Why I’ll never be infected by footy fever
AFTER almost a dozen years killing cockroaches, it’s hard to believe anyone even cares about State of Origin anymore.
But as I search for fresh jocks for my husband to pack for tomorrow’s boys’ trip to Melbourne (hint: they’re in the drawer, man-looker), I’m reminded that this is simply not the case. Also, I’m reminded that undie-hunting is not my job and, further, that he hasn’t bought new undies in at least five years.
Regardless, the suitcase is jam-packed full of maroon gear as he and his mates prepare to fly south for a night of bad fried food, too many beers … and the footy.
When I bid him farewell tomorrow, it’s with the knowledge that this may be the last time I see him.
Why? Well, I’ve seen
The Hangover … and I know his mates.
They’re a lovely bunch of blokes but if one of them does not return with a random baby strapped to his chest and a tiger waiting at the baggage carousel, I will be slightly disappointed.
We all shared a house together in our crazy London days — tigers and babies were just the start of it.
Fortunately, early indications are that there will be stories aplenty to come from this 24-hour getaway … if they remember them.
The brains of the operation only just recently realised that the fantastically cheap tickets he’d bought for the foursome to leave Coolangatta early tomorrow morning were in fact booked for 7pm rather than 7am.
A slight issue given that kick-off is 8pm, meaning not only would they miss watching the game live in the MCG, they’d miss it entirely as they’d be stuck on a plane … which is possibly why the tickets were so affordable.
That turned out to be a very good thing as Jetstar’s change fee was so high it was more economical to just buy a whole new set of tickets. These Queenslanders are not winning.
And please remember, this occurred while all parties were completely sober.
Regardless, I’m fully supportive of this journey. It does a man – or woman – good to get away with close friends and just relax sans kids.
More importantly though, it means I do NOT have to watch the footy.
It’s not that the result is no longer meaningful — although, seriously, unless NSW win for the next five years, I don’t see why anyone even cares — it’s just that I’ve realised that footy is not my thing.
You’d think that would be a truth that is self-evident … but, confession, there was a time when I really tried to like it.
Back in the dark days of the early ’90s, as a young teenager newly arrived to these shores, I desperately tried to fit in. Part of that, to my eternal shame, was loving rugby league.
I went to the Ekka just to meet the Broncos. I had a poster signed by Alfie Langer on my bedroom wall. I wore a Queensland shirt non-ironically.
I used to hold annual State of Origin slumber parties. No one cared about seatbelts back then so the next morning eight very tired schoolgirls would pile into Mum’s Commodore to make the trip from Robina to Southport. Peak Oz.
I watched the Seagulls play the Broncos down at the Tweed on a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon.
I was possibly clinically insane.
Eventually, I saw the light. It happened as I gazed deep into Alfie’s eyes as he spruiked Tip Top bread and I just thought … WTAF?
Of course I’ll always support Queensland — mainly because it grieves people so to hear me yell in my still-American accent ‘QUEENSLANDERRR!!’.
I truly could not care less who wins. But I do care that my husband is so passionate about a game (even if it is just a game).
I also think it’s fantastic that these guys he’s been friends with for so many decades — from when they were kids to now that they all have kids — managed to take the time out to go have fun together.
Fortunately for them, it was up to me to book accommodation— thus the four 40-somethings will be sharing a luxury penthouse. With two beds.
I can’t wait to hear the stories. Winning.
WHEN I BID MY HUSBAND FAREWELL TOMORROW, IT’S WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT THIS MAY BE THE LAST TIME I SEE HIM
Read Ann Wason Moore every Tuesday and Saturday in the