Attacking By Hand

The strange thing about falling apart is how quickly life requires you to put yourself back together again.  

Collingwood didn't play this week, and it was almost a relief. I didn't watch heaps of footy. Without a Pies game to centre the weekend around, it didn't have the same pull.

Last week we lost. Then came a fairly intense couple of days of inner-capitulation and brain management, followed by a rare late night out with friends. All this was performed with a forced change of habitat looming in the background, as we search for a new home.

In the trenches with a raging multi-day hangover, the football I did attempt to watch was a levelling tonic. Last weekends games didn't live up to the excitement of the first couple of weeks, but there were certainly high points and low points aplenty. It all still felt quicker. Closer. More connected.

Even though they lost, I enjoyed watching the Swans. They are a really fun team. I've spoken about my love for Nick Blakey's game before, and he was at it again. If football was a cartoon, the players would all move like the Lizard. He always brings to mind images of various animals or characters moving at uncontrollable speed. Their torsos are steady but their legs are tornadoing in a circular blur. He's like a human being riding Sonic The Hedgehog.

Perhaps my favourite part of Blakey's game is his relentless recklessness. He probably feels like he has much more control than it looks like, but it doesn't look like much. So often during a game, we are treated to the sight of Blakey with a Sherrin tucked under his arm, burning a trail through the brilliant green grass, concocting a plan as he goes along.

And, often enough, it doesn't work. He might get caught with the ball, or turn it over via foot, and the Swans might get punished. It certainly happened on Thursday night. And then, unperturbed, he dusts himself off, winds himself up, and as soon as the next opportunity comes his way, he does exactly the same thing. He had 23 disposals against the Hawks, about what he usually has, and most of them were spectacular in their own, particular, beautiful way.

The Swans will be alright. No Heeney, no Gulden, early days, they can win the flag.

There were reliable results and disappointing injuries throughout the rest of the weekend. Big wins, and even bigger losses. I have a lot of Essendon supporters in my life. They've given up. It's comical now. They reached the point, long ago, where I no longer feel that some rivalry, that same edge, when I watch the Dons. I pity them. I feel bad for their supporters. It must be exhausting for them.

It's sad to see Petracca and Rozee go down. Christian Petracca in full flight is one of the games great sights. He can dominant games in a way very few can. When he's on, he controls every blade of grass on the field. He grows in stature, as wide as a low-res video game NPC with the influence of an orchestra conductor. It's wonderful to watch.

North lost again. But North lost to West Coast. Now, I am yet to recover properly from the 2018 Grand Final, and will always carry a Dom Sheed size scar on my innards. I haven't felt the same pity for the Eagles as I have the Bombers, and even the Roos. But to watch a full stadium melt into one, emotional, joyous beast was a heart-warming experience.

I struggle sometimes to put myself in the shoes of others. But I understood that feeling perfectly.

There were two things I exited the weekend thinking about most. One, the handball is back, and it's a weapon. I am, as the kids say, here for it. The speed with which teams can attack seems faster, slicker, more pointed, when they move the ball around by hand. A two metre handball unlocks patches of the field that a twenty metre kick never could.

The other lasting memory from this weekend was the time spent with my friends. We don't get to see each other very often. I, especially, am awful at making plans and staying in touch. I have a pathological fear of using my phone as a means for anything other than checking scores and crushing candies. It is genuinely terrifying. I don't want to bother anyone. What if they are busy? What if I'm inconveniencing them?

Most horrifying of all, what if they do want to talk to me? What am I going to say?

It's a bit easier with a larger gathering planned many months in advance. I had prepared, much like a footballer, both mentally and physically. Until the afternoon came, and I was getting ready to go, and I collapsed into an unwarranted panic attack.

Spot fires of itch points broke out across my back. Little prickles, tiny irritants, spiking their way through my pores, are the first signs my nerves are launching an offensive against my body.

My skin contracts around my body. The sections that aren't already burning attempt to latch onto any ridge they can find. The entirety of my insides are drawn towards my outsides. My muscles move however they want, forcing my head to periodically jolt from side to side, and my arms and legs shake and jerk and lash out without my instruction.

I sweat. I sweat so much.

Finally, my heart alternates between racing, and tricking me into thinking it has stopped completely. That's the cruellest part. I'm hyper-stressed, anxiety-riddled, fighting and flighting simultaneously. And then, for a moment every few seconds, my body pretends I'm dead.

It can be quite full on. The first time, many years ago, I went to emergency. I believed the dying bit. I was fooled.

All this time later, and I'm still falling for it. I now know I'm autistic, diagnosed in my early middle ages, amongst all the other things. That explains a bit of it.

This all happened because I was going to see my friends.

I wanted to pull the pin. Sit on the couch and watch the Crows and Dogs and hide from people I've known since I was nine years old.

But I didn't. I went. I spent time with people I love and admire. I'm so proud of my friends. I'm lucky they let me hang around with them.

These days, though, what stands out when we catch up is how much everyone struggles. Everyone has problems, no bigger or smaller than each others. And there's not much to be done about it. It's either totally ingrained into their core, like it is with me, or it's just life. Life is really hard.

Then we drink and we talk and we hug and we laugh. I don't fall into a fit at any point in the evening. My friends ask me questions, and I try to remember to ask them questions. I can get caught up in my own head while conversing with another person, so it's important to plan conversations out. And I want to know that they're OK, and how I can help if they aren't.

We all walk away feeling physically terrible, but spiritually lifted. I guess that's the filling of the cup that people refer to these days. And, in the haze of the day after, it makes me think of the attacking handball.

We spent an evening together, in close proximity, away from the world. We looked to our left and right for support from those closest to us. We didn't rely on a fifty metre bomb towards the boundary.

We worked in formations. We moved left, and right, then as far to the left as we could, as we looked for patches of open grass. We shared the ball, and the load. And, as corny and cliched as I know this sounds, we kicked a few goals. As a team.

Several days later now and life is back. But there will be another chance soon enough. We won't have the bye every week. Soon, we will get to run out into an arena, and we will do it together.

And we will win some and lose some, but as long as we don't support Essendon, we will be alright.