I’ve always been glad that in my footballing inclinations, I follow neither Collingwood nor Manly. Not proud that I don’t follow them, you understand: I’m too aware that my support for any given team in any given sport is a combination of quirks of timing, geography and childhood whim. I support the Melbourne Storm and the Sydney Swans, and that peculiar configuration is just something that happened to me: there was no achievement on my part. But I am grateful that the fates bestowed on me no Magpies or Sea Eagles, because I have never been one who enjoys my team being hated.
Collingwood is and always has been the enemy of all pure-hearted people, and although many of their supporters seem to revel in the bile that is directed towards them as a result of their alignment with the source of evil, I would never be able to do that. The same with Manly – growing up cheering for whoever was playing against them was satisfying, if I’d had to grow up knowing everyone else was cheering for whoever was playing against my team it would’ve crushed my gentle spirit.
And I know this, because as I mentioned before, now I support the Melbourne Storm, and they’ve been something of an enemy for NRL fans in recent years. This is somewhat understandable – unfortunately my favourite team originated and then perfected the wrestling trend that has proven to be intelligent tactics but unattractive football. Then there was that little accounting snafu that had every naive, wide-eyed Storm-lover clutching their head in their hands at the base depravity of it all.
But it’s still relatively recent, Storm-hate, and I can live in hope that it won’t be permanent. Unless the club does something else mad like signing Greg Bird or something. Nevertheless, it hurts me when people hate my club. I don’t want them to hate my club. I want my club to be likeable in the eyes of the world, as it is in my own hopelessly compromised peepers.
What I love is supporting the team that is “everyone’s second team.” A while back the Swans seemed to be this. In the first bloom of the Paul Roos era, a fresh, gutsy young team surged to the upper reaches of the ladder against expectations, and won an unlikely premiership, bringing joy to long-suffering fans and warming the hearts of all who enjoy sporting fairytales.
Obviously this couldn’t last. “Second team” status is reserved for the newly-successful, not the long-term and ruthlessly efficient. Clubs that are never out of the finals don’t get love from opposition supporters, and that goes double for clubs that strengthen already potent line-ups with big-budget purchases of superstars.
And OK, I would rather the sustained excellence of the Swans to an erratic feast-and-famine existence. It’s nice to win.
But it’s also nice to be loved, and it was nice when we were loved. I mean… when they were loved.
The fact is, as I said above, we do not achieve our loyalties, we have them thrust upon us. But it’s part of the delusion upon which pretty much all sporting fandom is based that we want to believe otherwise. We want to believe that our support of this or that team is somehow a noble endeavour, that we are morally elevated by it.
I assume that when you embrace being a fan of a hated club, you are assuming the role of the martyr, persecuted by the world but sticking to the one true faith despite the slings and arrows. This is not my role: I chase instead the fantasy that I have chosen my team because it is a good team, a lovely sweet kind team that does right by the world, and that even those who cannot bring themselves to join the cause at least acknowledge that this is correct.
It’s a fantasy difficult to uphold when one of your teams is seen as cheats and the other as big-spending northern raiders. But I try.
This weekend, though, there’s just no getting around it: with four teams left in both NRL and AFL, my favourites cannot be seen as the good guys, no matter how you look at it. The best story, the most beautiful, romantic story that could possibly unfold in either competition, may look different depending on your perspective, but there’s no perspective that can bestow romance on the triumph of Storm or Swans. Unless you’re a sap like me, of course: in my mind every win these teams achieve is as romantic as hell, but even I can’t kid myself that the world is seeing things my way this year.
The facts are these:
In the NRL: should Canberra take out the premiership, it will be a spectacular achievement for a spectacular team, one that was not expected to rise so high and that plays the game in as entertaining a manner as you’ll see in modern times. Moreover, it will be victory for a club that has suffered the lowest of lows during its exile in the wilderness since its glory days of two decades ago, to the point where its very existence was threatened. Not to mention a coach, a beloved son of those very glory days, who has returned to his spiritual home and defied all those who claimed he wasn’t up to the job. What a story it will be.
If Cronulla manages to get home in the decider, it will be a stunning comeback for a team that seemed to have completely run out of gas by the end of the home and away rounds, only to discover an unsuspected second wind in the finals. But of course much, much more than that, it will be the first ever premiership for a club that has absorbed more pain than most in repeated close calls over the last five decades, the attainment of a holy grail, and possibly the resurrection of a drowned prime minister. The celebrations will be long and unrestrained.
If the Cowboys do it… well, sure, they won last year and rival the Storm for aura of arrogance. But two in a row hasn’t been done since the 90s, and in the twilight of his career, you can’t help but enjoy any kind of success for Johnathan Thurston, who is, undeniably, one of the goodest of sporting good guys.
And if the Storm win… it’s further glory for the remorselessly efficient machine that has been grinding on and on for the last ten years.
Now, in the AFL: if the Western Bulldogs win their first flag since 1954, and only their second flag ever, Melbourne’s western suburbs will erupt in the sort of unbridled, sacred joy that only comes from generations of pent-up frustration and heartbreak so repetitive it starts to become monotonous. And the rest of the country will erupt right along with them. A Bulldogs premiership in 2016 would make more people more explosively happy than just about any local sporting result in recent memory.
If the GWS Giants proceed from their first ever preliminary final to their first ever grand final, and then win their first ever premiership? Well, obviously plenty of Victorians will be grumpy and mutter darkly about draft concessions and subsidies and teacher’s pets. But what will be undeniable will be the historic achievement of a new club blooming in hitherto unfertilised ground, changing the face of the game forever and marking a new epoch in AFL history. Not to mention the exhilarating sight of a youthful and stunningly talented side taking on the football world with dash and joie de vivre, and winning.
If Geelong win… well, OK, there’s probably no great story here. The team that won three flags in the last decade should really wait a decent interval before starting another golden age, and it’s not easy to get behind any team containing Patrick Dangerfield, a man so arrogant even his haircut seems to be sneering at you. And yet, even the Cats have gone longer since their last premiership than Sydney.
And if Sydney wins… well, we’ll get all the Victorian bitching without the compensatory heartwarmingness of new ground being broken. You bought Buddy, you got what you wanted, will be the football world’s judgment. You bastards.
So I guess… for this weekend, and hopefully next… I’m one of the bad guys. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be. I can’t help it. I wish you all the best of luck: I know for the greater good my teams should lose.
But still, go Storm. Go Swans. I don’t want them to hate us any more than they do. But if we lift the cups… I’ll live with it.
Chief certainly gave David King the details he wanted!
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