When the smell of jasmine is a long way off

We passed through the Winter solstice last week, but as usual, no one really cared. The shortest day of the year came and went and we all busied ourselves by adding an extra layer or two to our daily clobber to avoid the harsh chill that accompanies this time of year. This is a tough little patch for league footballers too. July is nearly upon us. Out Footscray way, we often referred to “the July test”, the month where the true believers dig deep to forge ahead and leave the pretenders behind. July is cold, but it’s not just that. The start of the season is long gone and the smell of finals jasmine is still a long way off too. The solstice, for those in footy, is the marker of time to tell you, you’re in the middle nowhere. This is, what some people in football might refer to as, the grind. It’s funny what you miss.

Wood's big day: Easton Wood desperately hangs onto Jordan De Goey.Credit: AAP

Sunday was a rare kind of football outing for my family and I. The Bulldogs were playing the Magpies at Marvel Stadium and the match being the skipper, Easton Wood's 150th game, we wanted to be there for him. I wouldn’t describe my kids as football fanatics, far from it actually, but they put on their Bulldogs jumpers and scarfes with a level of enthusiasm that suggested the dress up part of the day was probably more important than the four points on offer for the Dogs. My Frankie, although dressed in the family uniform of red, white and blue, had carefully placed her Collingwood, Jordan Roughead badge, to the outside of her zip up hoodie. I let it slide.

Rugged up, we walked to Westgarth train station and waited for our ride. Countless songs have been written about the romance of trains. Waiting for them, where they can take you, the people you might meet, endless possibilities. Trains are a bit like the unpredictable bounce of a football or the fortunes of your team, we’re never quite sure what will happen next, but we tap on and take our seat, thrilled by what adventures lay in waiting.

Snaking our way behind the curtain of the city (another specialty of trains) we make small talk before an investigation erupts, “Who changed Dad’s name to ‘Cheese’ in Mum’s phone?” No one owns up. I go for the well used trick from the parents' handbook on page one. “I already know who did it, but I just want to see who’s honest and who’s lying”. Justine and I have to look away to hide our smiles. Panic has set in amongst the trio and to my eye they all look guilty. I think to myself, ‘I’ll let ‘em stew on it until we get to Southern Cross’. As the train rolls in and we get ready to step off, our Frankie, seemingly voted in as the front woman for the accused, proclaims “Dad, can you tell us who did it? We can’t remember!” Delilah, the youngest, nods along and echoes with “Yeah”. It’s all terribly unconvincing. I shrug, feign disappointment and put an end to it by holding my ground, “I know who did it, so just come and tell me when you’re ready”. I actually have no idea who did it and I don’t really care. The investigation ate up a whole commute!

We take our seats in the outer and we got no change from our bar of gold bullion for three ice creams, a bowl of chips and two beers in plastic cups, but we are happy. Our oldest, Jarvis, makes a casual comment that it’s nice to all be at the football together for once. It’s a nice moment. Sideways glances are exchanged by the glowing adults.

The game started and the Dogs kicked the opener, something of a rarity in 2019. I immediately texted my friend Mark, who was sitting elsewhere in the stadium, “The boys look “ON” today... (I think!)” Of course, the Magpies kick the next four and I had to send another message apologising and accepting all responsibility. The game ebbs and flows, but I’m heartened by the spirit of my old mob. The ‘spirited’ Frankie has a brief tantrum for reasons that remain unclear, perhaps she’s torn between her historical Bulldog roots and her favourite Jordan. I just don’t know. Whatever the reason, I seem to be the focus of this brief angst and in a moment of madness, she throws the arse end of a half-eaten lollie snake at me. She misses me, but manages to hit the father of Bulldog rising star Bailey Smith, in the side of the head. Crowd control experts were not alerted. Swift, embarrassed apologies are made.

Bulldog Josh Schache marks ahead of Magpie Jordan Roughead.Credit: AAP

The Dogs are brave ‘til the end, but lack a bit of polish or chemistry or polished chemistry and fall just short. There’s plenty to like, but it’s another missed opportunity for this young group. What a scalp it would’ve been. We descend down into the rooms to console the losers and congratulate Woody. Lots of old friends and comrades, the magnetic pull of my football club tugging at the duffel coat. The Murphys are one down though. Frankie has zipped up her hoodie to hide the Dogs colours, repositioned her Jordan Roughead badge to sit front and centre and switched teams. Again. As the final siren sounded, Frankie took hold of Bridget Davies’ hand. Bridget is the fiancé of Jordan. The two of them tottered off to the rooms of the victors. Yep, The Collingwood Magpies. I’m pretty sure Frankie changed my name to Cheese.