It had been a while since I had pulled my prized number 8 guernsey over my head and wrestled it over my tummy (might need Vaseline next time).  I missed a game with dodgy knees, so I was very keen for the game against Frankston to be a cracker.  The fact that my daughter Rose had stepped in to the role of trainer added a little zest to my enthusiasm.

The team bundled out the door of the change rooms at Edinburgh Reserve with a spring in their step and the kind of concentrated intensity usually only seen by owners of Labradors when they eat chips. The Frankston team seemed to be a typically motley array of bayside bogans, but they did have a couple of big guys that looked likely to cause us a little trouble. That, and it was dewy.  

In the good old days, any dew would be mopped up by the Under-10s. We used to make them wear long-sleeved woollen jumpers so they were particularly absorbent. By the time the Seniors ran out, the ground was drier than an aunt’s kiss. But times have changed, and it is we Seniors who are now soaking up the condensation from the grass.

Despite the damp we started brightly, Carbo was winning in the ruck and the support he received from the “Triumvirate of Terror” (Sammy, Bruisa and Killer) meant that we were getting plenty of the pill. Frankston had a very big full-forward called Rusty. He was tall and wide, as fat as a small electric car. He used this to a strategic advantage as it would take the plucky Dave H nearly a full minute to run around Rusty’s ample girth to get in front. This was not only time consuming, but tiring.  

I was settling into the role of  DSFD (deep, small, fat defender) and things seemed to be looking good. At one point I intercepted a loose ball with a neat toe-poke to the diminutive but dangerous Grunta and then followed up with a handball receive. I swept past the outstretched grasp of a Frankston opponent with a contemptuous brush-off and was sizing up my options downfield when two, long, hairy tentacles wrapped around me. It was like I had been ensnared by a land based Kraken that had risen from the turf behind me. I could hear the faint cries of “kick it!” from my teammates as I was dragged down in an undignified heap. The spearing pain in my ribs was nothing to the sense of humiliation that filled my heart.  

At half time things were very even. Pogzy was enjoying his post on the wing, and Munga was showing that beneath that innocent, slightly bewildered facial expression was a man prepared to dish out a bit of rough justice when required. And Rodders had kicked a goal, finally realising his potential as a forward in his last game before jetting off to Canada.  (A few years of Masters Ice Hockey should toughen him up.)  Our defence was holding together well; Frenchy was dynamic, Pas was emphatic, Kenny was erratic and Dave was a defensive prophylactic.

We continued to battle away in the second half, Frankston had their noses in front but we were taking it to them.  Rev was elusive, Thorney was covering the ground well and generating plenty of thrust from his arthritic knees but Marko was a revelation, playing the game of his life.  He popped up everywhere, was clean and confident with his marking and pinpoint in his disposal. The goal he kicked was a clinical finish. Maybe Lou calling him small in the pre-game address fired him up – because he certainly played like a man who is at least 176 cm. 

When Big Al went into the ruck in the final quarter he gave us a spark and we began to build pressure. But our kicking for goal let us down. (When I use the pronoun ‘our’ it is being used in a way to avoid hurting the feelings of the person who actually let us down – in this way Rev is not made a scapegoat.) At the end of the day we fell just short of a victory. 

I did a lot of running around, which is good for aerobic capacity.  I did quite a lot of shouting and pointing, which is good for reducing blood pressure.  We were a team that didn’t win, but we were a team – which is good for everything.