South Sydney - Part Three.

One of the most touching moments that came to me courtesy of the Rabbitohs, happened by the fridge one day at work.

Clair was telling me that she had been away and had encountered some scary guy in Souths thongs, had got excited and really wanted to approach him and talk about Souths, but was a bit put off by his general trailer creepiness.
But later she informed me that she,

"...had feelings for Souths."

How beautiful is that?
Just because it's something I love, she kinda loves it too.

That's what I love about being a supporter.
Nothing to do with the sport. For me it's sharing experiences - passion, triumphs, tragedies with the people I hold dear.

When we lose I worry about how Jeff will cope at work with the kids giving him grief, how Jo will feel all week, how it will impact all of the people I care about.

The joy of winning is just the same, only backwards.
I'm thrilled to finally see so many people who have done it tough, rewarded for their loyalty and endurance.
Good on us.

A few years ago on the forum, a couple of the boys were running an NFL Fantasy League comp.
My brother-in-law convinced me to join.
I thought that if I was going to learn a new sport that I should first choose a team - without any preconceived ideas.

So, I took myself team shopping on the internet.
I had to be careful.
I didn't want to accidentally wind up supporting the wanky, rich, cheating Roosters like side just because I thought their uniform was pretty.
Or because they were green like Souths.

Although, for the record, I do think that choosing a side because their fans wear cheese on their heads is quite a good idea.
Gretchen, it's probably best if you don't read that bit.
Good girl.

But I resisted the temptation to choose anything other than the perfect fit, and I barged into a few of the gigantic NFL fan forums.
Holy fucking fuck fuck.

There was something about the orange team that felt familiar and comfortable to me, so I posted an introduction in their tightly policed "football only section", telling them who I was, that I was thinking about supporting their team and asking them what the hell they were all about.

Then I went and did my grocery shopping.

By the time I got home, I had some proposals of marriage and a vote for Rookie of the year.

I also had a warning, "not to expect too much this year, we're in a rebuilding phase..."

I beg yours!?

They went on to explain to me that the club had been kicked out of the competition for 3 years (FFS- Twilight Zone or what?) and that they had pretty much been more or less fielding sub standard players, with a shitty admin and a crap coach...but were improving.
Slowly.

Sounds kinda familiar, hey.

"Pfffft, no big deal", I thought, "I can do that standing on my head."

And I did.
Am.

Once again, I recognised some extraordinary voices on that forum, even though I was asleep when they were awake and most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

I can do that standing on my head too.

And then Gretchen....the mother load.

Someone who is now loved by everyone I've ever mentioned her to.
And I pretty much mention her to everyone.

"Good morning, Vitamin King. Have I told you about my friend Gretchen?"

It could happen.

But you know what is going to happen? Tailgating at a Brown's game with Gretchen et al - hopefully as soon as next season.

I wonder what colour (color) her Tupperware is?

If she doesn't have any, I have a brown and orange 1970's set she can have. It's perfect.
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PS You know what else makes me happy?
Clair and Gretchen have become friends.
That's as awesome a spectacle as Godzilla and Gamera uniting.

Hooray for football!

South Sydney - Part Two.

At some point, my excitement for South Sydney stopped being just a moral crusade and became part of my lifestyle.

(NB When I typed the above, it had a typo, so it read Oral crusader - a very fine title for a porno!)

I have always enjoyed surprising people with the maleness of some of my attitudes and interests, and when I fell in love with Souths, I felt as though I'd hit the jackpot.

Conspiracy theories, instant red and green family and sense of community, an enemy or ten, family outings, being able to shame large men with my superior knowledge of next week's team, innumerable opportunities to insert Up the Rabbitohs! into conversations and birthday cards inappropriately, the feeling of contributing to the restoration of something marvellous...

But if I'm 100% truthful, most of what I love about Souths is the fans.
The Cleveland Browns too, but I'll get to them later.

With everything the South Sydney club and it's fans have been through, and I won't go back over it, it's too awful, the people who have stuck with them have just got to be the most amazing folks in the world.
To me anyway.

That personality type is my absolute favourite.
And I'm talking about the ones who are more inclined to turn up when they're dead certain the team is going to get hammered.

The supporters, not the band wagon.

You know that expression - show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are?
When I look at my football friends, I swell with pride and I know that I'm doing something really right.
Actually, when I look at my friends in general, I feel as though I've found that bonus level in Super Mario World and I'm spinning around ecstatically making weird noises.

