The Centre of the Fucking Universe
Fuck I love you Melbourne, namely because of the ‘G.
I firmly believe in the catharsis of a good swear-word. Which is why today, after rounding the final corner of the MCG and seeing sweet Shane Warne’s leaping and bounding statue, I let go with a breathless but nonetheless wholehearted ‘fuck’. Despite, or maybe in spite of, the scowl of a middle-aged couple walking near by, I felt better.
Sport was the vehicle by which I really learned to swear. From a young age I heard men and women swear at the umpires, the game, the players, the TV and even at the governing bodies of sport. Hell, once they were done with that they’d start to swear at each other. I remember being about six years old when someone behind me at an Essendon game (wearing the red and black) asked the ‘fuckin white maggot’ to meet him in ‘the fuckin’ carpark’. But the ‘fuck’ that I muttered was far less violent and far more exhausted than that specific gentleman’s approximation of the umpires ability as a parking lot pugilist.
My ‘fuck’ was a fuck given to the ‘G as a thank-you. A thank-you for being the designated break in my run. A thank-you for not blowing a gale against me today. A thank-you for the 23 rounds of Home and Away matches your hallowed turf is going to give me this winter. A thank-you for being the centre of my universe for the next six months. Even a cheeky thank-you for letting my favourite team play some home games on the centre stage despite the fact we up and absconded to the domed roof of ‘whatever the fucking sponsor is this year’ stadium. Watching my team play at the ‘G feels right, it feels like home.
Gary Smith, the acclaimed Sports Illustrated writer points to Wrigley’s Field in Chicago as the true home of baseball. Smith describes the home of the Chicago Cubs as a place where the bleachers still fill the stands (instead of plush modern seats), a place where the patrons unite in their shared joy (Smith’s article is from 2009 — so for ‘joy’ see 100 years of soul crushing pain continued for another eight years) and still feel ballsy enough to mock and evade directives from security guards. As I was reading this article, Smith pours into me the lifeblood, the nostalgia, the soul of American’s great past-time and all I could think of was the ‘G.
The MCG is the Mecca of Australian sports. Bruce McAvaney might disagree but for me there’s something to the MCG that uncommunicable. Maybe it’s the way it moves as one, joining in moments of tense and palpable silence and only to then exult and exclaim at the outcome in unison. Perhaps it’s the feeling of camaraderie with even the saltiest (however, now unbearably chirpy) Tigers fan.
Maybe it’s the way the fucking beers cost $9 and are still goddamn mid-strength (yeah, yeah we get it — you’re all members so you have no idea what beers taste like out of plastic). It’s definitely got something to do with the sunshine… and the rain. The way the building makes you sweat in summer and sets the your teeth chattering in winter. Needless to say, the MCG holds a special place in my heart — and a special percentage of my wallet.
Recently I listened to Konrad Marshall be interviewed by two of the pillars of success of this magazine, Gordon Meredith and Jack Bannister. In a particular moment on poignancy he noted that he had tried to get into other sports but nothing had ever really peaked his interest like football. I can’t help but feel the same.
For me it’s been a summer of passing fancies. I’ve watched the tennis with a mixture of awe and but with an overarching feeling of dispassion. Cricket flirted in and out of my thoughts as Australia brought the Poms to heel in the Ashes but ultimately my summer fling passed uneventfully into the periphery with the incoming and outgoing of countless T20 and ODI’s.
Nothing has excited me like the coming of round one. My heart is with football and with the MCG. Soon my friends and family will lament as all conversations during Essendon games will become null and void. My responses will flit in and out of comprehension. If I have any prospects or love interests they’ll quickly leave me as I descend into half-rabid murmurs about playing with intent and pressure. I will become a walking almanac of stereotypes and cliches as when in times of distress I return to the words my father would mutter at the TV.
This year I’ve returned from a stint away in central Victoria. It was a time when I’d watch football remotely or not at all. Suddenly I feel back in the centre of it all, back within spitting distance of the ‘G. I feel like I’m back worshipping at the altar. I feel like I’m almost home.
So, in short, thank fuck for football and the fucking M.C.G.
William will be representing the negative at Sporting Chance’s Great Debate over whether or not Richmond have begun a new footballing dynasty. Join him and others in abusing the short-sighted Tigers fans on March 21 at the Yorkshire Hotel.
