Grid Iron Addiction

So by now we all know of my weakness for trashy teenage dramas. (Of the television kind - I'm not in the least bit interested in the soap operas of the small people of The Boy Factory.) But my track record of being smitten with trashy TV is pretty well recorded. Gossip Girl. The OC. Glee. One Tree Hill. These are the machinations of the microcosms of society, through the lens of those burgeoning humans about to burst through the threshold into the world.

Or maybe that is over thinking it.

My latest true TV love is Friday Night Lights. I'd heard Good Things. From the kind of people who share a similar taste in glittering trashy tv as me.

And Good Things it is.

Even if you don't care for Grid Iron (and I really don't. I mean, what kind of a game takes so many hours to play, for so little game time? What kind of game has a separate offensive and defensive sects of the team?! What kind of a contact sport requires THAT much padding and headgear??!?) this show is LOTS of Good Things.

The titular lights of the Friday evening refer to the floodlights of the Panthers football stadium in the small football obsessed Texas town of Dillon. A small town school that is uber obsessed by football? Has the Boy Factory been transplanted to the US? I swear some of my life has been transformed to Texan teleplay somehow.

The story lines really resonate. Staff politics of a school. The Jocks and their privileged role in the school. Budgeting and the prioritising of sport over all else (one sport in particular.) Small town gossip mills. Those awkward mother-daughter sex conversations. This show is so well written, it stings a little bit.

The whole style of the show is pretty gritty. The breathtaking performances from the cast are largely improvised, one take with 3 cameras. It makes all the character interactions uber realistic. Talking over the top of each other, interrupting each other, the kind of pregnant pauses that pepper real life conversations. The camera operators chase the actors, rather than the actors finding their mark and delivering to camera. This all gives a real doco style to the show. Framings are usually skewed, focus is loose and the grainy stock gives a hint of the voyuer. There is a comfort in the score. Snuffy Walden's theme song drums somewhere between The West Wing & Studio 60.

And given that I have knocked over 3 seasons in 5 days (being knocked flat by stabbing sinus pain can sometimes result in Good Things), I am somewhat bewildered that I hadn't sunk myself into the brilliance before. Just watching the performances, and the characters is like wrapping yourself in a doona on my pride and joy comfy couch.

The central character, Coach Eric Taylor, is that kind of gallant, proud and hospitable Texas man that my US travelled friends tell me is a real thing. Kyle Chandler who plays him shows a parade of hidden emotions. He's come a long way since Early Edition... His wife Tami (Connie Britton) has THE BEST HAIR ON TELEVISION. I am suffering from some serious hair envy. I'm also pretty jealous of the way she has with students. As counsellor, she always knows the right things to say, the right comforting or motivating words- the kind that I am always looking for in my daily life. Jason Street & Lyla Garrity (Scott Porter & Minka Kelly) start out as the picture perfect quarterback/cheerleader couple. He is charming and chiseled. She is cute as a button, and is almost certain to play Rose Byrne's sister one day. But I do hope she is kicking herself for being involved in the horrid tv remake of Charlie's Angels (What? Axed already? Colour me shocked!)

But the character I am truly besotted with, the dude that just might have made it into my favorite TV characters ever (hmm, there is an idea for a post...!) is Tim Riggins. I can't even really think of him as a real person actor type human Taylor Kitsch. This dude is like the white trash seven dwarves all rolled into one being. Broody, Pouty, Boozy, Punchy, Sexy, Smirky and Occasionally Deep. Ridiculously good looking. Brilliant hair. A smile that could calm me down in the middle of 5th period Year 9. He is an utterly watchable rogue.



Phwoar!!!!

