I’d been shouting to her and other friends seated next to me all afternoon – before the Swans versus Brisbane game, at quarter-time, halftime, three-quarter-time – competing with music that seemed to get louder as the day wore on.
It’s not the first football match at the Sydney stadium when I’ve wondered about organising a petition to Swans chairman Andrew Pridham and his board, complaining about the noise blasting from the speakers in the Brewongle.
Mr Pridham may, of course, be surprised that one of his longstanding members is contemplating cancelling next year because games are being destroyed by the decision to blast music at every possible moment.
That’s because Mr Pridham may well watch his team from a box or behind glass in an area of the SCG where the doof-doof doesn’t penetrate – or where the volume is lower.
My guess is that if he and other board members had to scream at their corporate guests at halftime, they’d be personally ripping out the cords to kill the chords some of us are subjected to.
To be fair, while the Swans are responsible for the music (with some decisions outsourced and some songs chosen by players) they don’t control the volume from the SCG speakers – some of which have been upgraded over recent years.
I’ve been buying season tickets to the Swans for almost three decades and happily forked out my $684 upfront this year.
After all, it’s a good deal for 11 home games.
Even last September’s disastrous grand final – which for Swans fans was like going to a Taylor Swift concert at which she opted not to sing – did not stop me signing up again this year.
That’s because live footy is about more than winning or losing. It’s about being at a mass event where the crowd holds its collective breath as the ball sails towards the posts.
It’s about screaming and it’s about silent contemplation of life in those moments when nothing much is happening and even the players seem to have opted out for a few minutes.
It’s about muttering to one’s gang during the play and chatting to them in the breaks. It’s about singing “Sweet Caroline” and it’s about watching the toddlers trying to kick a ball at halftime.
It may even be about that halftime challenge between a couple of hapless competitors asked to carry out inane tasks, like running with a suitcase for a few metres.
It’s about all these things.
But what it is absolutely not about is thumping loud music at every break – including after every goal is scored.
One is not even safe outside the SCG before the match: even there the music blasts from speakers, destroying any chance of a chat in the queue.
I have no idea of the sound level in the Members or the ladies pavilions, or at any other stand, for that matter.
All I know, after more than 30 years in the Brewongle, it’s at nuisance levels.
Talking to the club about killing the music feels a bit like asking Donald Trump to behave like a normal president: the chances of it happening this side of a revolution are slim.
In fact the Swans are investigating more of it, because they say fans love the connection of sport and music.
Even so, to paraphrase the Cold War entreaty of another president, Ronald Reagan, I’d just like to say: “Mr Pridham, turn off that music!”
If that’s a step too far, why not sit in the Brewongle at the next home game and make your own decision about whether it’s just too damn loud?
Helen Trinca is an associate editor at The Australian
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