by Dusty
The King’s Birthday weekend saw a skeleton crew of Warriors take the field against a full strength Box Hill on their home ground. With limited players available, it was going to be an uphill battle to bring home the chocolates. My sore ribs from the last game were only a slight annoyance as I dragged the beloved number 8 over my pasty skin and trotted onto the ground in bright sunlight with the few Warriors who could make it. Clint had to be flown in on a special charter from Adelaide, and even then we only managed to field a team of seventeen.
The game started at a cracking pace. I lined up a little further up the field than usual. Normally I bury myself in the back pocket with some talentless fatso, I make a little nook for myself and then while away the game shouting and pointing enthusiastically. But today, I was on the flank because Jezza was carrying a calf injury. My first match up was nicknamed Turtle. This seemed like a good sign. Terrapins, Tortoises and Turtles all belong to the Testudine genus, not known for their speed. How wrong I was. It would be fair to say that Turtle came out of his shell from the first bounce. I was chasing him all over the place, I didn’t have time to do any pointing or shouting – all I did was run after Turtle. Then, at the ten minute mark, Turtle was tired so he went and sat on the bench, to be replaced by a guy nicknamed Tractor. I associate tractors with slow-moving, farm vehicles. How wrong I was. Tractor ran around like a F1 car as I chased after him, my little legs pumping. It was going to be a long day.
The rest of the Warrior team were putting up a great effort – if we had kicked a little straighter we would have been in front at quarter time. Matty D was weaving through traffic like a Cairo taxi driver and linking up well with a potent forward line spearheaded by a rampaging Magoo, a slippery Kenny and the ever-reliable Rev. As a team we were committed, putting our bodies on the line time and time again. Munga was ferocious, Grunta was relentless, Carbo battled hard and Sammy never gave up. Dave H must have misheard, because instead of putting his body on the line he put his head in harm’s way instead. The first time he saw stars, the second time he saw a vision of the Virgin Mary in a Can-Can dress and asked if he could have a Tequila Sunrise and a cigarette. (I think he might have been a little concussed, but it can be hard to tell in the elderly.)
At half-time Box Hill were in front by a couple of goals – we were weary Warriors. I sat in the rooms, chewing thoughtfully on a pink lolly snake, reflecting on my performance. I’d done some good things, but my kicking was awful. There is nothing more humiliating than taking a mark in the centre of the ground and then, under no pressure whatsoever, absolutely munging it to the opposition. As the ball wobbled off my boot like a spastic potato, I hung my head in shame. Shortly afterwards I tried a pass to Clint as he glided across the turf towards me with that guileless expression of innocent expectation that he wears much of the time, again it was a pathetic effort – a shapeless mongrel of a kick. Killer, our brave, unflappable leader, consoled me… “not as bad as the last one”. I shuffled disconsolately to my position and went back to chasing Turtle, or Tractor, they seemed to blur after a while.
At the final change we were only fifteen points behind. Magoo, coaching us for the last time, encouraged us to kick four goals and win the game. We rose as a team and kicked three goals – but we also conceded four as our legs weakened and our bodies sagged. Maybe we would have won if we had a full side, maybe we would have won if we had kicked a little straighter, maybe we would have won if I had been able to hit a target – but maybe is a gateway to regret. Warriors do not live in a maybe world, we live in a world of hope. And that’s a much nicer place.