 At first I felt a little bit icky about being so pervy on a teenage character, given my daily dealings at The Boy Factory. But then I remembered that he wouldn't have been PLAYED by a smelly teenage boy - and it turns out he is only a year younger than me! (Thanks imdb.com for being so fantastic at alleviating Dragon 'Are You Old Enough' style guilt!!) And then I realised that he actually looks a great deal like my very own teenage pouty crush, River Phoenix. And then I realised that he played Gambit  in X-Men: First Class - my third favourite character EVER from the cartoons. Now I think I might very well hold my breath until they make an X-Men film focused entirely on Gambit. With Riggins back in the role.
Having my own life mirrored in Texan drawl is surreal and arresting. This show might sneak about like trashy teen drama, but it is gutsy and funny and highly addictive.

Post Scripts:
So after I wrote this entry, I have found/figured out some other bits of info...
The acronym FNL is an anagram of NFL!! Too word nerdy? Oh. Sorry.
ABC2 (for Aussie readers) is playing FNL on Friday nights!!! Fitting, yes??

Childhood Home. Or My Life as a Belonging Text Part II

The first home I can remember was in Manly. Well, Fairlight to be more precise. And returning to it today was a true assault to the memory. The Corso smells the same. The Esplanade has the same wind whipped sensation. The bus stop mirrors the past perfectly, I could almost see my friends huddled in wait for a late night bus, after we had played a sweaty, smoky game of laser tag, and eaten our own body weight in Royal Copenhagen ice-cream.

And to make matters even more comfortable, the whole place is draped in maroon and white, anticipating a great Sea Eagles victory on Grand Final Day this Sunday. I spend a fair bit of my life at The Boy Factory, and in various watering holes across QLD & NSW defending my love of the Manly Warringah Sea Eagles. There are not many of us out there that are true believers in the Silver Tails. As HG Nelson said "Everybody hates Manly. Except a few people who grew up in the Brookvale area."

But I love them. And most of the people I went to school with love them too.

My first proper boyfriend busted out the smooth moves at Brookvale Oval. Or perhaps I played the damsel-in-distress My Hands Are Cold card... Anyway, we ended up holding hands. I didn't mind much that Cronulla beat us that night. I was too busy swooning.

Brookvale Oval was a very great place for a date in the following years. Cheap, seeing as Dad snuck me a $4 entry players card from when he was coaching the school team. And demonstrating me to be the kind of chick that likes football, that isn't afraid to sit on a hill, that doesn't need the cliche girly treatment.

I understand the hatred from the other clubs. I understand the perception of the Silvertails from the fancypants Northern Beaches, in the working class game of Rugby League. Incidentally, the docoThe Fibros and The Silvertails is a brilliant film for looking at sports, journalism and identity with junior students. Works wonders with Year 8. But I digress...

Last night, my friend Jase used my love of Manly as a kickstarter for conversation at the pub. The aghast looks I received I found laughable. I was with a hard core St George supporter, a Souths player and a Queenslander. Not much support for Sea Eagles there.



So after swanning about with the lahdidah set in the city's east, I now feel a little more at home. Seeing palm trees wound with my team colours, and the wings of a spread eagle snapping on flags atop awnings and car rooves is comforting beyond belief.

"This Week". Or "Bad Poetry that is Not Well Thought Out". Or "I'm Tired."

Radio silence again.

Here is why.

Monday.
4 periods.
90 min staff meeting of being told what a shit job we're doing.
2 hours of report writing.

Tuesday.
6 hours of school.
45 minute welfare meeting.
2 hours rehearsal for closely pending play.
1 hour report writing.
Basketball.

Wednesday.
6 hours again.
4 periods again.
Piecing together emotional boys and refereeing minor conflicts.
2 hours rehearsal for closer pending play.
2 hours reports.

Thursday.
6 hours school.
Cancelled soccer training - one hour of Me time to chase the B Team before their player numbers increase.
3 hours duty.
2 hours report writing.

Friday.
4 hours of class.
2 hours of soccer training, but not my team.
1 hour of game, U14s vs the Privos from Up The Hill.
5 hours of watching/supervising football in various codes.

