bornadog
10-05-2012, 02:34 PM
Bob Murphy May 10 2012 (http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/battling-with-inner-voices-on-game-day-20120509-1yd5i.html)
I HEAR voices in my head. And when I say voices, I mean two of them - and that's roughly one too many.
In an Olympic year we might be hearing a lot more about these kind of voices. Whether you're a hurdler, a marathon runner or a footballer, part of the caper of any professional athlete is to wage war against the ''little man on your shoulder''.
I feel like it's the right time to introduce this little man. This column recounts his experience of last Friday - before, during and after our game against Collingwood. As you'll soon see, he's quite the rascal …
Just look at him, a grown man in his lounge room rolling back and forth to stretch his ageing spine. I think he does it just to wind me up. He knows constant movement makes it hard for him to hear me. Why can't he just sit still so we can have a chat? It's not like I don't have empathy for the poor sod - I mean he's been at it a long time now, 13 years or so, and that's bound to have taken it out of him.
We are adversaries for the most part, but I have to dip the hat when I see him like this, deeply focused, in his own world that he likes to call ''football purgatory''.
On game day, this bigger man under my feet sometimes likes to jot things down in a notepad. It's like he thinks that if he puts his thoughts on paper, it will keep me out of the conversation. Just now he's written something about purgatory. It's something to do with how he feels before a game, when he's in this hyper-focused state.
''Football purgatory: it's a bit like snorkelling in the shallows, you're neither submerged in a world of fish, coral and seaweed, nor are you in your more natural state of sun, wind and noise. You're stuck somewhere in the middle, observing the oddness of it all.''
Gee, this bloke waffles a load of old bollocks if you let him. Look out, he's on the move again. He pauses the TV as he gets up to leave. He's so predictable, ol' Lanky, as I like to call him - always watches a movie he's seen a hundred times before a game (this week it's For The Love Of The Game). A new movie, with all its potential twists and turns, would drain too much energy out of his (pea) brain, he reckons.
He bends down to put on his runners and headphones, but we've been doing this dance for so long he knows it's futile to even think the Black Keys can drown me out. As the music starts, we begin our waltz and I ask the first of many questions: ''Hey Lanky, have you thought of all the things that could go wrong tonight?''
I have to give him credit, he's gotten better over the years at keeping me quiet. He's always on the move, ducking and weaving. We arrive at the ground and he's lost in a different world now and it's one of routine. A good routine will drown me out, and he knows it.
The game starts and the speed is blinding. You may not believe me, but when it's time to go to work, we work together. I'll ask him the odd question every now and then, like: ''How much is it worth to you?'' or, ''How much are you willing to burn in the stomach for a win?'' It's for his own good.
The game is tight and as it nears the crescendo, he has the ball in his hands. I start whispering, then talking, then yelling at him.
''Get the ball across to the other side of the ground! I don't care if you go back first or across, long or short - just get it there!''
The dilemma opens up before him as Travis Cloke makes position in between the short option and the long one. His presence puts Lanky in enough doubt, and with jelly legs the kick to the long option doesn't make the whole journey.
Cloke marks it and slots the goal. The game plays out and the Pies run away with it. The noise of 38,000 people is loud, and I'm sure there's more than a couple baying for the blood of my Lanky, but I don't think he hears them.
He can hear me though. And now, slumped on the floor of the change room, it's him who asks me a question: ''Wanna dance?''
I HEAR voices in my head. And when I say voices, I mean two of them - and that's roughly one too many.
In an Olympic year we might be hearing a lot more about these kind of voices. Whether you're a hurdler, a marathon runner or a footballer, part of the caper of any professional athlete is to wage war against the ''little man on your shoulder''.
I feel like it's the right time to introduce this little man. This column recounts his experience of last Friday - before, during and after our game against Collingwood. As you'll soon see, he's quite the rascal …
Just look at him, a grown man in his lounge room rolling back and forth to stretch his ageing spine. I think he does it just to wind me up. He knows constant movement makes it hard for him to hear me. Why can't he just sit still so we can have a chat? It's not like I don't have empathy for the poor sod - I mean he's been at it a long time now, 13 years or so, and that's bound to have taken it out of him.
We are adversaries for the most part, but I have to dip the hat when I see him like this, deeply focused, in his own world that he likes to call ''football purgatory''.
On game day, this bigger man under my feet sometimes likes to jot things down in a notepad. It's like he thinks that if he puts his thoughts on paper, it will keep me out of the conversation. Just now he's written something about purgatory. It's something to do with how he feels before a game, when he's in this hyper-focused state.
''Football purgatory: it's a bit like snorkelling in the shallows, you're neither submerged in a world of fish, coral and seaweed, nor are you in your more natural state of sun, wind and noise. You're stuck somewhere in the middle, observing the oddness of it all.''
Gee, this bloke waffles a load of old bollocks if you let him. Look out, he's on the move again. He pauses the TV as he gets up to leave. He's so predictable, ol' Lanky, as I like to call him - always watches a movie he's seen a hundred times before a game (this week it's For The Love Of The Game). A new movie, with all its potential twists and turns, would drain too much energy out of his (pea) brain, he reckons.
He bends down to put on his runners and headphones, but we've been doing this dance for so long he knows it's futile to even think the Black Keys can drown me out. As the music starts, we begin our waltz and I ask the first of many questions: ''Hey Lanky, have you thought of all the things that could go wrong tonight?''
I have to give him credit, he's gotten better over the years at keeping me quiet. He's always on the move, ducking and weaving. We arrive at the ground and he's lost in a different world now and it's one of routine. A good routine will drown me out, and he knows it.
The game starts and the speed is blinding. You may not believe me, but when it's time to go to work, we work together. I'll ask him the odd question every now and then, like: ''How much is it worth to you?'' or, ''How much are you willing to burn in the stomach for a win?'' It's for his own good.
The game is tight and as it nears the crescendo, he has the ball in his hands. I start whispering, then talking, then yelling at him.
''Get the ball across to the other side of the ground! I don't care if you go back first or across, long or short - just get it there!''
The dilemma opens up before him as Travis Cloke makes position in between the short option and the long one. His presence puts Lanky in enough doubt, and with jelly legs the kick to the long option doesn't make the whole journey.
Cloke marks it and slots the goal. The game plays out and the Pies run away with it. The noise of 38,000 people is loud, and I'm sure there's more than a couple baying for the blood of my Lanky, but I don't think he hears them.
He can hear me though. And now, slumped on the floor of the change room, it's him who asks me a question: ''Wanna dance?''