Up There, Old Lady

A day at the footy for Terri Psiakis goes from bad to worse to brilliant.

I recently attended my first AFL match of the year: Essendon v North Melbourne at Telstra Dome. Now here’s my deal with going to the footy: I’m not completely across all the minutiae of the rules and the tactics, but by god I love it. It’s the equivalent of being able to belt out the chorus of Khe Sanh without necessarily knowing all the lyrics.

Because I don’t know everything I’m usually fairly restrained during the game. I cheer Bomber goals when they’re kicked and curse the umpire when a decision goes against us but you won’t catch me inflicting my dissection of the game on other spectators at full bawl. Mainly because I don’t know enough about it. But also because I think people who do that are tedious. The woman sitting next to me at the Dome was a perfect example.

I knew I’d be in for a treat when she knocked back two white wines before the teams even ran onto the ground. Firstly, who the hell drinks white at the footy? That’s like buying tap shoes for someone in a coma – you just don’t do it.

She downed her third white only minutes into the first quarter and that’s when the commentary started – it’s like she needed to fill a wine quota before she could operate her mouth. Imagine this, all hurled out in the most Cherylesque, bogan shriek you could possibly imagine: “Man up! Bloody schoolgirls! Bring it down, you pack of losers! Get in there, Lucas, you’re a friggin’ disgrace!” And that’s the sanitised version.

Fifteen minutes later Scott Lucas was limping off the ground, probably pleased his knee injury would stop him from being abused during the game. Not that his exit stopped Shouty Cheryl from abusing him off the ground. And not that the fact that Shouty Cheryl actually barracked for Essendon stopped her from hurling the abuse.

After another tirade along the lines of “Bring back Sheedy” (but with more swearing) just before half time, The Bloke – who likes to concentrate on his footy – asked me if I had by any chance brought a gun. “A gun’s a bit much,” I thought but then something happened that made me wish I had one.

Shouty Cheryl started abusing the Little League.

The Little League is my highlight of going to the game. I like to imagine I’m actually watching real midgets play footy. Marking, kicking, tackling: hilarious. Unless this wine-soaked bogan was now so drunk she hadn’t realised the players on the ground had halved in size, I couldn’t imagine why she’d want to abuse them. I was angry. And I wasn’t the only one.

The pointy part of an umbrella appeared near my right shoulder and gently tapped Shouty Cheryl on her left shoulder. We both turned to see the 70-something-year-old owner of the umbrella sitting behind us. “I’ve had just about enough of you, dear” was what she said to my piss-head neighbour. “And if I hear any more, I won’t just be tapping you with this.”

There’s only one thing I love more than midgets at the footy. And that’s umbrella-toting blue-rinses with balls.

- Terri Psiakis