Footy

Footy is back, and it stirs memories that exist in a sort of magical other place, where nothing mundane may intrude.

Among the gathering was the priest who long ago coached those school teams, a big bloke named Paul Castley. Dodson’s team, and a few that followed, were all but unbeatable. It transfixes those of us who watch, binding us to our champions, drawing us into a sort of rough meditation that sets aside all that bothers us outside the two-and-a-half hours between the first bounce and the final siren. It wasn’t far wrong, for in the late 1960s it was populated by a Cranage, an early Rioli, a Grinter, the Delahuntys and a bit later, a Billy Picken, to name a few who went on to thrill millions and create footy dynasties. We yarned about a few of the names we remembered, footy stripping away the years, and I was visited by the image of a stab pass from the young Dodson, whistling like a missile and with the power to strip the wind clean out of the poor sod required to receive it. But it was Saturday morning and in the swampy centre of undrained grounds there awaited glorious mud to be rolled in, the better for camouflaging our fumbles with the ball when the pressure was on.