One Game

Witness.

I don't know if it is chance or design, but the teams that I support are, invariably, doomed. As our longtime readers (trans: the five contributors and the Chloe Sevigny enthusiasts) will attest, I am a Knicks fan (W 33 / L 49) . I also support West Ham United (W 12 / D 5 / L 21). At the World Cup, I supported Australia (recap). When they used to show college ball here in Aust, I tuned in for Michigan (sup, Chris). I'm even rather partial to Ms Lohan. Here in the Antipodes, in our unique code of football, I support (or 'barrack', to use the parlance of our times) for Melbourne.

Coming in to today, my Demons had lost the first nine games of the season. We were heading towards the worst season since 1912 and the worst losing streak since the 1980s, or some shit. In the last few weeks, we had come agonisingly close to winning, but with no joy (four of the last five games we'd lost by a goal or less). Today, we were scheduled to play the second place Crows. Things were looking grim, brother.

It's not that I can't cope. I can. Because when you support the teams that I do, the lows are almost expected. What I stick around for is the highs. Because the highs, when they do come, are much, much sweeter.

Today, some how, things seemed to be looking up. The sun was shining over the MCG. The fans were up for it. The boys ran out on the field and looked hungry. From the first bounce, Melbourne played like winners. They came out and crushed Adelaide for three straight quarters and played like the proverbial team possessed. The game had me out of my seat and wailing like some grieving muslim woman who'd lost her kid. It was long overdue manna from the sports gods.

And then it happened, the inevitable collapse came. As the pressure of the possible win kicked in, fear crept into the eyes of the Melbourne players. And Adelaide, like the elite team they are, pounced. They clawed their way back and every Melbourne fan, whether they were at the G or in front of their TV, sat in silence and thought 'fuck, not again' as the lead was chipped away.

Then, with a few pain filled minutes left, our oft-injured skipper David Neitz somehow got the ball 60+ metres out (65 odd yards for you Norks). The smart play would have been to kick the ball in for better position. Instead, Neitz spun the ball in his palms, looked towards the white posts and kicked the ever loving fuck out of the ball.

Goal.

The Crows had been broken. The siren sounded and it was over. Melbourne's drought was finished. I heard our theme song sung for the first time all season. Little kids and old folks alike, screaming at the top of their lungs.

And it was a great fucking feeling.

W 1 / L 9
[Streak - 1 Win]