It wasn't long in my supporting history before I was pressuring Hell Boy to go to every home game, despite that ghastly hour getting out of the "car park", the incredibly long trip home with that empty, gutted feeling and the whole week following, having no possible way to excuse such a display, before starting the mental preparation necessary to back up the next week.

It wasn't long after that that I met a Souths legend through work. A man who had played in a three winning Souths Sydney grand finals!
The first player ever to win two Rothman's (now Dally M) medals!

This guy is not only a Souths legend, but he is a monstrous smart arse as well. Sag too from memory. Cat lover. Recently rifled through his shed trying to find me a pair of his grand final socks so I could frame them... I was planning on giving one to Jo...kinda like a demented friendship locket.

One day he dropped into work to get something for his dog's sex drive... and I bailed the poor guy up and talked Souths at him with such violence, that he actually had tears in his eyes from boredom.

At this very moment, I realised that I needed to find other Souths people to talk at, and not just pest the people around me.

And so I had a look at the Souths forum that both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy had been using.

I had never used a forum and I found it incredibly confusing for a time.
But I soon discovered that I could pick a pleasant personality out of the mix with very impressive accuracy.

Upon organising myself a Burrow jersey, I met Jo /Jobear. I had liked her from the very first time I heard her voice.
She is now technically my sista and has agreed to sing Glory Glory at my funeral.

We became friends so quickly and with such ease that my brother cautioned me...sleazy internet relationships and all that.

Well really, that depends on where you meet, doesn't it?
I suspect you're likely to experience shorter odds if you meet someone on a site where you're deliberately looking to sell yourself in order to find a relationship.
Everyone has a few hilarious RSVP stories they can tell at their friend's expense, but I've now heard a few good ones too.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Jo and I will never run off together.
Unless it's to a Tupperware party, a Souths fan day or some sort of baking expo.

Jo organised for our season tickets (I finally insisted we get them) to be with hers. Best seats in the house...right behind the bench.

When Game One rolled around and I was shyly passing around home made muffins from my Tupperware container with the green lid, Yoga Boy looked up, saw Jo passing around her home made rabbit shaped cookies from her matching red lidded Tupperware container, shook his head and said something to the effect of,

"Oh, I see."

Many, many times since then, I have dragged myself and my beloved boys to the game just to support Jo and the host of other beautiful friends we have made through this club.

Last Sunday was just such a day.
The team we were playing (smelly old Manly) had declared that they were just going to be using the game to improve their for and against.
We believed them.
We showed up anyway.

I like being one of those people and I adore having friends who are just the same.

We were rewarded by seeing Souths pulling the bastard's pants down and spanking them in front of all of their little friends, possibly costing them the minor premiership.

No muffins though. I'm off sugar.

On the very same forum that I met Jo, I stumbled into the social section one day, only to discover someone purporting to know more about tragic 80's music than I did.

The effrontery!

Three years on, we're still locked in a stalemate. Or at least I allow him to think so.

We even did a recent "resource swap", which in truth was just a nerdy showing off competition.
I won.

A few months ago, as I opened the cupboard that is home to our Souths gear (and the vacuum cleaner), one of my signed jerseys popped out.
And the first few names on it chilled my blood.

Adam MacDougall - let go by the club for being a dick head, went on to make fun of us and Rusty
Shannon Hegarty - aged me 1o years last season alone
Paul Mellor - played for us as a junior, left to play all his good footy elsewhere, returned to play in his dotage with us.

No no no no no NO!

Not good enough.

When I sacrifice a jersey, I want to be able to look at the signatures in years to come with absolute confidence that the people who signed it are going to make me feel proud.

So I changed my tack.
Screw the players, I'm only asking fans to sign it.
They're the real heroes.

The first signature I collected was Bob Log III from Tuscon Arizona... a one man band who gets women to stir his scotch with their boobies. OK, he'd never heard of Souths, but I think he's great. Even drew an arse hole on the bunny for us.

Next up was Hell Boy, a disgruntled Yoga Boy and then Jo.
I passed it around Bay 131 and all my bruddas signed it too. Plus a couple of forum people I like as well.
It's looking pretty good now, but there are at least a dozen more peeps who need to be on there, so it now lives in my bag every game day with a laundry marker - like I'm some 12 year old kid.
It's coming to Cleveland too.

Probably that will be what I'm wearing when they finally torch me.

Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

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We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.