Sports psychology is a million-dollar industry these days, with everyone from the Stanthorpe Gremlins under 19s up shelling out big bucks for some bloke with a daggy tracksuit and a comb-over to tell them to ‘visualise’ and ‘use the force.’
This is all well and good for athletes, but surely it’s the stressed out fans that require the extra mental facilitation at this stage of the year, in particular, those whose teams are looking at missing out on finals action. Again.
If this happens to be you, dear reader, you should be prepared to go through what the shrinks deem ‘the five stages of finals separation’.
Stage one: Denial.
This stage is particularly painful (hilarious) for friends and loved ones and usually has you sounding something like this: “We’ll still make the finals, just a slow start to the year.”
Then: “We’ll still make the finals, just need to string some wins together.”
Followed by: “We’ll still make the finals, just need to win all of our remaining games and a few results to go our way.”
And finally: “I don’t even care about footy.”
All lies of course bought on by a prolonged state of shock. One only needs to view the permanently fixed grins on Rabbitohs fans’ faces to know what I’m talking about.
Stage two: Anger.
How the hell could this happen? Who are the clowns running the team? What’s John Cartwright’s ward number?
These are some questions you may begin to hear yourself asking pretty soon. Such thoughts are also likely to manifest themselves into increased time ranting on internet forums, as well as penning angry letters to the editor and disposing of team merchandise.
All of these are fairly healthy outlets for frustration, however if you find yourself looking up the team CEO’s house on Google Earth, putting breathing holes in your car boot and re-renting ‘The Fan’, then maybe it’s time to take up stamp collecting instead.
Stage three: Bargaining.
It’s not uncommon for even the most un-believing fan to try to strike a deal with a higher power when all seems lost with their team (it’s true, just wait for the Julia Gillard church visits when the Doggies lose a couple more).
You promise you’ll never curse a referee again. You vow to attend your local club’s talent night. You pledge to play for your work’s mixed netball team.
Anything to avoid another September spent shuffling along the aisles at Bunnings and listening to workmates talk in excruciating detail about their team’s stunning come from behind finals victory, and how they are putting in a request for annual leave ASAP just in case this is ‘the year’.
Stage four: Depression.
All of a sudden sport turns from a wonderful reality escape to some sort of irritating propaganda invented to sell beer and utes. Nothing is as good as it was before. You find yourself just going through the motions, tipping all the home teams and not bothering to update your fantasy side.
You begin to realise how little actual news there is in a paper and start to resent the fact that you can’t go twenty minutes without being accosted by Eddie McGuire’s voice. Taking a job on an Alaskan crab trawler becomes appealing.
Stage five: Acceptance.
As the classics say, hey, there’s always next year. To any real sports fan though this is about as much consolation as a free breakfast at Hungry Jacks after your wife runs off with Brendan Fevola.
You could take the mature stance and acknowledge that there were a lot of good teams in the comp this year, that your young players showed promise and that with the salary cap every team is going to have a dud season every now and then.
Or, you could take the more childish approach by fading into the shadows over the season’s final rounds only to re-emerge as the cackling fiend revelling in your mates’ misery as their teams are picked off one by one in the finals like characters from a B-grade horror flick.
Alternatively I’ve found its quiet healing to start following an overseas sport where the general Australian population doesn’t know the team you support are a bunch of disappointing choke merchants… now how about those Dallas Cowboys?
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