I had a relatively smooth transition into daylight savings this year. I think I’ve struck on a successful tactic – conserve all energy the day prior; otherwise called – sit on your backside reading, in between checking in on the score of the AFL Grand Final 2.0.
My team won: go Pies! etc.
Even Keira became an honorary supporter…
…while still pledging her allegiance to the Richmond Tigers.
[“Why Tigers?”
“Because they’re tigers.”]
Later, the NRL Grand Final came on and as much as I feel like an acclimated Victorian (almost the ten-year club), I must admit to a real, surprising pang of homesickness while I was listening to the commentary. Is it silly becoming wistful to the sound of Peter Sterling’s voice? Perhaps. But sport, not music, was the soundtrack of my formative years. The television, car radio, conversation, revolved around State of Origin or rubbish umpiring or refereeing decisions. So as I whooped and yelled for my team St George Illawarra (though by default, as my childhood team was the Illawarra Steelers, my heart with Rod Wishart on the wing), and the kids whooped and yelled along, my slight feeling of silliness was trumped by… well, that’s the there’s the thing. I’m not sure. Enthusiasm? Cheer? Self-conscious sentimentality, maybe.
It felt nice. And I slept well that night.