On morning TV
A giggly blonde woman said
That if you work more than 11 hours a day,
you are 64% more likely to have a heart attack.

Bring on Europe!

Return to the field. Or How my body is beginning to betray me

This here digi-tome has mentioned my efforts at coaching. I took the Mighty U13s to third 2 years ago, and last year the same boys (or mostly) went down 1-0 in the GF. This year I have taken on another squad of Mighty U13s, a new assistant supercoach and a different set of strengths and weaknesses. So far so good, one win, one loss, one draw. The team hasn't really played to its potential yet, but I have faith that they will finish the season strongly.

But even more importantly than my sideline encouragements and masterminding puppetry of young footballers is my own return to the park.

Moving back to West Bubblefuck four years ago, I was devastated to learn that there was no women's football competition. I think the words I actually spake (I'm teaching Shakespeare at the moment, and it is affecting my vocab) were "What kind of a backwards town am I living in?!" At the end of each game of coaching for the last two years I have ended up bubbling with unspent adrenaline, and each week I made a small curse (silently or otherwise) that there was no comp I could play in to spend the pent up energy. Sure, I could play with the blokes, but my serious lack of fitness kind of embarrassed me out of that.

This year, the West Bubblefuck District Football Association has finally got a 6 a side comp off the ground. Just.

In the last two months I have been palpable in my desperation to find players. I emailed parents, I mentioned it in almost every conversation "Do you know anyone that might be interested in playing women's soccer?" West Bubblefuck has a really great culture of sport - a thriving netball comp, a really successful basketball comp, hockey, tennis, austag AND touch, indoor mixed soccer, cricket and netball... West Bubblefuck women play a number of sports, and tend to keep playing them until their bodies betray them. As mine may well currently be doing.

Yes I have been getting my competitive kicks with the Flames on the baskeball court for a little over a year. But this has led to various joints of mine deciding they will no longer operate at 100%.

Betrayal.

But I have loved the round ball game dearly for over 15 years, and it is where  my sporting heart truly lies. Despite the fact that Sparky despises the game in an unworldly kind of way. So when I managed to get 7 ladies together, I contacted a club and poached a few more players, helped to coordinate a SECOND team and became a part of a women's football comp in my backwards town.

But then of course, not everyone could make it this week.

I showed up with 3 other girls, hoping desperately for some juniors to help us out. We found one. And then sneakily poached one of the keepers from our opposition.

Since I dinged my shoulder a month ago, I haven't graced the basketball court. I haven't been to body balance, or to the gym at all. I may have walked the dog a few times, but nothing that was really strenuous. Within three minutes of kick off, I was scraping the bottom of my lungs for breath. Turns out, a complete lack of exercise leads to a seriously diminished fitness. Who knew?

Betrayal.

I was delighted to be playing a shortened game. 30 minute halves instead of 45. Six a side instead of 11. Half field. As it was, I was wheezing and doing so much field walking that if I was COACHING me, I would have given myself a total blast at half time. Imagine if I had played the real mccoy? At the end of the hour, I was already aching. My stupid basketballed ankle was moaning, my niggly basketballed shoulder was whining (from the throw ins).

Betrayal.

As I limped to my car, my calves started to seize, and the burn set in to my quads.

Betrayal.

Delayed onset muscle soreness - which the professionals call DOMS, but I like to call Second Day Syndrome - will ensure that tomorrow I will be tight and achy. And even worse on Monday I will find it difficult to walk.

Betrayal once more.
But despite the fact that my body is kicking me back, and despite the fact that my team went down 6-0, and despite the fact that half a dozen dudes from The Boy Factory sat on the side line as a witness to my defeat (against the team in black and white, and against my body) setting my humliation up for further discussion over the course of the week, I had such a brilliant time.

I just hope I can get my body to work with me a little better next week. The South West Bubblefuck Womens Green Machine has started its epic journey and I hope it is long and fruitful and rich in great football.

