We took the boys to the last quarter of the Kangaroos-Port Adelaide game at Manuka oval on Sunday afternoon. Having grown up in Canberra, they are not being sufficiently indoctrinated in the tribal rituals of the Sherrin worshippers. We are, clearly, failing as parents and felt it was time to make amends.
Match-wise, the signs were not good: when Adrienne left home to come and collect me from work (pity the poor wage slave who must work on Sunday) the Kangaroos were 40 points behind. But by the time we got let into the ground at three-quarter time they had crept back to within 10 points. So it looked like we had a game on our hands.
The crowd was larger than I had expected. We found four adjacent seats right behind the goal the Kangaroos were kicking towards. The boys were instructed to cheer for the Kangaroos, on account of our friend Nik who is the latest of several generations of mostly long-suffering North Melbourne/Kangaroos supporters. Carl was a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of a number of Port Adelaide supporters sitting right behind us, and he politely asked one of them if they could be a little bit quieter please. It was a nice try. Then the football came sailing through the goal posts and into the knee of the man sitting beside him. Adrienne and Carl then moved to the front row, where it was a bit quieter if no safer from the football, especially as the Kangaroos were beginning to attack the goals with some purpose. It all became very exciting. I had been explaining to Julius important aspects of reading the game, such as, How many flags is the goal umpire going to wave? and How to read the clock beside the scoreboard to see how long the game has to go. Jules was getting quite wrapped up in the excitement of the game. He jumped up and down when the Roos hit the front, went quiet when they lost the lead and jumped up and down again (as we all did) when they kicked the winning goal and the siren went. The best moments: Carl in his tiny voice saying "Go Roos", barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd; and Julius, who had obviously been taking in the general nature of the comments and abuse being sent from the grandstand in the direction of players from both sides and umpires alike, taking a deep breath and shouting out in his five-year-old's foghorn "Don't you know anything?!" to nobody in particular.
After the game Julius and I joined several thousand others on the ground to have the traditional after-match kick-to-kick, in which Jules Nailed a Set Shot for Goal. Being on the ground then, with footballs flying all around us, felt a bit like it must have been in London during the Blitz. At any minute you could have had your glasses knocked through to the back of your head by well-kicked football, and yet you kept on playing regardless. Carl meanwhile had befriended a television cameraman who let him aim the camera at Jules and me. It was a good day to be alive.
Walking back to the car, Carl said something about Port Adelaide being losers. We glanced around to make sure no tough Port Adelaide supporters had heard him. Then we pointed out to Carl that there could only be one winner and that it was important to spare a thought for the losing team, who had travelled all that way and tried so hard, only to go home with nothing. It seemed like the least we could do. It would be a long drive home for them.
