Aussie Rules Football is a Beautiful Thing

Like most boys, I went through school playing sports. Attending a boarding school, any opportunity to break the monotony was welcome. I went in for the three standard forms offered by my school.

First term, it was cricket. I could bowl, but due to my poor eyesight (that was my excuse anyway), I was hopeless at batting.

In the third term, it was athletics. I was not a bad runner, so this really suited me. I took nothing and everything. Sprints, long distance, long jump, high jump, and my specialty, hurdles.

In the second term, during the winter months, it was football.

I am not talking about pansy football; others know it as soccer, where you are not allowed to touch the ball with your hands.

I am also not talking about pussy football or gridiron, where players have so much protection that they look like the Hulk.

No, I am talking about Australian rules (AFL). It is like rugby but a lot faster, more brutal, and more demanding on players. AFL footballers run about 12 km (7.5 miles) in each match. Top players can even exceed 14 km (8.7 miles). They can tackle up to 20 times in a game and can range from 15 to 30 possessions (kicks + handballs).

If you have never seen an AFL match, do yourself a favour and watch one on YouTube or Fox Sports. You will see what I mean.

I played a lot of football at school. It was ironic because I was always a small kid. I could run like the wind, but bounced off players like a feather. Enough background, now to my story.

In my final year of school, I was selected to be part of the first-team training squad. This was my first downfall. For the first few matches, I always ended up being the reserve. The guy on the bench, just waiting for someone to get hurt so I could play in the game. It never came!

In the following training sessions, I intentionally performed poorly. I hoped to get dropped to the seconds and maybe play a game of footy. That worked!

I must have played well in the two matches for the seconds. I found myself back in the first round again. So I did my poor training trick again. There were only two matches left in the season, and I had only played two games of football all year.

The coach must have wised up to me because not only did I not get a game, I didn’t even get to be reserved. No, worse than that, I was made the timekeeper.

It was a crucial game against our arch enemies. We were tied in wins. The winner of this match would take the lead and earn bragging rights.

Each timekeeper should sit together. They need to make sure the right number of minutes is counted in all four quarters. When I finally spotted the timekeeper from the other team, he was with five friends. They told me to “sit somewhere else.”

It was a close match. In the final minutes, we scored a goal. This put us ahead by two points, since a goal is worth six points. According to me, just after that the quarter should have been finished. I went over to the timekeeper from the other side. He and his mates argued with me during which time they scored a goal, putting them back in front by four points. As soon as that happened, they rang the bell for the end of the quarter.

I went to my coach and told him what had happened, but it was all to no avail. Word got out, and I became enemy number one for everyone at the school. I felt so embarrassed and alone. I stayed in my room in the dormitory for over a day to avoid the ridicule.

I only ever played one more game of football in my life. This was a match between students and teachers. About ten minutes into the game, I collided with two students and broke my arm and dislocated my thumb. That was the end of my football days.

I still watch the game as a spectator. As I said, if you have never seen a game, watch one. You will get an idea of how fast and furious it is.

Till next time,

Calvin