Simulation Season

Today, my bare feet were too sensitive to kick the footy back to my son. The grass was a brilliant green after recent rains, and it felt lush and forgiving under my arthritis-riddled foot.

I used to be a great 'player'. Not footy as such, but whatever I needed to be. Batman, Rider from Paw Patrol, once even some sort of project manager. I wasn't the best ever, but I was very good.

Right now, it's much harder. In part because there's more kids now, but mostly it's me.

I've had a fair bit going on this year. Until the start of last year, I was the manager of a Fitzroy pub, long time depresso-anxieto, but was getting through. Ish.

Fast forward twelve months, I've added a couple of new disorders to the portfolio. Labels which have reshaped the way I view my past, and might rearrange my future.

I've left my job, without a good plan, but with enough leave that I can breathe for a bit. I've found enough time to write, if I ignore my children more than I should. And it's helped. For the most part.

But today, my foot was still too sensitive to kick the footy.

I've been telling myself that I'm looking forward to the season starting. Footy, and Collingwood, have long been an escape. A welcome constant in a world that has never fit quite right.

When I was a kid, I used to fill exercise books with handwritten footy and cricket scores. Not real ones. I'd make them up. Goals, best players, runs, balls faced, wickets, sundries. They were all there. And I'd always manage to sneak myself in.

I wasn't the star every match, mind you. That would be ridiculous. As if I was kicking more goals than Sav Rocca, or getting more touches than Nathan Buckley, or scoring more runs than Steve Waugh. Or Mark for that matter.

The number six makes sense to me. I like it. It is a reward befitting the accomplishment. Six points for a goal, six runs for a hoist over the fence. Six goals in a bag, six wickets in a haul.

I loved the stats, and the way they connected and worked with each other to produce a result. The right mix of goals and behinds added up to a magical number, and if your magic number was higher than the other one, then you win. But you don't win forever. You get to enjoy it for one week, then it's time for a new set of scores.

Sport makes sense to me. Footy makes sense.

It's harder to find meaning in a simulated match, like todays game. The Pies played North, and all involved were lucky enough to experience North Ballarat at its finest. There were portable offices and scissor lifts and high vis vests behind the goals.

The wind whistled straight down the ground, and was worth four goals they reckon. That's 24 points. It threatened to wreak havoc with some of the more luxurious hair. Will Hayes, and a North guy who looked a little like 2010 Dale Thomas if he was a De Koning, resorted to the now acceptable headband to keep everything in check.

I wore a headband once. School footy. Playing in the seconds at a school that cared far more about footy than the welfare of most students. I wore it once, and I never did again.

I enjoyed todays game in my now customary Dad spot. On my laptop, sat at a worn wooden table with a cup of Blend 43, while Space Jam 2 entertained those lucky enough to be in the loungeroom. Jordan was better, that was the consensus.

I found myself expecting much more from the Roos than Collingwood today. They've got an exciting collection of footballers, and they've still been crap enough that I'm not annoyed by them winning yet.

It won't be long though. I like watching Sheezel. I admire both his hair, and his ability to just be where the ball is.

I like Xerri. Biggest guy out there, still wears a helmet. He reminds me of the ruckmen of my youth. In fact, I'm pretty sure I spied Damian Monkhorst on the North bench. How apt.

He spent the afternoon in a decent battle with Darcy Cameron. Slightly different styles. Cameron feels more mobile, better around the ground. Xerri leads to clearances, maybe the most important stat there is. In the end, they probably broke even.

Our backline looked small early in the game. Probably partly due to the fact that there was no Moore or Howe, and also the sheer width of Jack Darling. I liked to imagine him in a muscle-off with Isaac Quaynor, with both men being too afraid to win or lose.

Some of the play is sloppy, but they are only simulating. Brayden Maynard goes back with the flight, momentarily forgetting he was only practicing. He'll make a great captain one day, if he has the time left after Darcy goes.

Some other thoughts from today:

I enjoyed watching the kids. Passages of play where Allan gives it off to Parker, with Hayes in support. They'll be good, we just need to be patient.

I like Jack Buller. I like him a lot. He takes a few grabs and inserts his name into my scoresheets. He looks like a footballer.

Josh Daicos is the third best player in his family, but he's the only one out there today. And he's so good at football. He has Nick for protection from the public, and gets to quietly roam half back, hiding in the shadows of brasher players around him, and his brother. He was very good.

My god, Nick would make a difference out there.

Paul Curtis is a very very very good player. His consistency has improved, and if his teammates improve theirs, they'll be alright this year. Maybe better than us. At one stage, he intercepts a Collingwood pass, hands moving like Dyson Daniels. It creates a goal for his friend, but they don't run back to him immediately. That annoys me.

I look forward to Dovaston making me irrationally angry for years to come. He's a walking, ducking, goaling homage to small forwards before him. All equally enthralling and infuriating. Aker, Jarman, Stevie J, Ballantyne, and North's very own Boomer Harvey.

We've had our fair share too. Ginni, Didak, Medhurst, Holland, all the way back to Francis and Rowe and beyond.

Dovaston kicks a few, and we lose a game that doesn't need a result. It has me questioning myself again. I'm the slightest bit annoyed, which again annoys me.

Why do I care? Why is this teenager eliciting more emotion out of me than I'd comfortably admit?

A possible answer sat next to me during the third quarter. One of our boys, 6 years old. A prep. None of my kids have shown signs of my early infatuation, which should relieve me. One of my great fears is passing on my own foibles.

I'd love to share all this with them, like my parents did with me. We sit together, practicing reading the score, working out who is winning and by how much. He gets it right, because of course he does. We share a Whiz Fizz and a moment. Then Space Jam wins out. I don't tell him we lost the game.

After the pretend game, they want to go for a kick out the back. But my foot is too sensitive. Why can't I just put some shoes on and do it? I lived for this game when I was younger. Why can't I do this now?

And why do I get so mad at these kids running around on my laptop screen? If I could harness half that energy and redirect into my own family, then maybe I'd be a better parent. Maybe I'd still be going to work instead of psychiatrist appointments.

Maybe none of that matters. Maybe I'm like the young footballers I watched today, adjusting to evolving roles and systems.

Maybe I'm going to be alright after all.

Maybe we all are.

North Melbourne (12x6)+18=90

df

Collingwood (14x6)+5=89