Back in the day, before the game was completely knackered, my family would often travel to Waverley Park to watch games of league football.
I have strong memories of sitting next to my dad on the outer wing. We were a Tigers family, but we often seemed to find ourselves at Collingwood games. Call it “the Daicos effect”.
My imagination was flamed on that outer wing. When players picked the tumbling ball up off the ground on television, they seemed to do it so easily. It looked casual, routine. Watching from a few feet away, witnessing the chaos of the bouncing, egg-shaped ball and the threatening bodies all around, gave me a new appreciation of how skilled and tough the players were.
After the game, wed jump the fence and kick a tattered football to each other. Amidst the madness of a few hundred balls flying around, my imagination would reach for a higher gear. The grass, though cut up in parts from the days play, was like carpet. I could feel its power moving up through my legs; it really felt like it gave you heightened football ability.
Hundreds of kids kicked footballs, dodged footballs, muttered away to themselves about the game that was going on inside their heads. What a time to be a kid.
Peter Daicos in action at Waverley Park, 1990.
Photo: Fairfax Photographic
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After Id had my fill of life as an imaginary league footballer, wed begin the long search for the family station wagon in the car park that stretched out like an ocean of Commodores. It was a journey that required sustenance, and we found it through the hot jam donuts being sold outside the stadiums gates.
Of course, I didnt think it at the time, but the donuts were the taste of optimism. “Maybe I could be a league player one day …”
Fast forward 25 years and I hop out of the car and walk through the gates of Mars Stadium in Ballarat with a media pass dangling around my neck. I gingerly jump the fence onto the ground to take a short cut to the radio commentary box.
Im walking along the boundary line near the interchange where the players will congregate in a couple of hours. My left knee crunches a little with each footfall, a reminder of my years in the game.
I pause for a moment to look out on the ground and remember the last time I was out there. It wasnt long ago – round 21 last year – and it was the game every footballer dreads. Its the match where you know for sure that its passed you by. No one outruns the game. I hung on for one more game after that and then it was over.
Ive had a couple of moments watching games this year, fleeting moments, where Ive thought to myself: “I reckon I could still play.” But I quickly swat those thoughts as I remember walking off the ground in Ballarat in August last year, and I silently chastise myself for being so foolish. As we old footballers like to say about ourselves, I was cooked.
I keep walking, head down, but with a wry smile. Im genuinely content that I dont have to pull the boots on today, or any other day. Life has moved on.
The Dogs are taking on the travelling Suns at their home-away-from-home and Im sitting up on level two, behind the glass, passing judgment on the players of the day. Im into the game, as are the local crowd, but Im not inside the game.
I suppose thats a big part of the craft that's new to me. Youre constantly looking for a way into the game, like a boxer up against a much bigger opponent. You hunch a bit, peering over your gloves, waiting for an opening.
At half-time, I succumb to peer pressure and accept the jam donut thats offered to me. I take a bite, but it tastes different to how I remember. Maybe it conjures nostalgia, or maybe it was just a donut all along. Either way, its still pretty good.
Man on Mars: Josh Dunkley celebrates.
Photo: AAP
The game is by no means a classic, the numbers around the ball for most of the day consistent with the persistent pessimism thats nagging the game. But still, halfway through the last quarter the scores are tight and the crowd is lifting.
What I do know is that every game this year that has come to a close finish, Ive sat on the edge of my seat just like I did when I was 10 years old. Nothing can touch the drama of our game when things tighten up at the end of the fourth quarter.
The Dogs scratch out a nine-point win. As the siren goes, I see a lot of familiar faces smiling and putting arms around one another. My old mob walk slowly off the ground, a few players nursing soreness, the sweet soreness of the victors. What a time to be a footballer.
Like a few retired footballers, Im learning to watch football again this year. Im not that kid kicking a tattered footy after the game at Waverley Park any more, but its heart-warming to see the kids invade the ground for kick-to-kick on Mars, and theres a queue for the donut van too. Footy aint all bad.
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