Loving the Inner Pariah

In my year of firsts, tomorrow marks a very particular rite of passage. Tomorrow, I'm going to my very first football match at the hollowed ground that is the Melbourne Cricket Ground - my first time viewing a game at this ground. This, after twelve years living in Melbourne.

I've only been inside MCG three times in the past - despite living in walking distance from its hallowed wicket. I went there for Alice and Dougall's citizenship ceremony, I ran around the ground when I completed my first Melbourne Half Marathon, and again, I popped in after the 2011 Melbourne Half Marathon - that's it. No reason to go there. It's a place of football and cricket - best watched on the television.

Also, by football, I mean what I call real football - not that soccer crap (boring - nobody ever scores, people cry injured like the sooky la-las at the drop of a handkerchief), not Rugby League (thick set thugs throwing the ball backwards and slamming into each other).

I'm going to the only football code that makes any sense to me.

Australian Rules.

See, thing is, as much as I like football - I get bored after a quarter or two. I tend to prefer to watch the football on the telly so I can get some other stuff done, checking the scores every so often and paying attention when the crowd roars (if I have the sound turned up). Just like with the cricket. If things get a bit exciting, then I can sit down and watch the quarter.

Some of this boredom stems from the fact that as a kid I used to man the scoreboard at the Myponga Oval when the under 13s used to play. Nothing more interesting that watching the Myponga Junior Colts play the Goolwa Loonies or he Encounter Bay Heathens. Real fun. Ended up with bronchitis more often than not sitting out that scoreboard freezing my butt off during the cold, wet Myponga winters. I associate football with hacking, wet coughs and low grade fevers.

The admission that I can't quite watch a full game will probably horrify many "true" football fans too. I'll admit to liking the game. It's nice to know that my team has won - I can normally tell rough scores and margins at the end of most weekends during footy season, like I can tell you where we are on the ladder - but that's where it ends. Don't ask me the names of the players - no idea. By the end of the match I'll tell you who has nice legs and a fine bum.

It's a game. There are 18 men running round in short shorts on an oval - what's not to like? But being a game, after talking about it for five minutes, I'd prefer to talk about something sensible - like books or movies or work or the news. If it wasn't for the hot men in the short shorts, seriously, I'd be ignoring the game completely.

Another thing that is slightly worrying me about going to this particular match. Blarney's partner, Barney, invited me along to the match with some of his friends. Barney barracks for Hawthorn. Being from Northern Tasmania, this is to be expected, as this is Hawthorn heartland.

Me, on the other hand, coming from Adelaide, barrack for the opposing team.

The Adelaide Crows.

There are some fundamental differences between Hawks supporters - okay, any of the Melbourne teams, and Crows supporters.

First up, I'm from Adelaide. I say things like dah-nce, prah-nce, vah-se, chah -nce - not daaaance, praaance, vayse and chaaaance. Allegedly, I'm the one who talks funny.

Second, being from Adelaide, it is in my genes to be parochial, snotty, insolently superior and generally misguided - or so my Victorian counterparts tell me.

Thirdly, being from Adelaide, I'm supposedly feral. Adelaide supporters are known to be little tinkers, as my grandmother referred to me when I broke her television.

By feral, I mean we are known for do things like keying opposing teams cars in the car park, throwing beer cans at matches, swearing a lot and generally being loud, obnoxious and unpleasant to be around.

I look at this description and I immediately think of Port Adelaide supporters - who make Adelaide supporters look like Cistercian nuns. Port supporters are the Collingwood/Millwall/(insert the lower socio-economic scumbag team here) supporters of South Australia.

This pretty much sums it up:

And this is quite accurate too:

So tomorrow, I meet Blarney and about ten of his mates, all Hawthorn supporters.I will be sitting there in my blue, red and yellow clothing, my Crows scarf and beanie (although it's allegedly going to be 27 degrees Celsius in the shade) looking at my freshly painted blue fingernails, hoping to hell we don't disgrace ourselves too much - as the rest of the people I'm with cheer on the other team.

The last match I went to we lost by 103 points. I was sitting there with friend hoping that Etihad Stadium would flood or be overtaken by another act of God so that the purgatory was over quickly.

I've never been to a game where we've won. The tidings aren't good.

Then there are the other football pastimes you're expected to partake in. Eat a meat pie and drink football beer at half time.

First up, I've never eaten a meat pie in my life. Allegedly made from horse meat - well, that is what I was told as a kid. They look and smell revolting - why should I start now? Footy food isn't that inspiring.

Secondly, the beer they serve at the footy is this stuff called "mid-strength". It's watered down beer and tastes like watered down beer. With all the new rules around bringing things into the grounds, I'm buggered if I'm paying a fiver for a cup of tea too.

I do have to go? Yes. I have to wave my team colours proudly - it's a matter of state pride. I have to show that I am a proud and loyal South Australian, even if I left there twenty-one years ago never to return for more than a few days at a time.

I know that I'll have to go and endure the endless jibes about Adelaide being the murder capital of the Australia ( But I lived there 23 years and I didn't get murdered once.), that you can go to Adelaide and find it closed on any given weekend or that although the place is 30 minutes behind the rest of the mainland in time, it's 20 years behind in fashion and almost everything else.

Okay, so it's not trendy to be an Adelaide supporter.

But it's what you do when you come from a backwater that's infested with white pointer sharks, acid wash denim wearing Elizabethans and gets less rain than some places in the Sahara. It inspires a misguided pride. It is where I come from. I am a proud flag waving South Australian. Fifth generation South Australian, me. It's something about me that's not going to change in a hurry.

