Round 7, v Northern Roosters, home

It’s not often, as Bras, we rock up for a match bristling with confidence. But having played and comfortably beaten the Northern Roosters in a trial match in April, and having seen their results so far this year, the feeling was that if we played anywhere near our potential we would win.

But many a team over the years have been caught out by arrogant assumptions and over-confidence. For instance, who can forget what happened the day the ladder-leading Philistine Goliaths took on the minnows of Israel, the Davids, at the bone-dry Valley of Elah ground all those years ago? Fans had barely taken their seats and begun thinking about making novelty hats out of watermelons when the Goliaths were stunned by a blow from which they could never recover. But that’s death for you. Famously, only the Bethany Lazaruses and Liverpool (at the 2005 European Cup final) have ever come back from that.

On this occasion, however, our confidence was well-placed. Within the opening exchanges you could see the poor Roosters were going to struggle, not least because they only had 10 players. As their lovely coach Ali had told me before the trial game, almost all of his young squad were playing the game for the first time this year and, as a consequence, had much to learn.

That said, it took us longer than it should have to get into a decent rhythm. We were playing at the pace of the opposition and not dictating matters like we should have been. Then, even when we broke the deadlock after 10 minutes, the opener came off Merissa’s knee. A second less-than-glamorous goal soon followed after a lovely cross by KP on the right wing. Kate got herself into a wonderful position but mishit her point-blank shot straight at the Roosters keeper. ‘Oh Katie!’ I lamented before I saw the keeper fumble the simple catch, as if the ball were a greased piglet, and drop it over the goal line. The poor thing. You didn’t know where to look.

By halftime we’d added another three (two by Emily and a lovely grass cutter by Bridge that found the bottom right corner) but as I told the very relaxed group (Kate was mentally in her flannelette pyjamas and all but dozing) we were playing without any real panache or energy. “So a bit more zip, okay?" I told them. "Play accordingly and the goals will come. But let’s not celebrate too hard if that happens. I feel for the Roosters here. No need to rub their noses in it.” And the Bras nodded sympathetically.

Every Bra knows too well how the Roosters must have been feeling. Many times, since 2003, we’ve been on the end of some hidings or long stretches of losses where you simply couldn’t see where the next win was coming from. In our first year we won a single match. And in 2008 we lost 18 straight. And while we have lost a few games by double figures (from memory, 11-0 is our worst loss) it’s not those that automatically hurt the most.

I recall a shattering 7-0 loss out Melton way in 2003. In the midst of a dispiriting losing streak we turned up at a moonscape of a football ground, in the middle of nowhere, on a bitingly cold and blustery day. It was the kind of day you simply do not want to get out of the car to get amongst, let alone pull on shorts and wait for a ball to inevitably hit you on the inside of your blue thighs. The pitch was a disgrace, scarred down its middle by a rock hard cricket pitch. And the sidelines, when you could actually see them, were in no way perpendicular to the goal lines. Players were constantly running the ball over sidelines that seemed to suddenly jump out at them.

Our opposition that day were the comically-named Satellite City since there was nothing within kilometres of the ground, least of all a city. Just dirt, rocks and, I dare say, hundreds of unmarked graves. That said, Satellite City knew what they were doing, more than us at any rate, and they converted goals at a steady rate as we hacked and bumbled and stumbled and simply wished for the game to end so we could all go home. None more so than my brother Kieran who, hearing from afar the news I’d decided to coach a women’s team, had come to his first (and, to date, last) Bras match. I can still picture him looking on in horror as he huddled on the sideline shivering despite having a huge suede and wool coat wrapped around both him and, inside it, Jenna and Nat’s new puppy, the Dingo-cross Monkey.

I try and talk to Kieran from time to time about this game but he no longer has any memory of it, having buried it in his subconscious where it will never be found, not even by the best psychiatrist money can buy. He can’t even remember the drive home from Melton, one undertaken in total silence. I think the first words spoken on the 45-minute trip were ‘Thanks for the lift, Jenna,’ as Kieran and I got out of her kombi which had all the atmosphere of the cold room at a morgue.

At least the Roosters, on Sunday, were getting beaten in a pleasant setting (although I'm not sure if they were cheered by that). And it wasn’t windy or even particularly cold. But a big loss is a big loss and the second half didn’t get any better for them. Even after I turned the Bras on their head, putting forwards down the back and backs up front we played much better than in the first half and managed a further seven goals. Three stand out. An AFL-like, over-the shoulder snap by Emily, a lovely counter attack goal scored by KP (after Sue fed Kate on the right and she galloped clear before sending over a wonderful cross, right at KP’s feet on the edge of the six-yard box) and a first time crack from Rosie that gave us our final, and 12th, goal.

Clearly, tougher matches await us. As for the Roosters, well, if it helps, as long as they stick together, support each other, and strive to learn the game, things will get better for them. We Bras know that better than most.

[Result: 12-0. Goals — Emily, 4, KP, 3, Rosie, 2, Merissa, Kate A, Bridget]

NEXT MATCH: Sunday June 6, v Yarra Jets, Alphington Park Oval, Alphington, 3pm

PS. Well done to the Australian national women's soccer team, the Matildas. On Sunday evening they defeated Korea in soaking conditions to win the final of the Asian Cup. Disgraceful that the Sunday Age couldn't find space in its Sunday sport liftout for a single word in anticipation of this final.