example of the connectedness I noticed with other parts of the country was on a recent traffic report on a radio station.  Traffic can get fairly ugly in the big cities like Melbourne and Sydney, but I’ve heard traffic updates in which the national broadcaster gives the traffic in every major city in the country. We’re talking about cities that are separated by thousands of miles. It would be like giving traffic in Chicago, Boston, New York and Denver in the same update. I suppose it’s useful, but it’s also funny when the guy skips from a congested road in Brisbane to a street in Melbourne. (They are far away from each other.)  

The one exception to all this lovey-dovey-we-are-all-one-big-family notion is that Sydney and Melbourne, which are separated by about a 70-minute flight, maintain a healthy rivalry from what I can gather. They have decidedly different feels to them. Sydney is often compared to Los Angles, whereas Melbourne would be San Francisco. Personally, I think Melbourne has some striking similarities to Boston—absolutely crazy for sports, public parks everywhere in the city, a river running right through town, and a number of sections/neighborhoods of the city with a very distinct character. Much like Boston or New York, when the weather warms up for a few days in winter, the whole world is outside running, biking or just walking around the city. It really is quite beautiful with a cool layout. Springtime and summer should be amazing…if the city isn’t under water by then.

Melbourne Cricket Ground. The MCG. The "G". Home to the footy. Walking distance from Chateau Sweeney.

To come...
With the Footy Finals (playoffs) beginning this week (while I’m in Thailand) I’ll try to sit down and relate the Aussie footy experience in a later blog. Basically, footy is king in Melbourne. I’ll leave you with these witty words from a coworker to give you an idea of how footy weaves its way into the culture of the city. This is the description my coworker gave of his friend beginning a relationship with a woman. And this line came in the regular flow of conversation:

“So he saw the opening, tucked the ball under his wing, busted through the pack and slotted it from 50.”

He was giggling like a schoolgirl as he mentioned that last part, surprised at how his rambling had found its way to comedic paydirt with a well-placed euphemism.

Let’s diagram that sentence, shall we.

The opening

The first part is pretty self-explanatory. The player sees an opening in the defense and runs to daylight, as we’d say in American football, tucking the ball away securely under his arm so it cannot be pryed loose.  
Translation: The male saw that the female was available, and moved toward the target with purpose, protecting himself from losing his footing and carefully maintaining possession of the moment.

Busting through the pack.

Translation: The female has other suitors whose aim would be to trip up and tackle the ball carrier as he advances toward the target (goal line).

Slotting it from 50.

In Aussie Rules Football terms, that would be kicking the footy through the goal posts from 50 meters out for a 6-point goal.

Translation: You can probably figure this part out for yourself.

Sometimes the language barrier isn’t much of a barrier at all.