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Socially distance; be kind. Orwellian humour is now a social virtue.
Billie Jean King, an out-there tennis champion, once uttered, “Sports are a microcosm of society.”
Two fat, bald, old, white blokes excited over the Sha Tin races at the local. It happened three days ago. A casual flutter has been reduced to a penniless fizzer.
The peerless sportswriter Red Smith once said, “Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed.”
Alright, here goes.
I miss that brisk walk towards a stadium while gulping at the price of parking.
Grandad’s rambling story about a statue I never saw play.
The sudden heart palpitation waiting for the electronic ticket machine to turn green opening a turnstile.
Earnest finger-pointing examining a code to find the exact spot.
What are the odds? The dodgy used car salesman type on the big screen. Where is he? The dickhead is over there.
Dimming lights, fireworks, boo, yeah. The screaming PA guy. The teams are on the field.
When’s the last time you sang the national anthem?
Excuse me. Turning your body 180 degrees, concealing knees underneath a claustrophobic, plastic seat grumbling with others in unison while some obnoxious bloke uses the bathroom for the third time in the first half. He returns with expensive, low percentage beers in a plastic cup, spilling half the contents on you.
Bon Jovi anthems playing at the end of the over.
The guy with the hoarse voice starting a Mexican Wave chant.
Lukewarm, soggy chips.
Creative, flying litter.
Bopping and weaving your head to get past that big banner in front of you.
Lean forward, wide eyes, partial stand up.
That kid running up and down a tower of stairs.
The security guards threw an All Black out of the MCG. They now share something in common, they can both apply for a wage subsidy.
I can get along with the climate-denying Trump sympathizer.
Stuff the members.
Short, speculative chat.
Bay 13, not so unlucky for a tourist now.
What’s the score at the other ground? What app do I use again?
Leaving early and pointlessly switching on my radio in a forlorn purist of a miracle.
The high-five, noogie, and hug with a complete stranger after that wow moment.
The lap of honour, hands high above the head, eyes welling up.
Ray Warren apologising for the swearing of an overwhelmed premiership winner while he hugs a jubilant fan leaning over an advertising board trailed by the instructive microphone of a league legend who should know better.
Commentators might as well be the Harvey Norman voiceover man.
Why don’t the NRL pop-up fans come prepared for the rain? How do I get the part?
The accelerated analysis combined with breathing condensation on the concourse.
Clenched posture, next stop.
Abuse me in the comments. I’ll take up my grievance with you on Zoom.
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