One Right Up The Bracket

At precisely 11:57 I step off at Richmond station, for once perfectly on time, to meet Bell at Midday and guide him to the Old London Tavern where we’ll meet the rest of the crew: Odey, Matt, Matt’s old man, Roger and Matt’s sister’s boyfriend also named Matt, but I’ll call him Matthew. (Confusing, I know, but bear with me.)

Just as I’m wondering where Bell is he calls me, to let me know he’s gonna be late – closer to 12:30 he reckons. Drinking alone, I think about the game. The Cats are gonna drop one soon enough, but not today, I can feel it. Plus, during the week Matt and I made a small wager and I need that money for beer.

Eventually everyone arrives and we begin the very serious business of drinking and ribbing Matt, a Collingwood supporter. Just for the record, Roger and Matthew are Essendon supporters, the rest of us are Cats fans. Odey rocks up late, nursing a hangover from the night before but immediately makes up for it with a Ben Cousins joke about him icing his hamstring and then his face. Meanwhile Matt is downing pints at a rate of knots even though he shares a hangover from the same big Friday night with Odey. He’s more animal than man.

I speak to Mrs. Watson and he’s around the corner at the Cricketers Arms, a pub that, due to its vicinity to the MCG, manages to cram around 50 000 people into the worlds smallest bar on game days. We agree to meet up for a drink after the game, preferably not at the Cricketers Arms. We squeeze in one last pint and head off at 1:50 for the G. Some bloke talking with his mates is telling a story about the one time he went to Geelong and drank at the Barwon Club before taking a piss on the Kardinia Park wall. That’s sacrilege, I say, how would you feel if I came to Collingwood, shot heroin and then vomited on Victoria Park? You’d fit right in, he says. Hats off, sir.

We find our seats and Matt sits down just long enough to ask whose shout it is. Thanks for volunteering, Matty. We’re sitting in the 2nd tier of the Olympic stand, row N: Forward pocket, Punt road end. Congratulations come from all round to Bell who organized the tickets weeks ago. I glance around the G and can hardly see an empty seat – to quote Travis from Big Brother, bloody hell. I now look a little closer to home, to see who’s around us: Cats fans to the left and right but a couple of Collingwood fans in front and some behind us who I don’t see but can hear. Make ‘em pay Collingwood, is one blokes catch phrase, which we quickly adopt after each Geelong goal. Ahh, nothing like pissing off total strangers. And speaking of pissing off strangers, some kid in front of us is constantly banging those inflatable clapper sticks. Odey leans over to me, that won’t get annoying at all, he says.

There is a feeling, an electricity and tension in the air that is released when the opening siren sounds. We’re under way and the Pies kick two quick goals thanks to Travis Cloke, the first player to beat Matthew Egan this season, and then, a Mrs. Watson’s favourite, Paul Medhurst. Matt is in full voice, laughing and stirring us up. You’ll keep, I say, and begin a running tally of Anthony Rocca’s dropped marks.

Ling dobs the Cats first one, Mooney snaps a second, Matthew Stokes snags the third and then, right in front of us, Boris Enright picks off a Collingwood pass and puts it back over the goal umpires head. I know then that the Cats would be ok.

Collingwood are tough, however, and they stick at it, keeping close enough all day in a tight contest. Wojcinski bounces one over the head of Marty Clarke. Stupid Irishman. Alan Didak is still copping it from the crowd, and I join in, yelling out, hey Didak, need a ride home? Even the Collingwood fans in front liked that one. The unfortunately named Tyson Goldsack gets the ball as Matty and I both smirk, money-bags, we say to each other as Bell jokes about trying to convincing a drunken Roger that it’s his round again.

At half-time I queue for the pissoir and chat to some nice old bloke whom I call sir. Turns out he’s Corey Enright’s dad. He’s having a good game, I say, and a good season. At the bar I bump into Chandles, a bloke I went to school with, and his younger brother. Good times.

The second half goes by in a blur thanks to consuming enough alcohol to tranquilize a wild pig, but there are vague memories of Dog Johnson getting amongst the goals, Scarlett running out of defence, Harley taking an important mark, more umpiring injustices and vague memories of doing a Ted Whitten impersonation and a bit of ‘stick it right up em’ work at the final siren – yes, I’m a dickhead.

I never caught up with Mrs. W, but Matt paid up in liquid currency, and then some. And at ten wins in a row we were quite content to drink to the best team in the league.