When you’ve performed sport at the elite level, certain instincts never leave you. I pulled on the maroon jumper of the Tyabb ‘Yabbies’ Football Club from Under 9s all the way through to Under 15s when I retired. I thought then as now that it’s better to leave when you’re still on top. But as comfortable as I was with my decision to retire from the game to which I gave so much, occasionally I am beset with second, third and even fourth thoughts. Truth is, though, it’s too late for me to change my mind, especially given my position of ‘half back flank’ has long since been filled.
When you’ve performed sport at the elite level, certain instincts never leave you. I pulled on the maroon jumper of the Tyabb ‘Yabbies’ Football Club from Under 9s all the way through to Under 15s when I retired. I thought then as now that it’s better to leave when you’re still on top. But as comfortable as I was with my decision to retire from the game to which I gave so much, occasionally I am beset with second, third and even fourth thoughts. Truth is, though, it’s too late for me to change my mind, especially given my position of ‘half back flank’ has long since been filled.
There’s very little footage of me during my playing days. I suspect the highlights would more likely to feature the annual pie night than some kind of spectacular grab. I remember being cold, falling over in mud and the occasional victory, although I can’t recall ever singing the Club’s theme song. I do, however, remember the oranges. I’ve never been a big fan of citrus and I suspect my retirement owed a lot to the Club’s reluctance to replace the oranges with a fruit platter as I had suggested. I’m convinced that we’d have won more games if, at three quarter time, the players had their choice of honeydew melon or papaya. It wasn’t to be.
It’s been years since I attended a junior football match. It always seemed a little too soon. But despite any personal anguish, I agreed to see my nephew Jake play his under 13s game last Sunday.
It was an away match and seating was either in the form of concrete steps below the clubhouse or by parking your car along the fence. The latter gave you the option of tooting your horn to signal your approval or disapproval, whilst the former gave you chronically frozen buttocks. When we arrived at the ground, the home team was ensconced within the clubhouse, no doubt preparing some last minute strategy to defeat my nephew and his friends. Suddenly, I heard voices singing as the unmistakable sound of the song, ‘Happy Birthday’ drifted out. It was then that I realized what my nephew was up against. There was obviously a level of genius at work – by having ‘Happy Birthday’ as their club theme song, they’d cunningly ensured that everybody knew the lyrics. Clearly, this team would take some beating.
The oval itself was remarkable. Traditionally, football grounds are flat but not this one. There was a distinct curve that peaked in the middle before tapering off on either side. It meant that if you were standing in the goal square at one end, you’d have a significant difficulty seeing what was happening at the other. Granted, in terms of drainage, I’m sure the ground holds its own against any of the world’s major stadia, but it was disconcerting to see the players disappear over the far side of the incline. Then there was the matter of the wind.
I know that some people hold concerns about wind farms being set up along the coastline to harness nature’s fury as a way of generating electricity. However, if the push is on to harness the wind, we should forget about the coast and plonk a few turbines on the oval, probably over near the wing. In fact, the wind was so severe that each team had trouble scoring at the far end. To see youngsters kick the ball towards the goal only to have it curve back and fly over their heads courtesy of a gale was somehow dispiriting.
It can be intimidating going to another team’s home ground. For me, I knew things were particularly rough when the umpire’s escort was armed. As it turns out, this was just as well as there was plenty of rough stuff on display, with all manner of unprovoked pushing and shoving and eye gouging. That said, once I’d bought my chips and left the queue for the kiosk, things were much better.
Back on the field, Jake was doing a sterling job. As the ball flew past him, he took off in hot pursuit, leaving the opposition player looking flat-footed. The ball tumbled over the boundary line and Jake eased up, only to have his opponent push him in the back and into the mud. Before I quite knew what was happening, the words, ‘Hey number 12, you just breached your parole’ were exiting my mouth. It’s probably wrong to trash-talk opposition players at an Under 13s football match, but I couldn’t help myself. The parents of the home team were none too impressed, with some of them giving up their spot in the kiosk queue solely to remonstrate with me. But things didn’t end there.
Something I hadn’t felt in a long time suddenly returned to me. Before I knew what was happening, I was striding onto the field, ready to take my place at half back flank. Impervious to the protests of the umpires, I took special care to knock over number 12. If I had anything to do with it, there was no way he and his team was going to by singing ‘Happy Birthday’ that afternoon…
I regret to say that I have since been suspended from playing any further junior football. Perhaps it’s just as well. After all, it’s always better to quit whilst you’re ahead, even if you’ve no choice in the matter. Besides, I still don’t care much for oranges.