Buddy Can You Spare Me A Goal

With winter loosening its grip on Omaha and the mornings becoming lighter and brighter, it was time to once again commit to leisurely strolling the neighbourhood and the nearby park. I’ve been setting off early to mid-morning with the temperature sometimes hovering around freezing, wearing gym shorts, a The North Face windcheater, and a Footscray beanie pulled down to cover my ears.

image source: jmcadam

Last Sunday, the morning had a warmth in the air that wasn’t there a few days ago, and I crisscrossed the neighbourhood streets with a quickened pace to get to the park to enjoy the beginnings of spring as I walked. Even though it was early morning, the park was a lively place. Tight buds on the forsythia and dogwood branches were straining to open, and now and then, a dog owner would throw a tennis ball for their dog to catch in its mouth, and occasionally a parent strolled the pathway with a little one in a pusher. We were strangers together, sharing the lukewarm rays of the sun, and when we passed, we shared a slight nod of the head and a chirpy good morning.

There was nothing unusual or different about the young father with his two boys by his side ahead of and approaching me. The younger boy was skipping and running ahead as all boys do, the other boy was sword fighting the warm spring air with a thin tree branch, and the man was nodding his head to the beat of his earbuds. I let loose with a hearty good morning as we passed, only to be stopped in my tracks by his response.

image source: freepik.com

Father walking in the park: Hey Buddy.
Me: Go doggies.
Father walking in the park: Are they chasing their tennis balls?
Me: I thought you barracked for the swans.
Father walking in the park: You won’t see any swans this time of the year only sandhill cranes on their way to Kearney.
Me: I thought you confused me for Buddy Franklin.
Father walking in the park: I was talking to my son.
Me: He only needs five more big ones to reach the 1000 mark.
Father walking in the park: You have a great rest of your day.
Me: Go swans.

I’m easily confused when I hear Hey Buddy, especially this time of the year, and it seems I’m hearing it more often wherever I go. Now that I think about it, I’ve always been surrounded by Hey Buddy’s, but it’s never registered. It’s the go-to dads use whenever they’re congratulating or talking to their young son; I never pick up on it until the Aussie football season. And now all I seem to be hearing is;

Hey Buddy, Good Job on those hiccups.
Hey Buddy, Good Job waking up from your little nap.
Hey Buddy, Good Job with the nose blowing and getting it all in your hanky.
Hey Buddy, Good Job eating your fries and colouring outside the lines on your Happy Meal colouring page.
Hey Buddy, Good Job. straining the spuds and not splashing your shoes.

image source: theage.com.au

The official first day of spring in the Northern Hemisphere is the first day of autumn in Australia, and it signals the start of the Men’s Australian Football season. And that’s what leads to my confusion when I hear Hey Buddy. The only time Hey Buddy, Good Job, should be used is in homage and respect to Lance Buddy Franklin, the superstar forward for the Sydney Swans. Buddy is shouted in some way by every swan barracker when he slots it through the big ones for a major from the half-forward flank and when he does some freaky impossible play and scores a sausage. Buddy’s on target to kick a thousand goals this season, needing to kick only five more goals to reach the 1000 mark. He’ll become just the sixth AFL player to kick 1000 career goals and the first since the great Geelong forward Gary Ablett senior in 1996.

Australian Rules Football is a game with similarities to Rugby, American Football and Gaelic Football, with a bit of basketball mixed in. Some say gentlemen from the Melbourne Cricket Club invented the sport to keep cricket players fit during their non-cricket playing winter. They based the game on rugby but made up new rules. AFL football consists of four 20-minute quarters, and it’s played on an oval-shaped field; the oval can vary in width between 120 and 170 yards. The umpire starts each quarter by bouncing the ball in a centre circle.

image source: jmcadam

The game’s a fast-moving, demanding physical contact sport, with players running and sending the ball the length of the ground at blistering speeds. A game of Aussie rules football is played between two teams of 18 players with set positions, but mostly they roam anywhere on the oval. Players try to move the ball to their scoring end of the ground by kicking, handballing or bouncing the ball as they run with it. A team scores a goal, equal to six points, by kicking the ball through the two large posts at their scoring end of the ground without a player touching it. A smaller post is beside each of the large goal posts. A point, known as a behind, is scored when the ball passes between them. The team scoring the most points wins the match.

