The glue that binds – footyMartin Flanagan
The Age
21 July 2016One day, a couple of weeks ago, you told me you liked the footy. We were having a pub lunch and you were sitting on my knee and we were watching an AFL match on a nearby screen. You're not a big talker so I knew you meant what you said.
I'd had it in mind to take you to a game. I took you three years ago when you were four, but that didn't work. lt was an adults' day, you and your little sisters just tagged along and got bored. This was different. This was just you and me and 40,000 people and Richmond playing Essendon at the MCG.
We went by train, standing in a crowded carriage. You backed into me like I was a tree trunk. I put my arm across you. Through all the train's sways and lurches, we moved as one. I'd been a bit worried about taking you to the footy. Parenthood comes with a certain instinct, an awareness of where your kid is at all times. Have I, as a grandfather in his 60s, still got that awareness? And the world is an uncertain place right now. These had been my dark thoughts in the night but, by the time we got to Richmond station, I knew there was no way either of us was going anywhere without the other. As they say in footy, we had touch.
Getting off the train, I pointed to the old Punt Road oval and said, "That's where Richmond played when Poppa started barracking for them". That was in the 1940s when Poppa – my father-in-law, your great-grandfather – was a lad growing up in a mining town on the west coast of Tasmania. It's with Poppa that Richmond Football Club enters the family folklore.
We walked around to the statue of Jack Dyer. You beheld a bronze giant in a Richmond guernsey.
"That's Jack Dyer," I said. "He was Poppa's favourite player." Poppa converted my daughter – your mother – to the Richmond cause. I spent years watching Richmond with her, particularly during her adolescent years when chronic fatigue left her with not much else. We still talk about things like the John Howat banner that flew every week amidst the Tiger Army. My daughter's three daughters have all been brought up as Richmond supporters.
I took you to the scarred tree on the hill above Punt Road oval and got you to read aloud the plaque at its base – how it's an Aboriginal scarred tree and the bark cut away was used to build canoes or carry food and water. We walked from there down towards gate four. "It's a short way from the Aboriginal tree to the ground," you exclaimed.
I bought you a Richmond scarf. I would have bought you a Richmond jumper as well but the merchandise store didn't have any. I want you to connect with the game. It's been in my family for over 100 years. During the time there's been world wars, great depressions, countless international crises, but footy's been a constant. I want you to have that; which club doesn't bother me. A young woman was painting kids' faces for $5. Your face was soon masked by a big diagonal lick of yellow surrounded by a sea of black.
The last stop before we went in was the Tom Wills statue. I told you he was one of the footy's inventors and added, "When he was your age, he was playing with Aboriginal children, playing Aboriginal games".
We found our seats on the fence as the players were warming up. I was looking at my iPhone when I glanced up and saw a television camera in your face. The cameraman pulled away, saying, "I'll put it up on the screen later". I didn't really believe him and had returned to my iPhone when you said quietly, "Dad, Dad (my grandkids' name for me), I was just on the big screen." I could tell you were secretly pleased. The weird democracy of modern technology had made you part of the day in a way I had never imagined.
At half-time, you met two other girls on the fence. Both your age, your size. All three Tigers.
Suddenly, you found your voice. The three of you started barracking together, shouting and jumping around. My one regret from the day was not getting the two girls' contact details. They could have become your footy mates, your Richmond friends.
In the third quarter, I'd asked the two girls if their parents were at the game. They said "Yes" and pointed. I called out, "can I take a picture of your daughters?" Two men rose to answer the question. One had a look on his face I'll not quickly forget, as if he could well believe something terrible might be at risk of happening to his children and had long ago decided how he would react.
Fortunately, he was not the father, but for one moment I saw how easy it is to be misunderstood in a climate of public fearfulness.
When the Tigers won, you and the other two girls sang and danced along with the club song. We walked out of the stadium hand-in-hand to the train station. Next day you were still wearing your Richmond scarf.
http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/afl-season-2016-the-glue-that-binds--footy-20160721-gqaw0d.html
