I grew up in Melbourne. It’s a fairly religious town. We start talking about it every Friday, and on Monday we debrief. The religion is The Footy.
There has been a lot about the footy in the media this last few weeks, with Essendon being dragged over the coals over allegations of drug usage, and with some of the club’s favourite sons being drawn into the fray. I can’t help but wonder which other clubs may be involved. I just hope it isn’t mine (although their recent results would suggest they are in the clear).
This weekend, it was time for some pastoral care Asher style: Nathan took his son to the footy.
We forgot all about the recent furore, and were transported back to a simpler time.
A time where you wore your team’s colours and your heart on the outside, proudly displayed.
A time where you felt pride in your team’s success and you yelled disparaging comments at the opposition. Where you ate a meat pie that defied occupational health and safety regulations, and burnt your arm when you inevitably spilt some of the meat.
A time when the purest joy was screaming out “Go Dogs” at the top of your little lungs at every opportunity, and you high-fived your Dad after every great passage of play. Where you felt like a grown-up because, for those couple of hours, you were an equal to your Dad. Brothers in arms, united against a common enemy. Where you probably wouldn’t even get in trouble if you accidentally let out a medium swear.
A lot of things have changed in football over the years, but these things have not.
Nor has this little tune lost it’s ability to stir my heart.
I miss you sometimes, Melbourne Town.
Go Dogs.
Do you love your Footy?
Do you sometimes let out a medium swear?
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