I was born into a Rugby League family in a sports mad nation, and followed football with a passion bordering on the obsessive in my earlier years. League is not a big sport here, so in order to fit in to any pub discussion focusing on what is on Sky TV at that moment in time, it has been necessary to learn the fundamentals of sports such as Hurling and Gaelic football (aka GAA). I still have a way to go before I would feel comfortable correcting a referee's call from my armchair. However, having won two tickets to the GAA game between Sligo and Fermanagh earlier in the week, we decided to put my new found understanding of the game that inspired the Australian Football League to good use.
We parked in town and walked the short distance uphill to the match. I had been told to rug up, so was wearing pantyhose and leggings under my jeans, three pairs of socks, a vest, thermal shirt, jumper, jacket, and scarf, beanie and gloves. My bottom half constricted my movement to the point that the thrombosis on my leg (ironically enough sustained during an all in brawl/human landslide at the Rugby League Grand Final between Canterbury and St George in 1980) started to throb. My top half made me look like a Michelin Man, and I was certain I would get stuck in the head to toe turnstile in the extremely narrow tunnel that was the entrance to the ground. As it was, I had to turn side on, and had it not been for my husband's gentle shove from behind, I may still be there, blocking the entrance for many home games to come.
The first thing I noticed was that the cafeteria only sold 'tea, coffee, soup and sandwiches' No cold beer, No meat pies. No Dagwood Dogs. Oh the humanity!!!
The next thing I noticed was the great view from the stands of the cemetery next to the ground.
Then I noticed the handy little arm rests, that made chatting to friends all that more comfortable. (and they are pretty good for watching the football too!!)
Then I noticed the absence of any decent heckling from the fans around me. Growing up, my dad used to take me to all the Canberra Raiders home games. He had a mate, Mick, who could have made a living as a professional heckler. In the politically incorrect 80s, some of his remarks would reference the referee and his mother/sister/grandmother's sexual proclivities, although most times, he was smarter than that, and his comments, puns and put downs were pure comedy gold. Unfortunately, these jibes have been lost in the mists of time. However, it is a known fact that people chose their season ticket seats in order to be within earshot of Mick's genius, and by the tenth home season, he had his own fanbase, which outnumbered the Raiderettes (and they had pom poms). Unfortunately, good natured banter seems to be a dying art, and I didn't hear one amusing shout out the entire game.
Then I noticed, it wasn't really that cold after all. We had rugged up well, but I certainly remember being a hell of a lot colder in the stadium during Canberra winters, first at Seiffort Oval in Queanbeyan, and later, at the Canberra Stadium. Here's a selfie anyway, just to prove how good we look when rugged up:
During the game, I kept thinking about that meat pie. You can't go to a football game and not enjoy the experience of having luke warm chunks of something that may once have come from a part of a cow fall in your lap, covered in tomato sauce. So, at half time, rather than line up with the hundreds of others for the ever- enticing 'soup and sandwiches', I suggested to Brendan that we travel down the street to a local service station, where surely they would do a good Servo meat pie. Here's the closest thing I could find:
I have had some very good meals since moving to Ireland. This wasn't one of them.
Turns out the humble Aussie Meat Pie is only available in Oz.
Anyway, back to the game. The local lads played well, but were beaten by the more aggressive side on the day (insert appropriate sporting cliches here). Here is the best action shot I could get with my camera phone.
On the way home, we decided to visit that cemetery next to the sporting ground. The place was beautiful, eerily deserted, but many of the very old gravesites were in a state of disrepair. One of the many reasons I want to be cremated rather than buried is so that in 150 years time, no one will have occasion to stop past my grave and say 'gee, no one has been here to pay their respects in a very long time. I wonder when people stopped thinking about 'what's her name....I can barely read it out...' If you can learn about a community from their sporting matches, what do you learn from their cemeteries?
New ideas for differences between Oz and IRE always welcome!!