I spent many a Saturday afternoon at the footie when it was The Victorian Football League. Back then, Melbourne was the epicentre of Australian footie. It provided ten of the original teams, and two local teams relocated, one to Queensland and the other to New South Wales, to form the new Australian Football League. Melbournes ten AFL teams, except for Geelong, no longer play at their old suburban footy grounds; instead, all local matches are played Thursday through Sunday at the MCG, Etihad Stadium and Geelong’s Kardinia Park. I remember when Melbourne came to a stop on Saturday afternoons. Supporters invaded the six sacred suburban home grounds where their teams were playing. North Melbourne’s home ground was Arden Street, Carlton’s Princes Park, Hawthorn’s Glenferrie Oval, South Melbourne’s the Lake Oval, Footscray’s the Western Oval. The other seven league teams also had their hallowed home suburban footy ground.

Being born and growing up in Williamstown, there was little choice regarding who’d be my footie team. If you were born and raised in the working-class western suburbs, you automatically barracked for Footscray. The British Bulldog was, and still is, the Footscray football team’s mascot, but in the western suburbs, they’re known simply as the Doggies. I’ve forgotten the number of cold, dank Saturday winter afternoons I stood on the terrace in front of the grandstand at the Western Oval. I stood with the other brotherhood of Doggie faithful. The air was thick with the perfume of meat pies and tomato sauce and cigarette smoke and beer. It was a penny to a quid that the four-n-twenty was going to be hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth or on the cold side of warm.

image source: jmcadam

The senior faithful were close by, sitting in the front row seats in the grandstand, their sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and a thermos full of hot tomato soup resting on the crochet blanket in their lap. We roared as one whenever our champions, Gazza, Quinie, Sando, Sockeye, and Roundie, came close to the Sherrin. We drank our beers and cheered the boys on with affectionate insulting encouragements; we only saw red, white and blue on the ground, and they could do no wrong. And we welcomed the last quarter with the tribal ritual of a pie in one hand and a beer raised in the other; our salute to the sound of the siren that started the final onslaught.

And then there was the arrival of our Kelvin, Kelvin Templeton, the young lad from Traralgon; he was to become our messiah. He flew high to mark the Sherrin’s that Quinie and Sando fed him, and we raised our right hands as one, clutching a beer, saluting Kelvin when he streaked away from opponents on his leads and when he tussled for the ball in one on ones on the forward line. After returning from an injury-plagued season, Kelvin booted 118 goals and headed up the goalkicking table, becoming a member of the elite 100 goals kicked in a season club. In one game, he threaded the Sherrin through the big ones 15 times and kicked nine behinds, a VFL record of 24 scoring shots. He was acclaimed as the best footballer in Australia when he won the 1980 Brownlow Medal. Heaps of the golden amber were spilled and consumed, and countless floggers shredded in celebration of Kelvin’s performances on the forward line at the Western Oval.

image source: wikimedia.org

The AFL is now a national competition with teams from all the mainland states playing in the first-class level of the competition. The overcrowded and unhygienic suburban grounds and the exposed stands that were no shelter from the arctic conditions are a thing of the past. Floggers, being able to bring a few long necks and tinnies to a game, and smoking inside the ground are banned; but you can still buy a beer, a pie with sauce, and bring along homemade sandwiches. In this day and age, some of the new age barrackers prefer a cappuccino, pizza, or a butter chicken and lamb saagwala curry; which are now available at the grounds. Some say the local magic of the game is lost.

And now I’m beginning to wonder how Buddy became the go-to nickname American that dads use for their sons; what happened to sport, champ and chief? I think Buddy became the go-to nickname because of the amount of time young Millennials spent in front of the TV years watching re-runs of Gilligan’s Island. It must have implanted little Buddy, the Skipper’s nickname for Gilligan, in their brains. I think the Good Buddy dads should start using Kelvin instead of Buddy. Imagine the delight a child would experience when he hears,

Hey Kelvin, Good Job on those hiccups.
Hey Kelvin, Good Job waking up from your little nap.
Hey Kelvin, Good Job with the nose blowing and getting it all in your hanky.
Hey Kelvin, Good Job eating your fries and colouring outside the lines on your Happy Meal colouring page.
Hey Kelvin, Good Job. straining the spuds and not splashing your shoes.

Or they could go small-scale Aussie by starting with, Hey Fella, Good Job, Hey Mate, Good Job, Hey Digger, Good Job.

