On a hiding to nothing: people who fight at the footy just spoil it for everyone else
John Harms | The Age | April 30, 2008
IT IS Sunday afternoon and I have already seen a lot of footy over the long weekend.
But I decided to get the train a few stops down the line to Jolimont to watch a bit of Hawthorn and Richmond, where I found myself at the footy with the universal spectator.
I sit at the Punt Road end in the general admission area near a family of six. Seven actually, if you count the oldest son's girlfriend. He is about 17. Dad has an earring and a Tigers scarf. He helps his primary school daughter keep the goals tally in the AFL Record. They have the footy glow; the joy that comes from watching Richo, who has been asked to be everywhere on the ground. One minute, he is on Chance Bateman on the wing. Next minute, he is plugging the hole in front of "Buddy" Franklin. Later, he is having a rest at full-forward.
When he can't bend down to pick up a loose ball that would have given him a chance to snap at goal, the young Hawks blokes in front of us — two in particular, in their early 20s — rise from their seats and give the two-handed bird: "You're sh-t Richo. You're sh-t."
Behind us though, the Richmond Grog Squad is in full chant. "Richo, Richo man," they sing, to the Village People's Macho Man. I am surprised. It's a Hawthorn home game, so the Richmond cheer squad is at the city end, the Hawks cheer squad is in front of me and the Richmond yobs are up the back.
I think little of it. And I'm certainly not worried. I have spent thousands of hours in Australian sports crowds and while they have many moods, I have rarely seen them angry. I have seen very few incidents, although I have heard a lot of racist remarks, which are generally good-natured. Irreverent, loud and forthright. Rarely on a knife's edge.
To my left is an extended family. Grandma, with a hearing aid, sits on the seat next to the aisle. She hands out treats to Isobella, who is about five. She wears a Winnie The Pooh raincoat and a fairy's headband (with glitter). She half-watches the footy. Her toddler sister runs up and down the aisle. Her Dad is a Tiger fan. He lifts her high above his head when Jack Riewoldt nails one. I am smiling. Her uncle is a Hawk. He looks worried when the Hawks keep missing and the Tiges come back in the third quarter: 8.17 to 11.3.
This is anyone's game. The two young Hawks are getting angrier and angrier. They swear loudly and bird the entire world. The Grog Squad have taken up the chants of the English soccer terrace. They sound ridiculous. Borrowed. Unnatural. It's an odd mood now.
Just after three-quarter-time, I miss Richo's goal as I am in the middle of a blue. Two Richmond fans have left the security of the mob to run down to the Hawthorn cheer squad to taunt. "You weak c---s," they yell. Pointing. "Come on, come on." The Hawks scream, 'F--- off."
There is pushing. More taunting. The Tiger can't contain himself and beckons an opponent. He's in his 20s, peeed and probably whacked on something else. He is wild.
His aggression fuels a response, and the fight erupts. One metre from me. An older Hawk with a goatee looks like he can handle himself, but he's angry and now caught in it. Out of nothing. I'm caught in it. What do I do? There is grunting and snorting and the sound of clothes being grabbed. Punches. The grandmother shields her girls like a swan with her cygnets. The dad next to me does the same. These kids could be hit.
There are tears but no screaming. Just fear and bewilderment and the complete absence of the enchantment that existed minutes before. I start to move towards the grandmother to get one of the loafs off her. Other Tigers come down to get involved. Angry blokes looking for a fight. I could be king-hit here. But the fat Tiger is off-balance and has fallen all over the crowd. Punches are still thrown but none really land. A very calm security guard acts admirably and defuses the situation. We are all very lucky. The police arrive a couple minutes later.
There is now a different mood. People are upset. A couple of people are escorted out. Decent people yell at the police. Less-than-decent people are still spoiling for conflict. When the sealer is kicked and the game is theirs, the young Hawks turn to the Grog Squad. Their bodies are rigid with tension and aggression. Their pelvises thrust. "You c---s, you c---s," they scream like madmen while giving the angry bird.
I am upset. Why so angry? Why so violent?
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