Round 8, Yarra Jets, away

A month ago the Brunswick Zebras issued each of its coaches a thick, parka-style jacket. Over one breast is the Zebras logo, a disembodied and stylised Zebra head (whose countenance, it must be said, looks more cross than fierce, as if it’s just discovered someone has pinched its bag of oats). Over the other breast are the coach’s initials. Until Sunday it hadn’t really been cold enough to wear the fleece-lined jacket but with Sunday’s weather biting and squalling I slipped into it and suddenly, perhaps for the first time in my career, looked like a Proper Coach. The initials on my coat, PC, really bore this out. Of course, as the Bras would probably tell you, looks can be deceiving.

I’d say the same thing about Alphington Park Oval. Flanked by trees, pretty homes and a quaint grandstand it appeared on first sight rather lovely and, despite all the recent rain, green and mud free. On closer inspection, however, it was more akin to a heavily grazed paddock, made up not so much of a blanket of grass but bristly clumps of the stuff. The Socceroos have been complaining about the quality of their training pitch in South Africa. They need to play on corrugated grounds like Alphington Park Oval (and muddy, grass-free Sumner Park, for that matter) to gain some perspective.

That said, the Bras and I awaited kickoff less concerned with the surface than the sewage smell riding the breeze. At first we figured it was just Sue’s socks and boots, which she washes every leap year (though I believe she missed the last one). But even when Sue was off chasing rabbits or something over the far side of the oval the smell was as strong as ever. A burst sewage pipe in the vicinity, perhaps. Oh for some Vicks to rub on the upper lip like a TV coroner who’s just been brought a ripe one.

If you’d suspect such a field coupled with such an unnerving smell would not be conducive to the beautiful game you’d be right. In fact, to be perfectly frank, our match against the Yarra Jets was not even passably attractive, even when you had to squint into the fast dropping sun. You’ve all read Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, right? Well, it was as if the referee started the game by blowing his whistle and screaming ‘Let the wild rumpus start!’ Then again, notwithstanding the bumps and knocks and wild whooshes of our game, perhaps this analogy isn’t quite right, for the wild rumpus of Sendak’s book was at least fun. The closest our game came to fun were the moments of seeming slapstick. Watching it all unfurl I felt powerless (clueless?) to stop it. I told myself that this was the kind of game that, like a fire in a tyre yard, had to burn itself out and nothing I could say or do would change that.

I suppose it’s a measure of how far we Bras have come that I can nitpick and moan over such a match, particularly since we always looked like winning, even before Emily notched up a first half hat-trick. But we’ve played some marvellous matches over the years —matches we’ve won, matches we’ve lost— so we know what we’re capable of when we get things right and this wasn’t it. Certainly there were good performances (Jo excelled on the left) and moments of class (Em’s first time shot and goal from KP’s perfect corner comes to mind) but on Sunday these only served to remind us what we were missing the rest of the time. Not long after Emily added her fourth and KP chipped in with a composed fifth, Ian remarked, upon seeing a goalmouth melee that resembled starving seagulls fighting over a lone hot chip, that it was time the referee put the game out of its misery.

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘it’s bloody freezing now. It’s as if the temperature has dropped five degrees since kickoff. You feel it?’

‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a new coat.’

The PC on the right breast may well stand for Possibly Clueless, but I knew one thing. I was as warm as toast.

[Result: 5-0 win. Goals: Emily, 4, KP]

NEXT MATCH: Sunday June 20, v Melbourne Knights, Sumner Park, 11am

POST SCRIPT: Sidelined Bra Jane was due to give birth about now. But, true to form, Jane, known for her speed, got the job done early. Two weeks ago, in fact. Jane and Andrew have given their snowy-haired daughter Esme a little sister, Greta. The ranks of future Bras are growing by the year. Congratulations Jane and Andrew.
In other pleasing baby news, Bridget’s sister Joanne gave birth to a daughter Juliet on Saturday. Less concerned with Bridget’s erratic arm movements than we are, Joanne and Jean allowed Bridget into the delivery suite. But all went well and Bridget, though wide-eyed, kept her shit together and was a great support to Juliet. Now Socceroo-devotee Bridget travels to South Africa on Wednesday on Cloud Nine. Huzzah!