 

Australian rules football-History, Rules, & Facts

Australian Football: A Hall of Fame Oversight

Do You Call Your Kid “Buddy”? You Might Want to Reconsider

There’s No Need To Boil Your Underwear Twice

I try to remain calm as I reach down to open the lid of the lap top; I reach out and press the power button. I know the boot and start up process should take at least a minute. I’m tingling from head to toe and I start hopping from one foot to the other. I know I’ll have difficulty entering my username and password; it’s a challenge to concentrate when I’m giddy with excitement. I click on the homepage icon on the browser toolbar; bam!!!, the AFL home page and the new season’s match highlights. With no new Aussie Rules Footy highlights the last six months have been painful to sit through; the first game of the 2019 Australian Football League season was played on Thursday, 21 March. Matches between the AFL’s eighteen teams are played Thursday through Sunday; during the 6 month season highlight video’s of the week’s nine games are on the AFL web site.

image source:jmcadam

I felt a sense of contentment as I started watching the Sydney Swans v Carlton Blues game highlights; even though I knew the final score I became caught up in the action as each team exchanged goals. It was a close scoring game up until the final minutes of the fourth quarter. Just before the final siren Buddy Franklin, known for his long range boundary line scoring bombs, took a specky and went back for his kick; he launched one that sailed through the big sticks for a sausage. As the siren sounded he reached up for his mouth guard, removed it, and put it down the front of his footy shorts. I don’t think what footy players wear has changed much over the years. I don’t remember many of them ever wearing protective gear but I think in this day and age, they may be encouraged to wear a body hugging garment such as tight fitting lycra underpants. I don’t think it matters who it is; if you’re playing four quarters of Australian Rules then you’re going to experience sweat drenched undies through the last two quarters of the game.

image source:zimbio.com

Snug fitting Chesty Y fronts were the first undies I remember wearing; they’re the only undies any true blue mum would ever buy their precious little ones. Chesty was a cartoon caricature trademark for the Australian clothing company Bonds. He had a powerful jutting jaw and a stunning physique; he became a superhero when he pulled on his trusty athletic singlet. Back then, we called our underpants undies or underdacks; they later became Reg Grundies, which was shortened to grundies. Reg Grundy was a pioneer of Australian television, and a household name to all Australians. He created many Australian television shows, but was best known for Wheel of Fortune and other game shows. As I approached adolescence, and wandered into adulthood I drifted away from Y fronts and started to wear Bond’s low rise sport briefs; boxers, boxer briefs, and the thong held little fascination for me.

It was the mid seventies and I stood at the fork in the road. I packed a few low rise briefs into my blue, metal frame, back pack. I had trust in Chesty to see me through the Thai, Malaysian, Burma and Indian humidity; I reasoned if the elastic was taut, and the fabric feels fresh and soft, then goodbye chaffing and sweat. Little did I know that cotton underwear has very poor moisture wicking properties, and once they’re wet, they’ll stay wet for as long as you’re wearing them. The Thailand I remember was transforming from a Vietnam War recreation and retreat escape into a tourist mecca. Bangkok still had a flat skyline, and it’s streets were clogged with people, motorcycles, tut tuts, and buses. The temperature nudged the nineties, and the humidity matched the air temperature. Every mid afternoon a brief thunderstorm topped up the humidity. My Chesty low rises were constantly moist; either from the rivulets of sweat that trickled down my back, or from crotch sweat. There was always a damp pair of just washed low rises resting on the end of a bed; or hanging somewhere in a dank hotel room.

image source:thetravelerstrunk.com

I wonder if Buddy’s grundies had the same degree of moistness as mine had in Thailand; if so, he must have experienced some serious chaffing. I don’t know if Prickly Heat cooling powder is available in Australia. It’s a great remedy for damp grundies chaffing; but it does take a little while to get used to the lengthy after burn sensation. Maybe the Australian Football League needs to make Prickly Heat a must have for all eighteen clubs.

