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If I were able to approach this weekend’s dual blockbusters in a broad-minded and neutral spirit, I would say that what I desired more than anything was classic gladiatorial football of both varieties.
In the AFL decider I would be hoping for a spectacular contest in the vein of Hawthorn-Geelong in 1989, astounding individual performances a la Ablett, McLeod, or Bartlett of years gone by. Perhaps I would wish for a spectacular comeback like in 1970, or even a desperate dogfight as in 2005.
Or maybe I would cross my fingers for a triumph of sentiment, a fairytale result for the Western Bulldogs to make the feel-good story of the year.
In the NRL, I may profess a wish for a see-sawing classic like the 1989 grand final, or a tense, knock-em-down, drag-em-out cliffhanger like 1986. I could settle for a 1975 or 2008-style blowout, if it were to showcase a team giving full expression to dazzling attacking skill. I might look forward to seeing who of this year’s crop would emulate the dominance of Ricky Stuart or Allan Langer or Andrew Johns.
Of course, were sentiment to rule in this case, I would lean just that little bit toward the Sharks, to complete a great story and bring joy to some of the longest-suffering of fans – Souths in 2014 all over again.
As it is, I cannot approach the grand finals in anything like a broad-minded or neutral spirit. I approach them instead with one-eyed partisan selfishness and a hearty slice of mind-numbing fear, because on the weekend’s happenings hangs my happiness.
I know I’m not alone in this. Many thousands of Australians will be jubilant or miserable on Sunday night, depending on what’s gone before in the two games. I am just one of many who care deeply about the results. However, my feelings are a little different, a little bit more important, than those others, because they are mine, and I don’t know those people.
What this means is that I’m not hoping for a close contest, a peerless display of footballing skill, a brilliant individual performance or even just a good clean game. What I am hoping for is the Storm and the Swans to win, and to do so with such brutal, humiliating ease that by halftime in both games the result is beyond doubt and I can relax and enjoy the rest of the occasion in peace.
As sad as it is, and as poorly as it speaks of my generosity of mind, I want Cronulla and the Western Bulldogs to go home this weekend with tails between their legs and every player questioning their choice of career, so thoroughly have their failings been exposed.
I know that’s not very likely – probably even less likely than that someone would end up a passionate supporter of Melbourne’s NRL side and Sydney’s AFL team. Well, things work out funny sometimes. I can’t elucidate the logic behind my teams, because there isn’t any. There never is.
We don’t choose our sporting allegiances, they choose us, and once chosen, we will suffer for them for the rest of our lives. We are saddled with an abiding and enduring love that will bring tears to our eyes, hearts to our mouths, and faces to our palms time and again, but there is simply no escape from it.
And that’s why I, a lover of all the beauty and ferocity and spectacle of both codes being celebrated this weekend, will hope not for a timeless exhibition of these things, but simply for victory, cold and clean and cruel as possible. I wish it were otherwise. Were my teams not involved perhaps it might be. But I cannot be other than a fan.
Of course I know there’s a very good chance what I want will not come to pass, and I am in agonies just thinking about it. I’m sure many of you are too. There is nothing more illogically crushing than a grand final loss. I sympathise with all who must go through it this year. If I go through it, I sympathise especially with myself.
But for those of you who watch without the throat-tightening hell of team allegiance this weekend, and for the sake of sporting posterity, let us grant a small concession. For you, I hope these grand finals have what make grand finals grand, what make them worth reliving decades into the future. I wish for moments.
I hope there are moments this weekend to rival Barry’s mark or Breen’s point or Harmes’s epic boundary lunge. I hope events this weekend are spoken of in the same breath as Stuart Dew’s unlikely burst of match-winning brilliance, Heath Shaw’s emblematic, never-beaten goal-line smother that crystallised just how grand finals are won. In the same breath as Michael Long’s astounding four-bounce goal, summing up the exuberance and audacity of the man and his young team.
I hope we see moments as memorable as Morgan’s flick pass, Gearin’s swoop or McCarthy’s intercept. May 2016 bring something to match Steve Jackson bullocking his way to the line or Andrew Johns sneaking down the blindside to slip the winning pass or Scott Sattler hurtling, flying, diving out of nowhere to cut down the runaway and change history.
I hope when these moments come, it’s a Swan or a Storm player making them happen. But whichever way it goes, I hope you find something to savour this weekend. Happy grand final.