BulldogBelle
23-04-2009, 12:42 AM
This week's Murph article...
A down-to-earth return (http://www.theage.com.au/news/rfnews/a-downtoearth-return/2009/04/22/1240079730143.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1)
The Age
Robert Murphy | April 23, 2009
THE last thing I wanted was to come off looking a bit like Geoff Hayward in The Club. You know, the big-head who floats in with a, "G'day fellas, I'm just here for a week to show 'em my knee's OK. I'll have a stroll around for an hour or so and be back in the big league in no time".
I couldn't shake this thought as I jumped into Frankie for the long trip over the West Gate and out to Williamstown's home ground for training last week. I had nothing to be big-headed about anyway — this knee of mine sent things a bit askew a while back and the chance to have a run anywhere on the weekend came as a huge blessing rather than the downer some might think.
It also gave me time to indulge in a bit of a trip down memory lane, back eight years or so to when a younger, even skinnier me would travel down the highway to turn out for the Bulldogs' reserves at Werribee. So comfortable is the bubble that AFL life wraps us in, I'd completely forgotten that football teams still trained on a Thursday at 5.30pm.
I have nothing but happy memories from my time down at Werribee, and I couldn't help but feel the same excitement for my new adventure at Willy. Something in my marrow told me I'd enjoy things at VFL level, though I was also conscious not to get too comfortable.
I parked the XP, picked up my bag and walked behind the ancient and glorious grandstand, then into the inner sanctum of my new football home for the week. Like a little kid lost on his first day of prep, I was all at sea. The ocean forming a spectacular back-drop probably didn't help; my sea legs felt a bit wobbly.
I'd arrived pretty early to make a good impression on my new teammates, but as I fumbled around in my bag pretending to look for something I cursed myself for not finding the safety in numbers of a few familiar Bulldog players. Best to get on the front foot in this situation, so I made my way around the room shaking hands and introducing myself.
I've never been great with names, and having walked into a group of six or seven fellas, I left with just one name, Scott Welsh (hardly an achievement). I boxed on though, and did my best to meet everyone.
More and more players arrived for training, and some of them looked as though they actually held down jobs during the day — some wore shirts and ties, and more than a few looked like tradies. I love tradies, would have loved to be one but for the small problem of being less than adequate with a light bulb.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was in what seemed like a parallel universe, where things were eerily similar to what I was used to, but also different. A few old-timers handed me my new colours — singlet, shorts, socks, just like Eddie and Noel do for me at the Bulldogs — and groups of blokes who had bonded for months and years shared jokes I wasn't privy to.
Footy clubs are often spruiked as being the same wherever you go, and this is true — to a point. But it's the nuances that make them so interesting. The language and jokes I could hear from my new teammates were foreign to me in a way; I guess you could say I recognised the words, but not the language.
I had three days to fit into the Williamstown Seagulls' culture, and to be frank, I was shitting myself.
I could think of nothing worse than coming back and playing with these guys and having them think I was there purely to serve my own needs. This club has as proud a history as any, and these players have built their own culture and football beliefs over weeks, months and years of hard work.
As training began I was still struggling with plenty of names, but I found solace in the fact that I was at least back on the park and doing what I enjoy most. With the light fading fast, faces that weren't that familiar to begin with became virtually impossible to see, so calling for the ball involved a mixture of generic terms such as "mate", "big fella", "here boss", "yep, yep, yep", and "yeah, short one".
After finishing training with my new mates we trudged into the bowels of the grandstand, and to my great joy there were the old-timers pouring each player a cup of soup! Do I really need to go into detail as to why this is a great part of footy?
By Saturday I was still pretty nervous, but from quarter-time my Seagulls coasted to an easy win. The faces and names were now familiar, and at game's end we stood in a circle and sang our song, just as victors should.
This time it was the words I didn't know, but I knew the language.
A down-to-earth return (http://www.theage.com.au/news/rfnews/a-downtoearth-return/2009/04/22/1240079730143.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1)
The Age
Robert Murphy | April 23, 2009
THE last thing I wanted was to come off looking a bit like Geoff Hayward in The Club. You know, the big-head who floats in with a, "G'day fellas, I'm just here for a week to show 'em my knee's OK. I'll have a stroll around for an hour or so and be back in the big league in no time".
I couldn't shake this thought as I jumped into Frankie for the long trip over the West Gate and out to Williamstown's home ground for training last week. I had nothing to be big-headed about anyway — this knee of mine sent things a bit askew a while back and the chance to have a run anywhere on the weekend came as a huge blessing rather than the downer some might think.
It also gave me time to indulge in a bit of a trip down memory lane, back eight years or so to when a younger, even skinnier me would travel down the highway to turn out for the Bulldogs' reserves at Werribee. So comfortable is the bubble that AFL life wraps us in, I'd completely forgotten that football teams still trained on a Thursday at 5.30pm.
I have nothing but happy memories from my time down at Werribee, and I couldn't help but feel the same excitement for my new adventure at Willy. Something in my marrow told me I'd enjoy things at VFL level, though I was also conscious not to get too comfortable.
I parked the XP, picked up my bag and walked behind the ancient and glorious grandstand, then into the inner sanctum of my new football home for the week. Like a little kid lost on his first day of prep, I was all at sea. The ocean forming a spectacular back-drop probably didn't help; my sea legs felt a bit wobbly.
I'd arrived pretty early to make a good impression on my new teammates, but as I fumbled around in my bag pretending to look for something I cursed myself for not finding the safety in numbers of a few familiar Bulldog players. Best to get on the front foot in this situation, so I made my way around the room shaking hands and introducing myself.
I've never been great with names, and having walked into a group of six or seven fellas, I left with just one name, Scott Welsh (hardly an achievement). I boxed on though, and did my best to meet everyone.
More and more players arrived for training, and some of them looked as though they actually held down jobs during the day — some wore shirts and ties, and more than a few looked like tradies. I love tradies, would have loved to be one but for the small problem of being less than adequate with a light bulb.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was in what seemed like a parallel universe, where things were eerily similar to what I was used to, but also different. A few old-timers handed me my new colours — singlet, shorts, socks, just like Eddie and Noel do for me at the Bulldogs — and groups of blokes who had bonded for months and years shared jokes I wasn't privy to.
Footy clubs are often spruiked as being the same wherever you go, and this is true — to a point. But it's the nuances that make them so interesting. The language and jokes I could hear from my new teammates were foreign to me in a way; I guess you could say I recognised the words, but not the language.
I had three days to fit into the Williamstown Seagulls' culture, and to be frank, I was shitting myself.
I could think of nothing worse than coming back and playing with these guys and having them think I was there purely to serve my own needs. This club has as proud a history as any, and these players have built their own culture and football beliefs over weeks, months and years of hard work.
As training began I was still struggling with plenty of names, but I found solace in the fact that I was at least back on the park and doing what I enjoy most. With the light fading fast, faces that weren't that familiar to begin with became virtually impossible to see, so calling for the ball involved a mixture of generic terms such as "mate", "big fella", "here boss", "yep, yep, yep", and "yeah, short one".
After finishing training with my new mates we trudged into the bowels of the grandstand, and to my great joy there were the old-timers pouring each player a cup of soup! Do I really need to go into detail as to why this is a great part of footy?
By Saturday I was still pretty nervous, but from quarter-time my Seagulls coasted to an easy win. The faces and names were now familiar, and at game's end we stood in a circle and sang our song, just as victors should.
This time it was the words I didn't know, but I knew the language.