After a couple of unforgettable months in Thailand we prepared for the journey into Burma and the ancient city of Bagan. The gateway to Burma was somewhat open; the military dictatorship had started issuing one week visas, and the country was becoming part of the South East Asian hippie trail. Upon entering the country you had to show your confirmed onward travel, and declare all of the foreign currency you were taking into the country. You were given papers showing that amount, and told to always get a receipt from the bank when you changed money. The receipts, and the amount of foreign money that you left with a week later, had to equal what you had declared on entering the country. You learnt from other travellers to take duty free Johnnie Walker and Marlboro cigarettes into Burma, and to hide US dollars somewhere on you; all to be sold and exchanged on the black market.

image source:jmcadam

That last night in Bangkok I tortured myself; racking my brain as to where to hide my US dollars. I had to declare some of the dollars; the rest was my nest egg to exchange, when needed, on the black markets of India and Pakistan, the Middle East, and Turkey. I toyed with putting the wad of dollars into the front of my Chesty low rise sport briefs. I practised stuffing and then sitting and walking in the dank hotel room, and then strolling the moisture laden steaming streets of Bangkok; when I returned to the hotel room I reached into, and down the front of, my grundies and pulled out the wad of US dollars. The wad was a spongy ball of paper mache.

Even though there was a bulge at the ankle bone in each of my socks I still walked with a jaunty step into the customs and immigration area at the Rangoon airport. I declared a small amount of US dollars; just enough for what it should cost to travel the hippie trail for a week in Burma, I think the customs and immigration officers knew where every traveller’s Johnnie Walker and carton of Marlboro was heading; and I think they knew that we all had undeclared dollars somewhere. The military was making the rules, but the people were keeping the country functioning.

If Buddy’s grundies had the same degree of moistness as mine did in Thailand, then I don’t understand why he’s cramming his mouth guard down the front of his footy shorts instead of shoving it into his socks; maybe he doesn’t want any of his teammates borrowing his mouth guard. I think he’d have to give it a good soak in a glass of Dettol though before slipping it back into his mouth. The trainers would have to have a few bottles of it handy if Buddy is taking his mouth guard out every time he takes a mark, or at the end of each quarter.

image source:jmcadam

It seems I had the same idea of where to hide my US dollars as most people do when they’re trying to smuggle something.

Prominent bulge in man’s trousers found to contain four smuggled kittens: a man attempting to cross from Malaysia into Singapore was found by immigration officials to be carrying four kittens in a bulge in his trousers. Officers were prompted to conduct further checks when they heard meowing sounds coming from the bulge in his pants.
Traveller arrested smuggling live hummingbirds in his trousers: a traveller was caught at Rochambeau airport in Cayenne, French Guiana trying to smuggle more than a dozen live hummingbirds in special pouches sewn into the inside of his underwear. The birds were individually wrapped in cloth and taped up to prevent them from escaping from their sweaty travel container. That would be some pecker in your pants.
Man tried to smuggle 51 turtles in pants across border: Canadian Border Services, seized 41 live turtles a man had taped to his legs, and 10 he had hidden between his legs. The collection included eastern box turtles, diamondback terrapins, endangered spotted turtles and red-eared sliders. Fortunately there were no snapping turtles.
Man caught smuggling snake in pants at German Airport: security officers noticed a large bulge in a traveller’s pants. When he was stopped and told to reveal what he had hidden in his pants, he pulled out a bag tied with a cord. Inside the bag was a 15.75-inch boa. That is some trouser snake.
Man caught with live pigeons down his pants at Melbourne Airport: when customs and border control officers stopped a traveller from Dubai they found a multi-vitamin container holding two birds eggs in his pocket. A further search revealed he was wearing tights with the two live birds stuffed inside; one in each leg.

image source:jmcadam

This bloke can’t be the sharpest tool in the shed. The owner of RG Equipment of Fresno, California, is asking for help to find the man who stole a chainsaw. The shop’s video surveillance camera shows a man taking a chainsaw from a display, nonchalantly stuffing the blade of the power tool down the front of his pants, and then covering the engine assembly with his jacket.

I think I’ll have a backyard cricket party this summer. We’ll probably use a hard cork ball instead of a tennis ball. I think I’ve got an old Cricket Cup in the basement that everyone can wear when they’re batting; what a great way of getting rid of your fear of a hard, fast travelling, round object whacking you in the groin. Amazon has packs of 3×84 Dettol antibacterial surface cleaning disinfectant wipes so there shouldn’t be a problem sharing the Cup.

 

AFL – News, Fixtures, Scores & Results

Men’s Underwear-Bonds

Cricket Protection

I’m Still Spewin’ Over Last Night’s Footy

The other Saturday afternoon the sun was streaming through the front window; I was stretched out, head back with my eyes closed, listening to Way With Words on National Public Radio. When Martha and Grant were giving the closing, could not have made this program possible without spiel, it sprung to mind that I had just spent an hour doing nothing else but listening to the wireless. I tried to make a mental list of other times I had just listened to the wireless; driving all day, brisk exercise walking, sitting in a dentists waiting room, and long haul air plane flights don’t count.

