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Patrick learn from your more experienced bipeds that the males amongst us don't have to sit every time nature calls. I can assure you that if you can master this option all of us will be more comfortable. If nothing else it will give you more time to see some of the game you found so disappointing; for I am afraid your pre-occupation with our urinals deprived you of far more pleasant sights, sounds and smells.
Lets start with your offended olfactory, which in days gone past, even in the open air, would have been assailed at every suburban ground by the unique combination of beer, tobacco and burnt pastry with perhaps a whiff of cut grass and liniment thrown in for good measure. Most could linger in that sense alone happily for a pleasant Saturday afternoon, but we must hurry on Patrick, for there is so much more.
Can you hear it? The shrill call of 'Record!' as you meander to the ground. Closer still, the murmur unique to those hours before the game, the working week is done, its time instead to wonder aloud with a friend what is ahead for the afternoon. The squawk, regular now, of antiquated turnstiles, ushering the rest of us in. In the distance there is always a radio and the most recent trifecta result from goodness knows where being relayed to no-one in particular. Impressive I know Patrick, but most things are in comparison to the flush of a latrine, so do not look so astonished when I tell you that this is but an entrée.
Princes Park is also my neighbour, and I so I pass it most days of the week, dormant but for perhaps the hum of a leaf blower or lawnmower; making the contrast to Saturday afternoons so much more dramatic, for our ground always seemed alive. From that growl of approval from the Heatley and Pratt Stands as the team ran out, to that fearsome roar that confronted the Umpires decision to at last bounce the ball and then to an ever present sense that the stands themselves were alive, and in close final quarters when you could feel the vibration of the cavalcade of clapping, stamping and thumping of the nearest steel hoarding to urge tired players to still greater heroics, and yet despite all this, in a close one, you can always hear your heart above all else, for surely it will soon burst, until it is at last soothed by the final siren.
But we are not done yet Patrick. Oh no. The wash of the flush, the distinct eddies ushering cigarette butts and pubic hair to the plug hole have their fascination for some, but lets dare to look at the sights outside the toilets, it means backtracking, but I assure you it is worth it. The approach to Princes Park in autumn is quite simply stunning. You could in 15 minutes travel from the CBD to see it this week. You don't even need your trike, you can hope the number 19 tram up Elizabeth Street and be there in about the same time. I know that means getting up from behind the typewriter but Journalists are a notoriously hardy lot, and if you wish to be one I understand it is one of the attributes you will have to work at.
I digress. Where were we? Oh yes – the walk to the ground. Lets take Saturday, the morning was brisk but bright, the emerald green parkland making for stark contrast with the brilliant autumn leaves on the many trees. You will enter, through one of those turnstiles we heard earlier, and into a dark cavernous series of alleyways, shards of light leading you upwards (this is one of the keys to avoid being stuck in the urinals) and to the terraces. Our terraces are cobbled together, each a monument to a different age, and to the layperson no real connection in the architectural style of each. The stands don't seem to mind, and neither do their occupants, you sit or stand where you are comfortable. Once you do sit, I and I understand your need to do so, for it has been a long journey and you have witnessed much for the first time, I encourage you to look around. You need not look far to see that this ground has a place for everyone. From your common tall poppy corporate targets enjoying their corporate boxes, to the families with seats they have shared for generations, to groups of mates who stand stoically as they have done for years. Every class, age, gender and political point of view is represented here. Content for a few hours to accept the destination of a sack of air is the most important thing in their lives.
Turn now to the ground Patrick. It is preserved for our beloved Blues alone, a surface not shared around amongst co-tenants could be a bowling green. What will we see this afternoon? What has a suburban afternoon in North Carlton given us this Saturday? Will it be the violent gesturing of a bay of clenched fists at a contentious holding the ball decision in front of the Social Club? Will it be the euphoric waving of arms underneath the Legends Stand greeting an impossible goal? Will it be a thousand rolled-up records urging a winger to a fifth bounce on the city wing? It might be too late Patrick, for you and others have long wished the death of suburban football, and the shame is that you probably never knew what you were wishing away. The only way to find out Patrick will be to get your head out of the toilet.
Last edited by pj_canus on Tue May 24, 2005 6:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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