This Saturday – three hours of ritual masochism

This is not really the post to return with but there are a number of things weighing on my mind. Some might think it is getting hassled by phone [I don’t answer it] or the Blogger thing or the way someone close backstabbed me recently – nope, it’s none of those. Nor is it the economic situation or the way my particular situation could go pearshaped pretty soon.

No, it’s mainly someone I realize I still haven’t got over, getting married and while officially I’m happy, inside it seems that part of my life is now over and that’s not a pleasant thing. That’s the main downer but there is one other too and that’s nervousness.

Whoever said football’s just a game obviously never supported Geelong Football Club, the team of whom it was said:

Some people are destined never to find happiness in life. For such people, G-d provided the Geelong Football Club.

If ever there was a bunch of frustrating, impossible yet brilliant players who, on their day, can’t be beaten, then this is them.

It’s a mark of the Australian football scene that the grand final rated the greatest was that of Collingwood in 1937, not to mention Richmond in 1967 and Hawthorn in 1989. All of these involved Geelong as the other team – they seem to have a way of lifting a game into a spectacle, even if they don’t win.

Last year they were odds on favourite … and lost.

Now they’re back again this coming Saturday and this time their opponents are the perennial whipping boys, St Kilda, only this season they’ve taken all before them, including Geelong. So, not only is this a lip-licking festa of two very attacking teams with great defences, the two who have dominated all season but there are no losers.

If St Kilda win [and almost the whole football world will be behind them], then it will be like the England World Cup victory. Hell, I don’t even mind if they win. Well, actually I do. If Geelong win, having thrown it away last year, then a few of us will be very happy. This Saturday though, for three frustrating hours, the heart-attacking playing style of my team will be trying to keep out the current champs.

Why do I have to support teams like this or Wimbledon in England? Masochism?

Go, Pussies!