A childhood rooted in sport

Inspired by a fellow blogger that I follow (that’s a mouthful), I’ve decided to write about sport. And sports teams.

I’ve always been in to sport. As a kid and young man I played competitive cricket, football, indoor soccer, basketball, tennis, did athletics and karate. I also played outdoor soccer for school. I swam laps for fun, once. For a while I went back to football and cricket as an adult, then joined the gym, left the gym, started cycling, started running, stopped cycling and started mountain biking. And right now, you’ll find me running 7.5 km every second morning around Ballarat East with a good friend, and on Saturday mornings we run at the lake. I like being fit, I like getting fitter and setting myself small challenges, and I like the routine. And the company.

Given my wide tastes in participative sport, it’s no surprise that I am also partial to watching it on television. But my watching habits are a bit different: I love watching soccer, far more than I enjoy playing it. Tennis I find boring to watch but love to play. And I’m getting into American football a fair bit, having finally worked it out (a bit) after reading the rules on Wikipedia! I have never played that.

Today’s daily news carries a few items about the upcoming pre-season series for the AFL. My team is playing Hawthorn, regular season premiers from two years ago. My team won its last flag in 1980, and played in a pre-season final in about 1990 or 1991 (and lost). It won its last ‘proper’ flag when I was one. Hmm.

I barrack for my team because my Mum does. Half the family followed mum, half followed Dad. Dad’s team is pretty good and successful; my team is pretty average and not successful. But each year I tune in again, full of hope. Why? What keeps us loyal and interested in our teams for so long?

I think it’s a reminder of childhood, simply enough. A really strong link that won’t ever break. Days when I went to the footy with Dad and my brother in my team jumper and scarf, on the train, standing room only, smoke in the air and pie wrappers at my feet. The crowd heaving and me stretching to see what happened, Dad explaining that so and so kicked another goal (probably to finish my team off). Train rides home, drunk men singing the club song, both embracing and scaring kids with their antics. Dad’s weird bag – for the footy only – that he got from some travel agent when he was 20. Sitting on my parent’s bed watching the replay while everyone else watched Hey Hey It’s Saturday in the lounge room. These are days when I would cry if my team lost a close one.

So when Richmond hit the field now, and they struggle, or they win, either way my mind makes a really clear link straight back to childhood. And because of that link, whatever happens now I can’t change teams. I can’t stop caring, even if I want to. I will always go and see them, and one day I won’t know any of the players. But it won’t matter. They are my team.

After some close consideration, I decided recently that it was ok to pick a soccer team to follow. I watch the English Premier League most often, and researched a few teams but settled on Tottenham Hotspurs. I like Peter Crouch. I add that to my followership of the Tennessee Titans in the USA. Again, wanted to cheer on someone, and they have a nice uniform. It makes such a difference when I read the papers now, to skim down to results and see if ‘we’ won or lost. 

I also keep a close watch on the Golden State Warriors in the NBA. They are really bad. Why, you ask? I got a Chris Mullens singlet when I was young – it was a nice colour and I could afford it – and I never got the team out of my mind. It’s in my childhood, so it’s me.