Football is an aesthetic display that can be admired by all but it’s also a violent contest and those two words don’t always sit comfortably next to ‘family outing’.
My father was a civil but enthusiastic supporter made famous for incurring the wrath of feral opposition fans.
During a grand final a full can of beer (the old thick steel ones) came flying through the air meant for him but instead nearly decapitating my poor aunty who’d been gracious enough to come along and watch her nephew play.
Another time while sitting in the dressing room after a game I was informed that my mother had just been struck a blow by a volatile chap who also had my father pinned against a fence.
Earlier this week Collingwood CEO Gary Pert felt he had to remind supporters of all clubs (but mainly his own) that “the normal rules of society were not suspended by buying a ticket to the football”. Faced with the problem of overly aggressive barracking by a rogue element of its fan-base the club has been forced to prepare advertisements conveying Pert’s message.
Trying to ensure that your supporters’ passion for the team doesn’t include expressing contempt for the opposing one, is a delicate operation.
I find the best arbiters of decent manners are children. If they turn around, in response to anything you shout, with an apprehensive expression, you know that you’ve gone too far. Perhaps instead of making advertisements Collingwood should plant infants in the crowd.
Mick Malthouse, a bit of a vilifier himself and unintentional fermenter of some unsavoury behaviour, believes “it’s difficult to stop crowds being crowds.”
Some people forget themselves in the excitement and tension of game day. Others are energised by the anarchy of it all and the relative freedom to express hateful opinions. It’s hard to believe though that mature looking adults decked out in their team’s colourful outfits are capable of vilifying anyone.
Supporters represent all socio-economic groups: the unemployed, the inner-city professionals, the comfortable outer suburbanites, the less well-off from the far-flung estates; and every personality type and behavioural trait.
If you add personal problems, alcohol and assorted lunatics to this human casserole things are bound to get over spiced.
Surprisingly, conflict often occurs between fans of the same club. Collingwood has an alternative cheer squad that rejects and openly mocks the family friendly ambience of the official one. Its chant of “Rapist! Rapist!” was one of the reasons for the upcoming ads.
In exceptional circumstances team supporters will censure each other. Such as the time a fan with tattoos and a goatee showed his displeasure with the umpires by throwing his cup of bourbon and Coke over the rows in front of him. As the sticky black mass rained downed upon his fellow supporters he remained standing, defiant in the belief that the actions of the “arsewipe” umpire warranted such behaviour.
A family copped a hefty portion but the timid-looking father didn’t dare turn around. When the last droplets struck the upturned face of a much larger man, however, bourbon boy quickly sat down. Before the enraged victim had completed his fairly brusque enquiry as to the origin of his discomfort, people were already pointing at the offender – up until then, one of their own.
The rarest confrontations are those between player and spectator, or player and umpire. One famous, and now fairly amusing, incident involved both. It was the day a cocky gentleman thought insulting Collingwood’s John Bourke, a player who had just flung an umpire to the ground, was a good idea. All that could be seen of him after being waylaid by Bourke was a leg raised in the air.
Abuse isn’t restricted to the crowd. Players abuse or sledge each other all the time, with West Coast’s Patrick McGinnity being pulled up for the the latest appalling example. Curiously, the alleged death threat that provoked it attracted no investigation.
You can even be bad-mouthed by your own teammate for not passing the ball. I was once told unceremoniously where to go for requesting a handball. But that’s a story for another time.
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