Supercoach: The Road to The Finals

As I have bemoaned before, The Mighty U14s haven't really been up to scratch since Round 1. The first game we played reflected the pre-season training. Trust. Passing. Space. Talk. The 4 cornerstones of my coaching rants.

This week was do or die. And other such sporting cliches. After 2 weeks of nursing injuries (a fight with a bathroom sink for the skipper, a fractured footbone for the right back) and illnesses, thanks to The Boy Factory Plague, and wet weather and exams affecting our training schedule,  we have been receiving results that reflected our complete lack of fitness and confidence.

And with The Green Machine trouncing us 2 weeks in a row, they have been nipping at our heels, closing our healthy gap of 9 points down to 1 point. With West Bubblefuck Football Association (rant about them to be found here) have canned the usual semi-finals season, due to so many wet weather weekends, a second place finish is essential.

So this weekend we faced Top of The Table. We have been comprehensively beaten by them before. We've also given them a touch up once, and then drawn in another game. One might say - specifically, my striker - we're pretty evenly matched.

Coming in to the match, there were nerves. A few golden rev up speeches by myself and my sidekick-supercoach.

For 80% of the game, they played like warriors. Focused. Energetic. With sharing and talking and teamwork. There was a moment in time that I turned to my sidekick and said "They're asleep. They've switched off." And within 20 seconds, Top of The Table had scored the softest goal I have ever seen. The backline were caught napping, and a not-that-hard ball was put through past the too-far-forward keeper. It barely rolled against the upright before dribbling across the line. My boys had their heads down, and at half time, we were down 1-0. At one point, I actually saw stars. A little too much shouting, and not quite enough inhaling.

More rev up speeches about intensity at half time. Sidekick got a little loose with some profanities, and lied to say that The Green Machine were up 1-0 in the game on the other side of the park, in an attempt to put some fire in their bellies. The striker tried to have a gripe about the sloppy defence, which may have been warranted. But I hit back with the instruction that the front line needed to share with each other more.

Onto the field again, a little more hungry for the ball. A soft call of being pushed over at the top of the box led to a beautiful penalty that was near impossible to save. And then we're down 2-0.

But as if from nowhere, desperation became hunger, which was converted into 2 quick goals.

2-2 at the whistle!!!

And The Green Machine drew with Bottom of the Ladder!!

At this stage, we're in the final. Sure there is the small matter that we have played 3 games less than all the other teams in the comp, but I really don't see how that can be recitified by next Saturday. Just like Mr Shue in Glee, I feel like I have pushed my team all the way to Regionals. Except we're not going to do a Journey medley.

Supercoach Strikes!

Previously on TMM, I have proclaimed my desire for coaching success. Living up to the self-given moniker of Supercoach has been somewhat eluding me this year. Despite a tea,mlist that on  paper looks tighter and more skilled than last year, the Mighty U14s were not really living up to their name either.

The West Bubblefuck Soccer Fraternity have also been conspiring against me, penalising me three points for fielding an unregistered player. Named Connor McKillop. Who the hell is Connor McKillop, you may ask...? As do I. I have never met nor heard of anyone of this name. Let alone written his name on my team card. And I said as much to the President of the West Bubblefuck Soccer Association, in an email. Funny thing when the Pres is running for election as a local member, seems very willing to be of prompt assistance in such matters. And three points were reinstated. Victory tasted pretty sweet.

And then today...

There is a fair amount of daylight between us and first place. And not a a whole lot of room behind us to third. So playing #1 today was going to be a pretty big deal.

The Supercoach pre-game speech was about confidence. About not worrying about what we DON'T have today. A striker away at City To Surf. A star midfielder not shown up at all - only to turn up three minutes before kick off with a raging case of tonsillitis. A sweeper wearing borrowed boots because he left them on the bench at home (honestly, who does that??!?). But rather, thinking about what we DO have. Good teamwork, high skill and pace. Rep quality players. Last time we played top of the table, we choked. Sure, we didn't lose (score 1-1) but the boys (and girls) in maroon had only 9 players on the park. I reminded the M.U14s that we play best when we think we can win.