I would head straight for the dining room as soon as I got home from school, and sit glued to the wireless listening to the Air Adventures of Biggles, Superman, Adventures of the Sea Hound, Tarzan, Hopalong Cassidy, Robin Hood and Hop Harrigan. Mum would bring my tea into the dining room so I could listen to the cliff-hanging end of the last serial. Back then the only vegetables I would eat were peas and potatoes so she would carry a plate with a couple of grilled lamb chops or cutlets, boiled peas, and mashed potatoes from the kitchen into my world of mystical adventures and danger.

But there came a time when I was no longer distracted by the Air Adventures of Biggles and the Sea Hound, or Hopalong Cassidy. Perhaps I was just growing up; or maybe I lost interest in the serials because a His Master’s Voice television became part of our lounge room furniture. But I didn’t desert the wireless. The kitchen wireless was my retreat from the cold and rainy Saturday afternoons for the next couple of Melbourne winters.

The city would come to a stop on Saturday afternoons. All Victorian Football League football games were played on Saturday afternoon and supporters invaded the six sacred grounds where the twelve teams were playing; North Melbourne’s home ground was Arden Street, Carlton’s Princes Park, Hawthorn’s Glenferrie Oval, South Melbourne’s the Lake Oval, and Footscray’s the Western Oval, and the other seven teams had their own hallowed home suburban footy ground. There was little choice about what team you barracked for. If you were born and raised in the working class Western suburbs you barracked for the Footscray Bulldogs. I barracked alone in the kitchen; it was cosy and warm.

image source:westernbulldogs.com.au

Brownlow Medallist John Shultz, and Ted Whitten, led the bulldog boys into battle at the wind swept, wintry, hostile enemy grounds and the adoring Western Oval. It must have been the young boy in me that decided to ride the coat tails of a wining side; I drifted from barracking for the Bulldogs to barrack for the Geelong cats. It was the heyday of Polly Farmer, Bill Goggin, and Doug Wade. The distraction from the Bulldogs only lasted a couple of years and the wireless dial once again was tuned to the boys of the Bulldog breed.

And there was the Victorian Football Association as well as the Victorian Football League. Association games were played on Sunday afternoons. The Williamstown VFA team was the Seagulls and they played their home games and trained at Point Gellibrand Oval. The grandstand was at one end of the ground and a grass mound stretched from just past the grandstand to the Morris Street gate; and the old lighthouse, seagulls, and unpredictable waters of Port Phillip Bay flanked one side of the oval. Watching the ships entering and leaving Port Melbourne, and the Melbourne docks was a welcome distraction when the cold, salt water laden, strong Port Phillip Bay winds kept the ball at the far end of the ground away from the grandstand. And trying to stay on your bike as you free-wheeled down the grassy mound was another distraction.

image source:slv.vic.gov.au

Half time and the end of the games were the meaning of footie; you herded into the dressing rooms as the boys walked in from the field. At half time you watched in amazement as ankles were re-bandaged, and you became intoxicated by the suffocating scent of the liniment that was splashed and rubbed into every inch of bare skin. And you were mesmerised by the coach’s passionate speech; it was inspiring and rousing whether the boys were winning or losing. At full time you were with the boys when they dropped onto the dressing room’s benches at the same they were unlacing their boots; the room was filled with the incredible scent of sweat, liniment, and cigarette smoke and beer; the proud fragrance of the football brotherhood. And the coach followed up his half time rousing address and caps were popped from tall bottles of the golden amber and they celebrated.

image source:pinterest

As I entered into the world of change and uncertainty that was the sixties and seventies I lost interest in the kitchen wireless and riding my bike to Gellibrand Oval. During my first journey of searching for inspiration, and idealism in the ordinary I found myself at an afternoon game of rugby in Edinburgh. I stood among a crowd of passionate Scotsmen; passionate for their team. When I was overheard confessing I didn’t know the rules of rugby because I was a boy of the Bulldog breed, a boy who only knew Victorian Rules Football, a nearby passionate Hearts supporter reached into his inside coat pocket and produced a flask of whisky and proclaimed

Now I’ll be telling ya what’s happening and we’ll all drink whisky and
you’ll be a Hearts supporter.

