Humour: Amanda Blair
Watching muscly young blokes in tight shorts getting hot and sweaty – Amanda Blair can’t believe she used to find watching football such a bore.
Apparently, I’m a dirty old woman, although I’ve been doing it since 1978, but now my family is embarrassed, particularly my children, who say they can’t stomach watching me. But I don’t care.
It isn’t easily fixed because it isn’t a black and white problem. It’s not a red and white one or navy and yellow, black and teal, brown and yellow or blue and red. It’s yellow and black, and those colours on a footy jumper wrapped around the welldisciplined torso of a young AFL midfielder as he sprints towards the goals have this footy fan fanning herself and no, it’s not because I’m having a hot flush.
It wasn’t always like this. It was about the game, the tradition of weekend football and, to be honest, I cared more about the pies, chips and atmosphere than team performance. Don’t get me wrong, I had the scarf, beanie and duffle coat emblazoned with badges.
I was a passionate supporter, but my mind was focused solely on the play of the day.
Of course, I’d dream of being a WAG, but what footy fan doesn’t? I’d imagine myself high in the members’ stands, nose in the buffet trough, rubbing shoulders with Eddie McGuire. At half-time, I’d dazzle him with club statistics and maintain my effortless beauty. We’d chat about hammies, corked thighs and the linen and homewares range I’d been asked to design for a major retailer, not having had any design experience at all …
But these were mere daydreams, ways to pass time between quarters. I was just happy to watch the big men fly, there was nothing sexual about it. So it surprised me when I found myself having lustful thoughts about my beloved Tigerland players, in particular No 4, who’s fond of a tattoo and a mohawk mullet. I kept my feelings inside, shamed and shocked by my desires, particularly as I’m old enough to be his mother. And that’s what I am: a Tarago-driving mother of four, a pillar of the community, happy in my 20-year domestic relationship. But a dark, lustful side of me came to the fore and filled my waking hours with dreams of herbal embrocations being rubbed on the groin injury of my chiselled tattooed tiger. Grrr. Purr.
My husband didn’t click, despite my increased interest in attending all Richmond FC games, even those interstate. I wanted to be close to the boundary line, using fading sight as an excuse. I enquired about what sort of membership status would secure me access to the change rooms after the game, and more than anything I wanted to be the person who got to wash the players’ guernseys so I could have a quick sniff before they went through the cycle.
I was forced to admit my interest in
No 4 had gone beyond the game when, for Mother’s Day, I asked the kids to source some temporary neck tattoos for their dad to wear to bed so he’d look more like my beloved player. They didn’t find it funny, particularly when I started calling No 4 “my boyfriend” or “your next dad”.
It hit me one day at a game that perhaps I wasn’t alone. The stadium was filled with women like me. Middle-aged, glassy-eyed and glasses wearing. Women who’d forgone the pleasure of time alone while the family went to the footy and instead joined them, under the guise of “supporting the team”. But AFL or NRL, the code doesn’t matter, let’s admit our impetus is a quiet perv on sexy, younger men who get hot and sweaty running around in tight shorts. Men who aren’t our middleaged, glassy-eyed, glasses wearing husbands. So call me what you like, but at least I’m honest about it. This is the best thing about growing old, the ability to be proud of who we are, warts and all. If you ask me, I’d rather be a football HAG – Happily Ageing Gal – than a WAG any day. We’re much more fun.*
*I’m happy to expand on this statement in person, No 4, at a time convenient, preferably right after a vigorous training session. Grrr. Purr.
Of course, I’d dream of being a WAG.