The first 25 minutes, they played with mighty effort. They moved the ball around, they called, they passed, they peppered the goal. But in the last 5 minutes, they began to think that their efforts were wasted. They stood flat on their heels, waited too long to receive passes, too many touches before getting the ball away. It was infuriating to see.

Half time was a blessed relief, as the Nemesis Team began their counter attack. My Supercoach sidekick took the reins in the half-time speech. All about increasing the energy in the centres, and lifting the midfield. I spoke about intensity and energy and hunger. The boys had some more specific things to say about using some more physicality in the tackles and setting up through balls.

My boys in green and gold started the second half valiantly. Weight in their toes, lots of communication. Great passing, good trust.

And a very tidy little goal about midway through the second half.

They didn't suffer their usual over-confident counter-attack after their goal this week. They kept tight, kept together, kept the intensity. One striker rolled his ankle right in front of their goal. My sweeper got his calf kicked, right behind his enormous shin pads.

But my rookie defensive midfielder made his very first non-foul free throw. And my never-played-a-team-sport-before everywhere man put some beautiful passes through, with some accuracy and power. The superskilled trusted the kids with less experience. They talked and ran and dived and tackled and the keeper did some beautiful saves.

I came home a Supercoach. I have had this warm feeling in my belly, that only beating the top of the table can give.

And is if by some divine intervention by the deities of Disney, or some fantastical coincidence, D2: Mighty Ducks is on Channel 7 this afternoon. Coach Gordon Bombay, such an inspiration!

The quest for an 'S' on my chest

Amidst the Football Fever that has taken over the world (not just the town, or the state, or the country... as OTHER football fevers (note:lower case) have done before), the Mighty U14s took to the park today for the first time in a month. And while I have enjoyed my Saturday mornings to myself, I have missed them playing. Have missed barking instructions from a sideline, and have missed getting to the end of a fairly fruitless hour, full of adrenaline and frustration.

Unfortunately, there are only 4 teams in our division this year. Which means there is only 3 weeks in each round, and we revisit the same faces quite frequently. Again, contributing to the frustration.

And when one of my midfield rep-player stars has a heel injury that we are waiting to heal (that would be the 5th time I have made that lame joke... but the first time I have made that one), and when my stopper injured his back last night at rugby, and my sweeper's thumb is being "gay" (I am interpreting this as "not straight", for fear of launching in to another lecture), and one of my strikers got belted square in the eye by a now suspended Year 10 thug... We weren't fielding a team running at full strength. And ended up drawing 2-2, when on paper we really should have run away with it.

Interestingly, both teams seem to have been watching plenty of SBS. So much diving and tumbling, and even a little bit of too-far-up-the-field offside-traps reminiscent of Lucas Neill. An ex-Mighty U13 player even got a yellow card. Good to see the boys are as inspired as I am by the World Cup.

Last year, we started weak, and the Mighty U13s built and grew over the season to finish 3rd on the ladder. This year, we started really strong. Our first cut was the deepest. And since then, we have hardly scratched the surface.

I quite like to refer to my sidekick and myself as Supercoaches. But I fear this title is not deserved at this stage...

Round Ball Fever

The Boy Factory is not usually a hospitible place for The World Game. The round ball has been booted for many more centuries than that weird egg shaped one. There are millions more players of soccer, billions more viewers and supporters. There is more money in the salaries and sponsorships than any other sport (though golf has the biggest prize money). And the World Cup Finals are the Biggest Sporting Event in the world.

And I love it.

