Status Updates From The Season: A Fan's Story

Toby Greene kicks goal after goal. Galling. Something about the shape of his head, like a tilted olive, and his vain little walk undermines my admiration for his dazzling play. And I don’t know how to forgive or forget his past brutality.

I will never understand this game. Also, I don’t care. I walk around the house thinking ignorantly about it, shouting, singing, talking to myself. All the time. Does this mean something about me? Something psycho, or scary?

Whydon’t I keep my mouthshut when peopleask me what I’m writing?I’m surprised howmany people jump to the conclusion that it’ssomething polemical,a critical study of football culture& its place in society,informative,analytical,statistical.Really I’m trying to write about footy &my grandson& me.About boys at dusk.A little life-hymn.A poem.A record of a season we are spending together before he turns into a man& I die.

My ‘depression’ is gone. Is this what Amby means when he talks about ‘getting my anger out’? I’m old and sad and angry about the world, and I know it’s too late for me to do anything to heal it—but maybe screaming counts?

A boy arrives late, steps off his bike and slings it away from him without a glance. It skids on its side across the grass and lies there. He chucks his bag after it and wrenches his shoes off. The supreme carelessness of the way boys dump their things: it always fills me with wonder. More than anything else about them it makes me know that I am a woman.

Amby is not satisfied with his hair. ‘I think I’ll go to a barber.’
‘But are you going to stick with the mullet?’
‘Yeah. For footy.’
‘Why does mullet equal footy?’
‘Ohhh—because when you run you can feel it flowing, and it makes you feel fast, but it doesn’t flop over your face, so sweat doesn’t run down.’