Those sweet nights, those perfect games

The following article was published on thebigtip.com.au on April 30, 2010

He sat deep in the stands on a late winter night as waves of emotion overcame him. The field below, the scene of something scarcely believable just a few minutes earlier, was now devoid of life. Lights shining on emptiness. As families around him shuffled towards the exits, he finally sat down. The last few bars of the club song had drained his every last drop of energy. For a moment, suddenly, he needed to be alone, to block it all out. So he buried his head in his hands and cried. A few seconds later he lifted his head up, eyes red and tired. This was the line between pleasure and pain and it was all blurry. Around him people were confused. What happened? Isn’t this what you wanted? Was this not a scene of famous victory? The sort of victory you will remember for a lifetime but others will forget within weeks. Wasn’t being at games like this the reason you bought your membership? These weren’t tears of joy or pain but something unexplainable. Tears of pure emotion, pure exhaustion. They’d played their final series a month too early. Taken their supporters high then low then through sheer will dragged them back to the top again for a final glimpse. And that was it. Even heading into the finals everyone was exhausted. And they were gone the next week, and no one really remembers it.

HE sat in an internet cafe deep in a southern Chinese province and ate KFC and inhaled the smoke of cheap Chinese cigarettes. For 25 minutes he watched a slow line sneak across a screen symbolising events taking place half a world away. Finally the radio kicked in and a voice could give human life to something that didn’t feel quite real. They stayed with them for the first half, selling false hope to people who would never buy it again. Well maybe just a little bit. Half time was a reality check. This wasn’t gonna happen. Why would it? But he went back inside anyway and a kid nearly spat on his foot and it was on. They stayed with them in the third and the crowd lifted a little. Only the real supporters were still there during those dark times. The rest had their excuses. And the commentators sensed something. He could feel it too. Things were happening that didn’t usually happen. But someone so versed in disappointment didn’t fall in that easy. When they were still up with less than 10 minutes to go he reassessed, and hoped silently, treachorously, for some equilibrium. This didn’t need to happen. It wasn’t going to happen. The enemy kicked two in a minute and it was over. He threw the headphones at the screen. It was lacklustre rage at best like a poor actor in a poor movie. He just couldn’t summon it anymore. Not after this long. It even felt like relief. Then he picked up the headphones and listened again because he never left early, home or away. They had one last crack. Went forward. Marked. Goaled. The other team burst from the centre to snatch it back, but the backline was a flood. They held their nerve. Won it. He roared. Turned every head. Got up and walked back into those strange streets and it felt like it never happened because nobody else understood. And no one really remembers it.

Brad Green, Joel MacDonald, Melbourne Demons, celebrate, win, victoryIT was still warm in April and they took the train to the ‘g thinking, unbelievably, about 3 in a row. And it’s what they got. It was just one of those nights when every tackle sticks, when players are constanly bombing goals from 50 and umpires are paying easy frees. You lead at every change but the other team still has a sniff at three quarter time. Rather than shattering every nerve in every supporters body like before, this time you put the visitors to the torch and win by 8 goals. You don’t have a bad player on the field and the next day you can finally read the newspaper without avoiding your teams match report. Flags or finals or years of nothing these are the games you have to hold onto. You have to enjoy it. Or you’ll get nothing at all. Those sweet nights. Those perfect games.

In the bad times, those memories are what you have. What you have to remember, and what you have to look forward to. Essendon fans calling for Matthew Knights’ head might look back to last year and think about giving the guy a break. They did win a number of big games as underdogs against despised local rivals. Same gameplan, similar players. For clubs that are somehow living the opposite of Knights’ horror run (you know who I mean!), it’s time to enjoy the good times. Viewing a game and actually expecting, no demanding, to win is a wholly foreign concept and getting used to it should be one of life’s great pleasures. Ask Geelong supporters. Oh well not anymore.