Geoffrey surprised me at my regular visit with some insight into politics.
He rarely provides insight into anything more than a grand final try he scored and the way it impressed a girl he was keen on at the time.
“You know, Wayne,” he said.
“Politicians are like players in a bad football team.”
For context, anyone who follows this column will know Geoffrey is my best mate, and in his day was a handy footballer.
Hindsight tells us he probably copped a few too many knocks to the head, and he’s now sitting in an aged care home slurping the occasional noodle amid a diet of custard and jelly.
He can’t remember two hours ago, but we still have some good conversations about the good old days which to Geoffrey aren’t so much the good old days – they’re quite simply the only days his dementia-ridden brain allows him to know.
Yet, out of left field, comes this thought about politicians. No context. No explanation.
So I ask him to elaborate.
“Well, when we were winning we were playing for each other, taking hits for the team, thinking about the movements of our mates and putting the ball into places they’d be most likely to score,” he said.
“Coaches used to tell us about the diggers – the Anzacs – and how they fought for each other. It helped them win.
“Conversely, if we played only for ourselves, it caused infighting. Anyone chasing the limelight would get caught out. And we’d be a bad football team.
“We’d became a whole bunch of blokes trying to stand out from the crowd to impress the girls. By the way, did I tell you about that try I scored in the grand final that time?”
Yes, Geoffrey, you did. But how does all this relate to politicians?
“How does what relate to politicians?”
You were telling me how politicians were like a bad football team.
“That’s true. They are like a bad football team,” he says.
“They worry far too much about their own glory and forget about playing together as a team.”
So you mean they don’t think enough about the other politicians around them?
“No, you’re being as narrow-minded as them, Wayne, you silly old fool.”
True. Now I’m really confused.
“No, unlike football players, politicians are elected. That means their team isn’t only the mob they were elected with. Their team includes us. We’re part of their team, Wayne. You and me,” he says.
“And like you, you silly fool, they forget that. They’re spending too much time playing for themselves, looking for the glory pass or the impossible step. The captain takes over and those around him or her are looking for leadership.
“All they’re getting though is advice from buffoons whose only focus is their next election victory.
“Wayne, I’m not sure you’re following me. They’re focused on beating each other, Wayne – internal bickering – rather than being focused on working with us, the people who put them there.
“They pretend to want feedback and consultation, but they don’t really care about what we think. Instead, they want us to think they care. And that’s the mistake – thinking smoke and mirrors is the cure to all their problems.
“Wayne, you look confused. But you’re not stupid. Most people aren’t stupid. And they hate being taken for stupid. Politicians forget that.
“What I’m telling you is that a good football team thinks collaboratively about the result, and executing a plan that ultimately pleases everyone – the team, the coach, the captain, and most importantly, the fans.”
If I wasn’t yet amazed, I’m now astounded.
“In our case, Wayne, the fans were our family. And those girls. If we weren’t playing as a team, I wouldn’t have been on the end of that ball which led to the match-winning try,” he says.
“If politicians cared more about those around them, they too would be scoring more tries, keeping people happy and maybe getting the trust they need to get a referendum across the line.”
Ring, ring. Hey Wanda, Geoffrey’s on a roll. I might be a little late today.
