South Sydney - Part One.

Before writing this, I've had to centre myself, align my chakras with the almighty red and green energy in the sky (not Santa), regulate my breathing and chant quietly to myself for 21 minutes.

21!

A few of you will understand it's significance.

A few of you will sit there, smugly believing that it's simply half of 42 and that that's what I meant.

You're both kinda right.
You're both nerds too, but that's OK.

If neither number excites you at all, you've clearly stumbled into my blog by accident and will be leaving again just as soon as you finish scratching your head.

Good. They're gone. And we're alone with my stupidity once again.
How nice.

So, I promised faithfully that one day I would try to explain my love of sport to you.
Initially my plan was to explain it to myself first, but who can be bothered waiting?

Better to stick to my overall approach to life - just make a start and figure it out as I go, making sure to keep the glass half full, my mind open, my heart full and my hands busy.

Can do.
Wow!Look at me go.

Right.

I must start by saying that I always detested sport.
I grew up in a half Slovenian household, meaning that weekends = soccer.
Except that in the 1970's, in lovely culturally tolerant Australia, it was better known as wogball.

So, I grew up in a wogball family.

My father played.
My father coached.
My father refereed.
My brother played.
My mother watched.
I complained, ate lollies, climbed monkey bars with other traumatised little girls and read a book, all the time secretly wishing shocking injuries on anyone with shin guards on.

I never watched a single second of that vilest of vile sports.

And when my father offered (insisted) to let me play netball, I told him outright that I would not be disposed of in that way, that only bitches played netball and that such a thing would occur over my dead body.

Very soon after that, I was allowed to stay home alone and do as I pleased.
He never mentioned netball again.

Two World Cups ago, Jeff timed me to see how long I could make it watching a wogball game without making a sarcastic remark.

15 seconds.

And I was trying! I really was.

So, with all these emotional land mines in my background, imagine my joy when I met and partnered my very favourite man in the world, only to discover that he would like to watch every single game of rugby league, every single week for 30 plus weeks a year for the rest of our lives.

Every one.

Hilarity ensued...

On our second date, he said to me,

"You're the one. All you have to say are two words and I'll know for sure...South Sydney!"

Naturally I refused.

C'mon! Sport!? What would you have done?
FFS

And rugby league at that!
Wogball's stupid, toasted cheese on damper plain Australian cousin.

"This isn't going to work", I thought.

And it wouldn't have either, had somebody not budged.

It was pretty much the only thing that we ever really argued about. It was awful.
I wanted him to enjoy the sport, but for me, having already lost every Saturday of my childhood to wogball, the prospect of losing chunks of my weekends as an adult to rugby league was devastating.

Even more devastating was the confusion and embarrassment of secretly purchasing a rugby league rule book soon after.

And then the frustration and humiliation of Friday night football.
Each Friday night, I would sit, alone, balancing a cat or two on the end of the lounge, desperately flicking through the rule book, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

And then the joy of disguising my increasing knowledge and familiarity with the game from Hell Boy until I was ready to unveil the new and improved me.

From memory I lasted like 3 games before standing bolt upright and screaming,

"Forward! That was a fucking mile forward!"

You see, I corrected my ignorance and I've never looked back.

But having learned football from Friday night matches in the early nineties, I became quite fond of the Canberra Raiders as a team. They were lime green and amazing to watch.

Hell Boy (my new blog name for Young Jeffrey -I mean, have you seen him?...LOL - he's a big red smart arse who loves cats) was constantly at me to support Souths (I'd liked them since childhood anyway) but I was in my early 20's and not inclined to do anything just because a man wanted me to.
I thought that learning rugby league was enough.

But in 1998, when Souths were unfairly kicked out of the competition, I saw the impact it had on him. I started looking into the reasons it had happened, as well as watching and appreciating the phenomenal fight that was put up to keep the club going during legal proceedings which might better be described as rape.

Uh-oh... nothing like injustice to capture my attention...

So, I started getting involved in ways that I understood - buying merchandise for a team who no longer existed, making 3 course red and green meals (kiwi fruit and strawberry shortcake is awesome), learning the club song...

Then they held a rally.
I offered to take Jeff and his brother. At the time they told me they didn't see the point. No-one would beat Rupert Murdoch and they would just get upset if they went.

I was most put out by this.
I still don't understand it all these years later.
You may not think you're going to win, but you must never let that stop you from being heard.

I could complain bound and gagged underwater, so having the opportunity to do it in the streets of Sydney with thousands of other people really appealed to me.

So, as the day of the second march drew near, I informed the boys that I was going if they'd like to come with, and was thrilled to finally be doing something positive for something they loved.

Incidentally, as we marched arm in arm amidst a sea of red and green, we were snapped and the boys (not me -FFS) made it into Who magazine as South Sydney zealots. ;O(

I was a little cranky about that. Still am.

At that rally, I joined the club, despite not being a Souths supporter. I made the boys join. I bought T-shirts, stickers and God knows what else.

I stood and listened to those speeches and songs, teary eyed, not quite understanding why I was so moved.
I'm slow, OK? I still hadn't figured out that I was a fan.

I also remember looking around at the immense crowd behind us and mentioning to Hell Boy that we were the only ones present with front teeth, but that I wasn't frightened.

I bought the Souths protest music CD and started playing it at home.
Jeff didn't like it, so I used to listen to it when I was home alone.
Still didn't know I was a fan though.

The day the final decision was handed down, I was collating the most evil stock take at home.
At 11 o'clock, I was sitting on the coffee table because my legs were shaking almost as much as the phone in my hands.

When the decision was positive for Souths, I sat and cried out loud all by myself.
As they cut to scenes of toothless, jubilant fans at the club, I vividly remember wiping away my snot and tears and saying out loud,

"Oh fuck, I'm one of them!"

Oh fuck indeed...



To be continued...

(Shut up, Happy Days did it...)