On a cold, dank Scottish winter afternoon, surrounded by cigarette smoke and Scottish whisky, I stood together with the proud brotherhood of football.

On cold winter Saturday afternoons I stood on the sloped terraces in front of the Whitten stand with the familiar faces; the veterans sat in the front two rows of the Whitten Stand stand; their sandwiches were wrapped in greaseproof paper and a thermos full of hot tomato soup rested in their lap, or at their feet. We ambled to the Western Oval turnstiles after a few starters at either the Rising Sun, The Plough, or the Buckingham carrying a thin paper bag with a couple of bottles of the golden amber under each arm.

image source:foxsportspulse.com

We drank our beer and cheered the boys on with a selection of affectionate obscenities and insulting encouragements; we could reach out and touch Gaz, Bernie, Laurie, Sockeye and Bazza: there was only red white and blue on the ground; they could do no wrong. As committed one eyed barracker’s we encouraged the umpires to make the right decisions with indecent and threatening support. The last quarter was greeted with the tribal ritual of a pie in one hand and raising a beer in the other as a salute to the sounding of the siren to start the final onslaught; the four n twenty would either be hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth or more on the cold side of warm. On a cold, dank, Melbourne winter afternoon surrounded by the smell of meat pies and tomato sauce, and cigarette smoke and beer, I stood with the proud brotherhood of football.

I went back to teaching when I returned from my first journey of searching for inspiration, and idealism, in the ordinary. Wednesday afternoons at Victorian Technical Schools were sports afternoons; usually football in the winter and cricket in summer. Each Technical School had a football or cricket team cobbled together from the best of the best senior boys in the fourth and fifth forms. Neighbouring schools would play against each other on Wednesday afternoons. Someone at my school decided it would be a good time for the boys if they could watch a football match played between the teachers, and the school football team. On a mild winter’s Wednesday afternoon I ran out onto the school oval with the teacher’s team. The entire school, form one through form five, wearing the school uniform of grey pants, grey shirt with tie, and maroon jumper lined the oval.

image source:wikipedia

I closed my eyes and the boys became a cheer squad, dressed in their duffle coats covered with badges of their favourite player names and jumper numbers. And they waved their floggers; six foot long sticks with massive amounts of streamers taped to the ends. The teachers team had four players who were better than any of the senior boys in the school footy team; two physical education teachers, and a couple of teachers who played for Williamstown’s AFL reserves team. Our plan was to play keepings off; four teachers against eighteen boys. The cheer squad welcomed me onto the ground with a chorus of barracking. It was just a few minutes into the game when my excitement caused me to forgot about the plan; I jogged towards the corridor, the ball was kicked my way. I heard the roar from the boys lining the oval fence and then I was lying on the oval ground gasping at the air; it seemed to take forever for the air to return to my lungs, and for my eyes to focus.

I had been shirt fronted by one of the man mountain teachers that played for the Williamstown reserves. I spent the rest of the match standing alone on the half forward flank. A few of us went to the local after school; the lounge was soon filled with the incredible scent of sweat, my liniment, and cigarette smoke and beer. We were the proud brotherhood of football celebrating the victory of a heroic, stout hearted, sweat stained battle.

Australian Rules Football is now a national competition; Melbourne provides ten teams, Sydney, Queensland, and South and Western Australia two teams. Melbourne games are no longer played at the old suburban footy grounds but at the MCG, Etihad Stadium, and Geelong’s Kardinia Park. Smoking and floggers are banned, and no alcohol can be brought into the grounds. You can’t use indecent or obscene language, or threatening or insulting words toward the players or umpires, and you can only get rid of your rubbish in a receptacle provided for that purpose.

image source:johnmcadam

And the Footscray Bulldogs are now the Western Bulldogs; some say that the local magic of the game has been lost.

Sons of the ‘scray,
Red, white and blue,
We will come out smiling, if we win or lose.
Others build their teams my lad, and think they know the game,
But you can’t beat the boys of the Bulldog breed, that make ol’ Footscray’s name!

I think I should take a class in gesturing hypnotically just like Mandrake the Magician, or attempt to uncover a Tibetan mystic who can pound into me the secrets of ancient magic so I can stand once again on the sloped terrace in front of the Whitten Stand; a four n twenty pie in one hand and a beer in the other, raised in a salute to the proud brotherhood of football. Or perhaps I can just watch the replays of the footy on YouTube.

 

Australian Football League

Radio: National Film and Sound Archive of Australia

Western Bulldogs