Day 73 | Last night in Carnarvon: enjoy that mattress boy

rest day

Saturday arvo, as they say, running out of options after a week in town, I head off to the local district Aussie Rules football Grand Final, the town turns up to cheer on their teams.

As it was only one team really turned up, the team, playing as a group edged ahead of a few useful individuals gathered as the opposition.

At this level, mid level suburban skills on show, the best players are strong, with a low centre of gravity, not much artistry, a level of brute force and reckless consideration of the body.

It’s a game for all types, speed and skill a useful requirement for those patrolling the middle of the ground, brute strength and a dose of courage enough for the more static players at the ends. A bit of foam coming out of the mouth plus a goodly few tats helps in the intimidation stakes, one guy I noted, Jonno, taking this to the logical extreme, while I thought he was wearing a technicolour body suit, on closer inspection he was a human billboard, fully covered in multicoloured ink.

Maybe there was a clue in the coaching staff, the skills team, the dietician, a particularly unhealthy looking aggregation, all as rotund as the ball.

If the scores had been surprisingly close at halftime, aided by lucky bounces of the oval ball, obscure refereeing calls and what can only be explained by a certain quantity of voodoo, by the time what is called by the usual footy commentators, the Grand Final Quarter, ie the third where it’s generally obvious who is going to have the happier evening celebration, the cohesive team, Ramblers, poured on 7 unanswered goals to race away on the scorecard.

At 3/4 time the yellow team was all blustery testosterone, camaraderie, exuding that winning X factor. The blues were subdued, not believing the exertions of their diehard supporters, but they snatched a couple of late goals to gain some respectability to the final scoreline when the yellows relaxed, realising the game was in the bag.

In the end the siren couldn’t come soon enough, neither team had the full allotment of players, ie, 18, on the field, the 26°C day taking a heavy toll, cramp severe and an occasional dislocated shoulder.

The vanquished lay prostrate silently weeping into their beards, the victors down to have their photos taken in front of the lopsided scoreboard.

In the end I gave the Best on Ground award to a female umpire, one of a team of 7 officials decked out in an unflattering orange suit, who, clearly a mother, sorted out individual stroppiness with a fearsome authority. One tough blonde.