Appiah Reflection
It's the first week of September 2017. Melbourne is alive with excitement. Melbourne's little brother, Adelaide, a ten hour drive away, buzzes with their own two-team rivalry. It's four weeks until the AFL Grand Final and the future is filled with possibilities. There are 36 possible combinations for that last week of glory, and everybody holds their breath.
To the outsider, it seems barbaric. Most outside of Australia have never even heard of the Australian Football League, and those who do struggle to comprehend the size of it. Even many people in Australia don't understand it. How can one gain so much joy from a ball being kicked between two big sticks?
Week one comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Just like that, two of the eight teams are eliminated. Essendon and Port Adelaide fans prepare for the long summer ahead. Many of them go through a grieving process, for a year that has been wasted. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. They console each other, writing on Facebook groups and online forums. For six other teams, the excitement remains.
Before you know it, two more teams find themselves facing defeat. West Coast and Sydney fans return to their cities, suffering through long flights or agonizingly slow drives home. They think about what the team could have done better. Where did it all go wrong? The fact is, nobody knows. They thought that they were going to be there on the last day of the footy season.
Then it is preliminary final week. Being there is almost as significant as being at the Grand Final. For some, more so. It's the game of the fans, roaring with a primal passion, before the coveted seats at the Grand Final are sold to the highest bidder. The MCG sees the most one-sided crowd in its history. Ninety-five-thousand people attend the game, ninety-thousand Richmond supporters and less than five-thousand Giants fans. The Tigers win, going to their first Grand Final since 1982. The grandstand above the Punt Road goals literally shakes as the fans jump up and sing their famous song. It's as loud as a boeing 747.
The town of Richmond paints itself in yellow and black. Murals go up on walls, the town hall is lit up in those well-known colours. Bars stick hundreds of post-it notes on their windows, coloured you-know-what. Scarves hang out of windows and banners go up in gardens.
It must seem absurd. How could a game where sweaty men kick a ball around bring so much passion? It's something that can't be explained. Like the grand canyon, you need to experience it for yourself to understand.
Tens of thousands of fans gather on Friday afternoon for the Grand Final parade. Adelaide fans take the day-long drive to Victoria, but they are severely outnumbered by the passion of Victoria. The players realise that this is one of the biggest days of their lives. They might never be here again. It's what they'd dreamt of as a kid.
The hour comes for the biggest event on the Aussie calendar. Barbeques are hosted, pubs are full. Fifty-thousand gather to watch the game live at Punt Road Oval. Ten minutes away, at the MCG, one-hundred-thousand watch in anticipation. History is made on that day. Famous quotes are made to the voice of Bruce McAvaney. "You know what? It's Tiger time."
The heart of Richmond, Swan Street, is blocked all night with celebrating fans. It is a night of passion, of mistakes, of history. The Killers perform and Jack Riewoldt, now a premiership hero, sings "Mr Brightside" with Brandon Flowers. That song will forever bring back memories of this night, for countless Tiger fans. Already those who have gone home are watching it again, shaking their heads in disbelief. It won't sink in for weeks. They've done it. They've won.
They've endured thrashings, coach sackings, being the laughing stock of the nation. But for this night, they are the victors. And there's nothing sweeter than that.
To the outsider, it seems barbaric. Most outside of Australia have never even heard of the Australian Football League, and those who do struggle to comprehend the size of it. Even many people in Australia don't understand it. How can one gain so much joy from a ball being kicked between two big sticks?
Week one comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Just like that, two of the eight teams are eliminated. Essendon and Port Adelaide fans prepare for the long summer ahead. Many of them go through a grieving process, for a year that has been wasted. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. They console each other, writing on Facebook groups and online forums. For six other teams, the excitement remains.
Before you know it, two more teams find themselves facing defeat. West Coast and Sydney fans return to their cities, suffering through long flights or agonizingly slow drives home. They think about what the team could have done better. Where did it all go wrong? The fact is, nobody knows. They thought that they were going to be there on the last day of the footy season.
Then it is preliminary final week. Being there is almost as significant as being at the Grand Final. For some, more so. It's the game of the fans, roaring with a primal passion, before the coveted seats at the Grand Final are sold to the highest bidder. The MCG sees the most one-sided crowd in its history. Ninety-five-thousand people attend the game, ninety-thousand Richmond supporters and less than five-thousand Giants fans. The Tigers win, going to their first Grand Final since 1982. The grandstand above the Punt Road goals literally shakes as the fans jump up and sing their famous song. It's as loud as a boeing 747.
The town of Richmond paints itself in yellow and black. Murals go up on walls, the town hall is lit up in those well-known colours. Bars stick hundreds of post-it notes on their windows, coloured you-know-what. Scarves hang out of windows and banners go up in gardens.
It must seem absurd. How could a game where sweaty men kick a ball around bring so much passion? It's something that can't be explained. Like the grand canyon, you need to experience it for yourself to understand.
Tens of thousands of fans gather on Friday afternoon for the Grand Final parade. Adelaide fans take the day-long drive to Victoria, but they are severely outnumbered by the passion of Victoria. The players realise that this is one of the biggest days of their lives. They might never be here again. It's what they'd dreamt of as a kid.
The hour comes for the biggest event on the Aussie calendar. Barbeques are hosted, pubs are full. Fifty-thousand gather to watch the game live at Punt Road Oval. Ten minutes away, at the MCG, one-hundred-thousand watch in anticipation. History is made on that day. Famous quotes are made to the voice of Bruce McAvaney. "You know what? It's Tiger time."
The heart of Richmond, Swan Street, is blocked all night with celebrating fans. It is a night of passion, of mistakes, of history. The Killers perform and Jack Riewoldt, now a premiership hero, sings "Mr Brightside" with Brandon Flowers. That song will forever bring back memories of this night, for countless Tiger fans. Already those who have gone home are watching it again, shaking their heads in disbelief. It won't sink in for weeks. They've done it. They've won.
They've endured thrashings, coach sackings, being the laughing stock of the nation. But for this night, they are the victors. And there's nothing sweeter than that.
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