Long live my inner pariah. C'ARN THE CROWS!!!

And pray that the Crow's winning streak continues - to date, we haven't lost a game this year, including winning the pre-season "Who Cares" Cup.

Pandx

Adelaide Mark II

This weekend's trip to Adelaide was far less fraught than the last time. I was there two weeks ago and the aftermath took me a couple of days to process. This time, I've come away unscathed - something that doesn't normally happen when on my return from my old home town.

Too much crap from many years ago tends to get dredged up.

Discussing this with  Jonella at lunch today, I worked out that I left Adelaide twenty years ago almost to the week. October 1991 I departed. I left a rather shitty life - family troubles, non-existent career, no self-esteem, totally miserable. Twenty years later I could say that not much has changed - but it has. I'm happier. I'm employable. I'm solvent. And most importantly, I've got a very good idea about who I am.

The main reason for this visit was to run the Adelaide City to Bay Fun Run. It's a twelve kilometre hike from the centre of the city to Glenelg beach. When I was home in May, I challenged my sister to participating in the event, walking the distance. I'd run it, of course. She was up to the challenge, hoping the scant training on which she was going to embark was going to help her gain a bit of fitness. A four or five times a week, she and the dog would set out for an hour for a walk around the hilly Adelaide Southern suburbs. I'm really proud of her for sticking at the training and coming with me. Okay, I did shove in a sweetener - I paid for her entry  and found her a new pair of trainers (we measured her up at a local footwear store and then found them on ebay at half price - I'm not that generous).

Arriving in Adelaide around lunchtime on the Saturday, Affectionately known as Manhands collected me at the airport with a cold. She didn't look too bad, but she was suffering a little. All that was planned for the Saturday was a nice relax and maybe wash the dog and that be all.

This sounded pretty good to me.

Washing the dog, a large, very affectionate Golden Retriever named Bozley, is one of my favorite things to do. Brings out the child in me. Changing into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and we got to work on the beast out on the back lawn. Boz tolerates being washed just for the rub down with a towel at the end. Then it was my job to brush him out over the rest of the day. By the time I'd finished there was half a yellow dog in a plastic supermarket bag. And I smelled like a clean, wet Golden Retriever. Attractive.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Big Niece and Little Niece watching Pixar films. Monsters, Inc never loses it's appeal. Boo!

Sunday morning, Affectionately known as Manhands and I rose around 5.30 am, showered, changed and made our way down to Glenelg to park the car in  a side street and make our way into town on the free tram.

Being her first "fun run" I showed her the ropes. The City to Bay run has been run for 39 years. It's the biggest fun run in Australia, per capita, as the guy on the microphone kept touting. 35000 people lined up near the Festival Theatre on King William Street. I think half of those people were in the loo queue - well it felt like it. Adelaide hasn't quite got the hang of mass public events it seems.

After twenty minutes of waiting, I was off on my run. Manhands would start about ten minutes later and walk the distance with a friend.

Somewhere just before Grote Street a tall, lumbering guy in a flourescent green t-shirt caught my eye. I passed on a bit of encouragement, as you do. Running is about generousity of spirit, so you pass on a bit of encouragement.
"Pandora?!"
"Kip?!"

I'd arranged to meet up with Kip, and old university friend after the race. Well, here he was, jogging along for the charity, Canteen. We ran together for a kilometre or so, then he needed to slow down and I speeded up. Said I'm meet up with him later. It was cool to meet up with somebody you haven't seen in twenty years.

And hour and seventeen minutes later I passed through the blow up arch. I would have been happy with an hour and twenty, but the Running Gods were on my side. Thrilled with my time.

It was mayhem at the end of the run, so I went to find a bit of civilisation a few streets away, where some other friends had congregated for breakfast. It was great to catch up with them while I waited for Affectionately known as Manhands to walk the distance (and she did well, came in in under two hours, with a cold - very proud of her)

Later, Kip and I met for coffee. We arranged to meet on the proviso that he drop me at the airport, saving my brother-in-law the trip.

It's strange. Kip and I knew each other at college. We were in the same year. He was always a nice guy - a bit nerdy, but nice. Like me, he wasn't part of the cool brigade, but he wasn't unpopular either.

How to you  wrap twenty years of your life up into a neat little package? How do you compartmentalise twenty years? It was lovely to see the Kip was in a great space. Career changes, marriage, kids, travel. He's married to his girlfriend from college days. He seems really happy. It's wonderful to see.

For me, it's just nice to know that I no longer feel inadequate being 43, umarried and childless - and I don't feel like I have to justify any of my decisions. I finally feel like I'm achieving something, even if I do have to go find a new job in a few weeks.

Besides- I'd just run my fastest 10 kilometres (63 minutes) and a great run. To add to the equation, I'd beaten Kip in by ten minutes... but that isn't fair - I'm trained up - we wasn't - I run regularly - he doesn't. But still ...

Meeting up was Kip was great on many other levels - and I truly hope it's not another twenty years before we catch up again. It would be great to see his wife, Katie, as well.

For me, I just remember how inadequate I felt through university. How unworthy, ugly, fat and stupid I thought I was. After having it drummed into me that I was fat and ugly and stupid for so many years, yesterday was a bit of a revelation. All that stuff has gone. It was lovely to be able to sit down, some twenty years later, with somebody who knew me back then and just be myself.  To just be, and to acknowledge that things are alright.

My life certainly not the same as everybody else's path - but that is okay too.

It's just the way it is.

And it provides a little bit of courage for another reunion I have in a few weeks time. But that is another story for another day.