Last World Cup, with Guus, and Viduka, and the new A League, Australia was on a football upswing. Things were good. Unreasonably good, really. We were punching well above our weight and made it through some very lucky games. I have hope, and I have belief in the Socceroos, but I would never profess to having a depth of confidence in them. I mean we got really lucky, but we are really not a footballing nation. Rugby? Yes. League? One of the few. AFL? The only (though Gaellic is similar...). Cricket? Carve it up. Speed skating...? Well, our Socceroos are a little like Steve Bradbury.

George Negus, self confessed football tragic, describes us as a bit like a third world country when it comes to development in football. As our focus is split between codes and sports, our athletic talents are divided and conquered. Hence the long times between trips to the World Cup Finals waterhole.

The Socceroos tragic opening this year was very tricky to watch. What with the sandpaper lining my eyelids at 4am, it wasn't just the emotional impact of watching the boys in blue (and NOT green and gold???!?!? What is WITH that??!?!?) impale themselves on their own mediocrity. Germany really are a superb team. With their crisp white uniforms (a little too white, perhaps?) and brilliant ball skills. And a vast depth of experience playing as a team.

I was bitterly disappointed in the way that Lucas Neill's boys played. There was no trust. There was no passing. There was great gaping corridors opening up in the back line. I was almost surprised the Aussies weren't laying down strip lighting so the Germans could see their way towards the goal a little better. There were so so many failed offside traps. There was so much backchat to the ref.

And then there was the ref dishing out cards to all and sundry for the minorest of taps and slides. Timmy Cahill was sent packing on a red for a nothing tackle based more on momentum than malice. The tiny ex-Samoan really holds the hopes of the nation on his fairly low-to-the-ground shoulders (hey! look at the judgement from the tall girl!!.... he is probably about my height...) and with the red, Cahill was promised a few extra days holiday.

And of course there is the coach blame. Verbeek actually didn't field a striker til about 3/4 the way through. Cahill was playing up front, but he is a midfielder...? There was no towering Josh Kennedy... and Kewell (also a midfielder) was decidedly noticable in his absence from the field.

The Mighty Under 14s have the benefit of my watchful yet inexperienced coaching eye each Saturday morning. They hear my ladylike bellow from the sideline; encouraging, cajoling, instructing. Dramatically falling over when breakaways miss the goal mouth. Biting my fist when the ball sneaks behind our backline. And each week we talk about trust. We talk about passing. We talk about filling the gaps, about letting each other run out, about picking up the slack behind each other. They still need me to talk about the importance of shooting - you can't score if you don't shoot (the same advice applies for chasing tail, too).

On Saturday morning, if my boys play like the Socceroos did, they will be seriously punished at training next week.

Whip It: Good

Drew Barrymore is a little bit like ordering at the West Bubblefuck Thai take-away. Sometimes it is really good - flavoursome, succulent, noodles cooked to perfection, just the right amount of spice. Othertimes it is decidedly average - like when they put too much of that weird red sauce in the pad thai, or when they use too much oil in the chicken cashew.


Sometimes Mz Barrymore is spot on. Fifty First Dates and The Perfect Catch (or Fever Pitch if you want to be all American-remake-that-doesn't-acknowledge-the-Nick-Hornby/Colin-Firth-original about it) for example.


Other times she is very much NOT on the money. Never Been Kissed and Ever After for example.


I do love the fact that she has overcome that whole alcoholic at age 4 or something rediculous, and growing-up-in-the-paparazzi-eye to become a film producer with her own (very cheesily named) production company Flower Films. She has gone "I've got some money. I've put up with some shit in my life. I'm going to do something with it." Kudos to you, Drew.


But it was with a raised eyebrow that I learned of her directorial debut; Whip It.



Then David and Margaret pretty much gave it a luke warm review, and I wasn't sold at all. In fact I thought I would give it a miss. Even though it has the very adorable Ellen Page in it. And even though the subject is roller derby - something that has always fascinated me.


