The Lovable Madness of Football

It’s been a long summer.

Tonight, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I’ll don the red and white again. The new season dawns as footy returns at the SCG, and it feels a bit like New Year’s Eve but with more sweat and fewer countdowns.

Those that follow, know the 2024 season didn’t end well for us Swans. And, while shrunken dreams take time to spread across the conscience again, it’ll be as exciting as ever when the boys burst the banner.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s just a game, right? 

I’m sorry, I don’t belong in that world. My world is filled with never-ending thoughts of Isaac Heeney’s superhuman capabilities. Or, the importance of Brodie Grundy’s sublime tap work. Anyway, sometimes, during winter, I don’t even think about footy. It can last for seconds.

I look forward to hours of berating my Samsung flatscreen, optimistically creating and then discarding a stream of ‘lucky’ outfits, and blatantly ignoring gloating text messages from ‘mates’ whose rabble of a team has somehow conjured a victory over my infallible football geniuses.

Even now, I should be working. My team plays tonight, and the game is hours away. Why do I want to tackle someone into next week?

When end-of-season heartbreak descends (so I’m told), you momentarily descend into a strange, buzzing numbness. Then, you resolve to scale back your inexplicable devotion. Finally, you reacquaint yourself with every red and white garment you own, and before you know it, you’re unknowingly impersonating Tom Papley, charging around the loungeroom, wildly celebrating an imaginary match-winning goal—or so I’m told.

The neighbours saw you. You know they did. But you don’t bloody care because footy’s back, and it’s time to lose your rational mind. All over again.