The shallow depth of support

On Saturday night I stood in Moore Park Road (commercially referred as Allianz Stadium), outnumbered by the opposite sex but equal in passion and excited to be a part of the sold-out derby match. I sang until I thought that my lungs would burst and huddled from the fiery, sparkling and topless Red and Black Block, feeling completely safe and secure in my normal surging froth of the Sydney Sky Blue. I was amongst the 40,387 fans (plus one wizened silver-foxed Mr Frank Lowy sublime in his corporate box) farewelling the incorrigible Pascal Bosschart, celebrating the rivalry, comradeship and exhilarating development of the football in this country.  I track those in form and those in the misery of injury. I wait with bated breath for the team announcement sixty minutes before kick-off, my fingers crossed hopefully.  I am part of the clan, one of the dedicated. I am one of the many and I most importantly am here to stay.

Every fortnight I pass through the green turnstiles with my hard plastic pass cutting excitedly into my hand. I join the lengthy cues at the bar; and then I take up my perch on the concrete ledge of the seats that hold my family in place, who always welcome me into my familiar place. I prepare to ride the rise and fall of the tide as we win, lose or draw; to offer a shoulder to cry on in our despair or an arm to raise high into the air when we triumph. I can tell you, I always feel like I am at home, my husband in one hand and my extended family clenched tightly in the other.

I let the rhythm of my heart beat with the depth and accuracy of our passes across the field. I allow my passion to overflow with every sharp whistle from the referee, for or against it didn’t matter as long as my lungs filled and inharmoniously screeched to join in with the resounding chorus. It’s not perfect but it is loud, reverberating through your television and the stadium; requiring me for days to speak softly, croakily and scratchily as my voice box recovers from 90 minutes (plus a few extra minutes) of intense effort.  What I know is that I am never alone. It doesn’t matter if you are from the Cove, the RBB, the Den, the Squadran, the Marinators, the Glory Shed, the Blue and White Brigade, Yarraside, the Red Terrace or the Yellow Army; we all bleed our colours with the same admirable passion and understanding in the Australian and New Zealand manner. That is whole-heartedly, unforgivingly and until the end of time.

This week as I parted ritualistically from my usual brothers in arms, freely sharing a hug in our commiseration, I was asked a question about what was going wrong with our passion. My passions just fine I thought; it’s red hot like an iron poker in a fire; what the hell are you talking about? Or at least that’s what I was thinking. I then read the comments across the internet platforms, the disappointment that was echoed across page to page about our performance as supporters.

But it dawned on me like the sun rises following a full moon. They were really referring to the moments that I had swept under the carpet, the moments that I had felt utterly embarrassed and ashamed by. The moments that I had tried to wash out from my mind with the next corner or throw in, but was settled as deep into the oceans current like our refuse is. How we forget that it keeps turning up on a shoreline that everyone walks by not wanting to pick it up or dispose of appropriately.

I watched with incomprehension as we fought with each other; words against words until it moved to hand’s on throats to elicit a passion in the newcomers. I felt detached as my sisters and brothers turned on each other so pettily and crudely, so disrespectfully. I watched as the police broke us apart, threatened and swiftly took attendees away in gloved hands. Mediation for peace and a focus on the game instead of each other seemed to further enrage instead of placate. We were all here at some level because we love the game and our team; I thought that was why we all paid our money to be there. Instead selfishness, immaturity and irresponsibility ripped apart this foundation of my belief. I was increasingly worrying about what the second half was going to bring from within the condensed and clustered stand, than how we were going to come back from two-nil  to win. I felt that there was shallowness to the depth of our support. I felt that there was ‘us’ and then ‘you’.

I looked at you as the fanfare of the moment and didn’t try to hide my condescension that you were not truly a part of this football family; that you were not a true supporter. You were blow-ins and fair-weather friends with a large spoon in your hands ready to stir up trouble. Now I can’t sleep because that isn’t what I want to feel nor is it what I went to reflect on for the rest of this weekend, this week, the next derby or the seasons ahead.  Ultimately I am disappointed in myself for my own thoughts; I realise that I had my own shallow depth as a supporter.

This is the division that every football family has felt, that all supporter’s bases have faced from time to time, like teams inevitably feel when they have been let down by their brothers and sisters in arms, when you’re only there for the highs and not the lows. It is a rift that can take seasons to rebuild. Our game doesn’t have time for that.  We shouldn’t have time for it. So I want to move forward right now and encourage all football supporters to drop their artificial barriers and join with me.

From one supporter to another, no matter what your seat number – be it on the couch or in Bay 23, the paper ticket or plastic card in your hand, the number of games you have been to home or away, your age, the colours on your shirt, or the volume or intensity of your voice; we are equal.

I welcome you with my arms held wide and I will share your football dream. I will stand with you, hold your hand or wrap my arm around your shoulders, sway with you, sigh with you, clap with you, sing out of tune with you, cover you in a beer shower,  and let you rest your head on my shoulder. I will listen to your opinions, banter with you, and agree to disagree if we have to. Importantly, I will walk with you from season to season together along the same path until we inevitably reach our own end. Consider this my olive branch with a hope that you might be willing to join me for a better and brighter future as supporters together.

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