But then I did a movie marathon with my bro (Monday and Tuesday!) and we saw the preview. And it looked *AWSOME!* (you really need to sing that in a high pitched voice to get the full effect of the sentence). And so on Wednesday, we went.


And it was good. (And ever since then, I have had Devo's "Whip It" in my head)


Sure it might have been the fact that I was just in the mood for some silliness of a predictable sports film. And possibly it might have been the fact that the treat of 3 dates with my bro in a row was a treat I couldn't help but be delighted with. And the fact that I was hyped up on sugar and post-gym endorphins also probably assisted my jubilance. But I loved it!!


The plot is pretty much based on the same old sports film structure. In fact, change a culture, and a sport, and this could be Bend it like Beckham on skates. Fights with mother, lies and sneaking around, gorgeous skinny boys in the love story sub-plot (and seriously, Landon Pigg is a dead ringer for the delectable Jonathan Rhys Myers).


Ellen Page was indeed adorable. She is an entirely believable actress, especially with the coming-of-age genre. And Alia Shawkat (Maibe Funke in Arrested Development) as the best friend was so hot. And fabulously obsessed with cute boys.


As soon as the opening credits started, I leaned over to my bro and said "This is going to be a killer sound track", and I was not disappointed. Heaps of indie gold, a bit of old school rock... Of course, no outlet in West Bubblefuck will stock it, so I'll have to order online and wait a few days.


And then there was the skating. I have been a little obsessed with all things 1950s design for a while now. Give me a full skirt, or a cherry motif, a cinched waste or a high ponytail and you can pretty much bet that I'm in. Roller derby has the blunt fringes, the fishnets and the frilly knickers thing poached from 50s design. But it is also a contact sport for girls. Which my mother reckons is just soft porn. But I think is pretty awesome. Plus there is the whole tough-names-with-puns thing. And we know what a sucker I am for puns. Bloody Holly, Smashley Simpson, Babe Ruthless... The derby scenes were pretty haphazard (Margaret complained that she couldn't keep up with the action - I just reckon she isn't sports-brain-wired) but so much fun. And I could only see ONE stunt stand-in in the credits (and that was for Barrymore, possibly because she was a bit busy, you know, directing and stuff). I laughed so hard when the Hurl Scouts (the team we were meant to be cheering) got floored by the Flight Attendants (coached by none other than Har Mar Superstar).


I've played one game of hilarious rugby in my life. I used to play basketball (which could get pretty rough) and I plan on playing soccer again next year (even though West Bubblefuck doesn't have women's comp!!!! Seriously, how backwards is that??!?). I'm not averse to some push and shove, and I do love showing off a haematoma. So all in all, I kind of want to play. Not only because it looks like a mega amount of fun. But also because I know it would annoy my mother...?

If only I could skate.

(Apologies for the apparent addiction to parentheses in this post. Possiblity of too much caffiene causing my brain to work tangentally)

Supercoach Out. For now...

The innaugural season as Supercoach is over. The Mighty U13s did an amazing job this year of turning from 14 kids who didn't know each other to a force to be reckoned with in the U13s West Bubblefuck District Soccer competition.

The highlight of this winter really was working with these boys. Oh, and that weekend that Erin came to stay was a highlight too... But really these boys were brilliant to work with. We went from 5th to 3rd in the comp in the last round. We won a game 10-0. We reduced our margins of defeat against the top teams, and fought successfully against the middle order. I lost my voice at least half a dozen times. The boys learned to share, developed a hatred of the hill sprints and worked their way to playing some beautiful football. And the concept of 150% has entered the U13s lexicon.

I'm hoping I get most of them back again next year - though I will probably lose my Supercoach Sidekick (don't tell him I called him that - I don't think he'd like it). The Mighty U14s could take over the world.

The World Game

I love sport. For some reason, I got all the sport loving genes, and my little bro got none. At all.

I love to watch sport, to play sport (but only with a round ball), to talk shit about sport (and attempt to keep up with the sport-shit-talking athletes that are my friends).

