Last Sunday we took five of Colin's friends to the "G" for an early friends birthday party. The Hawthorn Hawks were playing the Melbourne Demons and this seemed like an excellent way to celebrate one's impending 10th birthday. Needless to say this household has become a bit obssessed with footy! We have the hats, the scarves, the shirts, the cards, the posters and a thorough knowledge of most of the players in the 16 team league. We also know which coaches are in danger of losing their jobs, who is hurt, what their injury is and when we can expect them to be back on the pitch. Going even deeper - we know what clubs are in trouble financially, where players like to go out, and which player marriages are on the rocks. We might even admit to knowing a few players' scoring average per game in odd days of the month when the wind is blowing from the north at night. I'm not sure the good ol' CFL will ever look the same again.
Footy players and sports stars in general are minor-royalty in this town and as goes your team's fortunes on the field, so goes the mood of the nation - or the suburb that you barrack for. Unfortunately, there's been no lack of bad behaviour recently, particularly in the rugby league circles, and at the core of it is a drinking culture and a set of mores that generate a lack of respect for women by young men. And the officials in charge of picking up the pieces after each embarrassment can't seem to get it right, often pouring more fuel on the fire by saying things that could be construed as nothing better than a lacklustre "Boys will be boys" defence. There are no lack of footy shows on the telly, with pudgy old guys stuffed into bad suits, decrying the end of the "golden era" and the fact that the entertainment is being taken out of the game by rule changes and restrictions on what players can and cannot do. It doesn't take too much imagination to equate these complaints with a desire to return to the good old days when men were men and to the winners went the women, I mean the spoils.
Anyway, it is still a fantastic game and an even better spectator sport and so it was with great enthusiasm that we boarded the Toorak Tram and headed for the MCG. Perhaps, a little too much enthusiasm. We knew from the outset that this was going to be a "full on" adventure and several parents congratulated us on our bravery. I even had a nap earlier in the day to prepare myself. Undaunted by the challenge and in preparation for the big game and party we painted our faces in team colours, filled loot bags with team bouncy balls and footy cards, gave Colin his very own Hawthorn guernsey, and ordered mudcakes for the post-game celebration. Though not quite at the scale of our highly successful Hallowe'en Party, we were ready to give this party "a go".
I must admit that these types of activities are not my favourite events in the annals of parenting and regardless of whether it is one or one hundred of the nicest kids in the world, I struggle to be at my best. I suppose if they all walked and talked like angels and did everything I asked in the right manner and at the right time then maybe I would react differently - but of course that's as likely as my head suddenly deciding to reverse the hair loss! The adventure as a whole was fine, and apart from the need to ask all of them to calm down, be quieter, wait their turn, not kick the seat in front of them, not climb on things, stop punching each other, pass don't take, slow down, hurry up, watch the tram, say your sorry, don't swear, say please, say thank you, and have fun, but not too much - I think the party was a success. Do you think I was asking too much? Regardless of my impossibly high standards of deportment I think everyone had a good time and Colin received some very nice gifts (including footy ball, scarf and video) from his friends.
The energy of boys continues to amaze me and in spite of my own puerile complaints, increasingly sensitive ears, and diminishing tolerance for chaos, I am fascinated by the exhuberance of youth at hand. The wonderfully reckless abandon with which they throw themselves into things like footy games and playdates is inspiring, energizing, scary, and trying. It's enough to make one feel very old and very young all at the same time. It also makes me wonder when the last time I ever did anything with the kind of energy and passion that a ten year old is capable of. Linking all of that youthful enthusiasm to the aforementioned and not so savoury hijinks of the men ten years their senior, I continue to wonder how you raise boys in a way that retains their energy but directs it, just enough, to be productive and responsible. I think the trick might be to stay "in the game" as long as you can, modeling and mentoring all the right moves. By parking yourself on the sidelines too soon, you leave them no choice but to look out and up to others who just may have forgotten the rules. Parenting and playdates, it would seem, are rarely spectator sports.
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