It’s just a silly old game

I RECALL in my early teens crying after watching “my” team lose a football final.
I’m not sure of the year, maybe the 1969 South Sydney loss to Balmain. But that’s not the point.
My father clipped me over the left ear.
“It’s only a game, son,” he said. “They’ll come back and do it all again next year.”
That was, of course, his way of teaching me to accept defeat, something I’m still not overly good at.
This year, we were blessed with two Brisbane teams in separate codes. Wanda was warned early that I may be absent without leave for much of the weekend.
Traditionally, I watch the rugby league grand final with my best friend Geoffrey who’s now in an aged care home on a diet of custard and crushed berries.
Each year, his memory worsens but his memory of a try he scored in his youth to win us a school final remains as vivid as the colours in a rainbow.
He even remembers the names of the three girls cheering him on from the sidelines, what they were wearing, and how high they jumped when he scored.
It’s a story I have – not entirely by choice – etched in my own mind, I hear it so often. But that’s okay.
Poor old bloke can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, but I’m sure he shares my excitement when something happens.
This year, we watched both grand finals together, and following the devastating loss on Saturday, we backed up Sunday with a glow of confidence.
Or should I say I was the one with an air of excitement.
Geoffrey did say to me when I arrived on Sunday afternoon that he’d been watching aerial ping pong.
While he hadn’t quite triggered that I’d been there the day before, something had registered that he was tied up in the festivities of an AFL game.
He was probably a bit embarrassed by that because Geoffrey is from rugby league heartland. He’ll watch union with an understanding of the rules, but he had never transitioned with the rest of us to AFL.
I won’t share in public how he refers to soccer, only to say it’s with a regard of some disrespect, and highly politically incorrect.
Nevertheless, our Sunday had started with a memory of Saturday. And that, my friends, is a good day.
Maybe even an omen for the Broncos.
Surely, it couldn’t happen twice in the same weekend. Surely, we’ll either get clobbered, or we’ll win a nail-biter.
I’d even snuck in a few peanuts, some cheese cubes which Wanda had so kindly packed into a Tupperware container, and a finely chopped kabana stick.
Geoffrey’s not supposed to have any of it. I’m not sure why, but what the nurses don’t know won’t hurt them.
Then came the game.
And sure enough, lightning struck twice. For the second time in two days, we’d been undone by misfortunes of bad luck in the dying minutes of a football game.
On both occasions, we had cause to think we’d been robbed.
I thought about crying, but two things stopped me. First, memories of my old man reassuring me to be comforted by the fact there will indeed be a next season.
Then, a glimpse at Geoffrey who, on each of the final sirens, threw his hands up in the air with excitement. He didn’t care who’d won. To be truthful, he probably couldn’t have told anyone who was playing.
With that, we remind ourselves that there’s much more to life than a silly old game of football. The good times will come, and they’re the ones we’ll hold fondly close to our heart.
“Really, Geoffrey? You scored a try to win that game? Yes, I do remember. One of the best tries I’ve ever seen.”