And while I think that Australia, and more specifically The Boy Factory, puts too much credence on Sport in general, I do think it is important. It is a pretty amazing feature of our culture. A unifying force in a community. Sport has the ability to create a sense of Belonging (there's that word again...), a sense of family, a sense of common purpose. And yes, it is a crutch that we as a young nation lean upon too heavily to define ourselves. And yes, there are many other facets of our culture and our community that deserve as much or more airplay than sport does.

But I still love it.

And the game I think I love the most, is the Real Football. The one you play with your feet. The World Game. Soccer.

I was once a Sweeper for the Avalon Open Womens seconds team (and later played this for Baxter College girlies). I have never had a huge amount of pace, or ball skill. But I like to think I made up for this in determination to defend - which I can't seem to summon in attack (turns out I work better under conditions of desperation) - and my ample voice - and ability to boss people around.

One of The Most Disappointing things about moving Back To West Bubblefuck is the fact that there is NO women's soccer comp. And while I always talk about West Bubblefuck being a backward hick town (as, indeed, I am right now), I actually think it is big enough to support at least one division of women's football. (Yes, there is a mixed indoor comp, which reminds me I should try to reconnect with that...).

And in order to get a fix of football in my life, I am the Proud Coach of the Mighty Under 13s, who are actually not doing all that badly considering they haven't played together very long, and they don't play as a team until about half way through the second half. I love my boys, and I love prowling the side line on a sunny winter's day, belowing instructions. Even if it does mean a death to weekends away for duration of the season.

West Bubblefuck, and again, in particular, The Boy Factory, doesn't hold Soccer in the highest of esteem. It is "the pussy sport", "the girly game", "faggot ball". This same level of scorn is only reserved for gAyFL. Not only does it show their small mindedness when it comes to sports of the less ruck-and-maul nature, but it also reveals their less-than-latent sexism and homophobia.

The only other fix is watching the game on tele. And seeing as pay tv is a bit like a dirty word in our house, I can't watch the A League. And bloody Fox poached the World Cup Qualifiers from SBS, thwarting my democratic right to watch my national team play.

They have never been a pretty team to watch. Scrappy and argy-bargy with barely a tenuous hold on the ball everytime it comes their way. But I love them anyway. I missed the Qatar game, mostly because it was after my bed time. And I missed the Bahrain (sp?) one because I was exhausted, it was the middle of Report Hunting Season and our family fleet of cars was so depleted that I couldn't get into town to a pub if I wanted to.

So then we played Japan. The Rivals of the Pacific Rim. And despite the fact that friends to accompany me to the pub are fairly thin on the ground in Tamworth, I was determined to watch it. So I took my dad to the Longyard for an overpriced steak, to sit in front of a flat screen to watch the game.

We were the ONLY ones watching it in the first half. For the first 15 minutes, we couldn't get a picture for more than 2 and a half minutes at a time, interspersed with info screens about faults of smartcards of some bullshit. Faulty Austar smartcards (misnomer, anyone?) would NEVER happen during a Socceroos game. But in backwaters like West Bubblefuck, the chances of watching Your National Team play one of the other biggest teams in Asia (cause we're in Asia, now, didn't you know?) whittle away to zilch. Finally Dad got the ex-student from behind the bar to accost another customer into solving the problem.

And the game was as I expected. Scrappy. Messy. Frustrating. A little bit like watching the Mighty U13s, with the big kicks forward to nobody, and the honeypot bunching. Japan were a better team on the day. Our goals were incredibly lucky, with Timmy Cahill - or as Pim calls him The Phantom, or as my Sidekick Supercoach says "he deserves a lycra suit and a cape and a big S on his chest" - being in the perfect place at the perfect time with the perfect hit.

But then the Japanese goal was similarly lucky.

I went home a happy little soccer fan.

Let's hope tomorrow brings a similarly happy soccer Supercoach!