Review: Going to the Footy

A few weeks ago I took the twins to a blockbuster match between a team in blue jerseys starting with 'New' and a team wearing a shade of red.

New South Wales also played Queensland in State of Origin the following week. We went to Newtown Jets versus Illawarra (not) Steelers at Henson Park instead. 

We arrived about 20 minutes before kickoff. I paid my ten dollars for adult entry (kids are free), and setup the picnic rug on the hill.

I scanned the mostly empty green expanse - I reckon Henson could house 30,000 if you could convince 30,000 to rock up to an event with one canteen and two toilets - and took note of the jumping castle on the opposite side of the ground, the furthest possible distance from where we were.

I made it my mission to ensure the boys never noticed the jumping castle.

Two minutes later, they asked if they could go jumping.

I said, "maybe later". Then I made it my mission to ensure I distracted them all afternoon and they forgot about it.

This new mission began by getting them to take some selfies, then we got the footy out and practised catching.

As we neared kick off, I explained everything.

We really like red team, we kinda like the blue team too usually, the orange team are actually referees.

Then they sat, and watched attentively, like this...

...for about one minute. They decided pretty quickly that they like Team Referee best, because he had a whistle. This prompted lots of tackling and pretend whistles... 

...which denigrated into this...

...that last photo was taken about one hour into the match. In that hour, the only time they weren't wrestling was at half time when you're allowed on the field to kick a footy, or when going to the toilet (Toilet Review: described as "stinky" by R, the toilet connoisseur).

But at least they forgot about the jumping castle.

By the way, never trust a three-year-old that says they know how to drink out of a can. While they spilled lemonade, I drank Young Henry's, because even reserve grade footy is a bit cool in the Inner West.

The game itself was exciting enough that I managed to get the boys to sit and watch the last set, where Newtown attempted to go the full length of the field to steal a win. They didn't, a cross-field bomb sailing just too far for the flying winger, and it finished 38-34.

The Crowd was announced as 8,972. It's amazing the same number always attend.

With the match over, we went onto the field, as you're allowed to at half time and full time for Jets matches. I was wearing a Steelers jersey and chatted to a few other Steelers fans. One had a Steelers belt buckle. Firstly, that is a really strange item of merchandise to have ever been mass-produced. Secondly, to get my attention to show me this rare commodity, he yelled out something I could't hear from a distance, then lifted up his shirt and thrust his hips forward. This briefly made him look like a sex predator on an oval filled with kids.

He told me that he bought the belt buckle on eBay. I don't think I'll look for one.

It's a lot of fun being on the field. Later at home, I was trying to explain to my wife the magnetism of a set of goal posts to the inner boy - how it was very tempting, just once, to slot a field goal instead of passing it back to the boys. Except for the part where I'd have to go chase it, of course.

My wife said, "you wouldn't have to chase far."

"What?", I replied incredulously.

"You couldn't kick a field goal".

Now I was a very below-average player, but I did play a little as a kid, and used to practise kicking a ball a lot. Stuff like getting grubbers to bounce end-on-end, chip kicks that bounce back to the chaser, and lots of field goals - back and forth, between two trees as posts, onto roofs where it would roll back down, against buildings, and so on.

So I made my case. "I'm talking only 15 or 20 metres, straight in front. I used to be able to do both feet from 10, right foot from 35 or 40."

She said, "that was a long time ago. You're pretty unco-ordinated."

While I didn't contemplate divorce for more than a few seconds at this moment, it was probably our second worst ever football related argument.

But not even that could sour the afternoon. Overall, I would highly recommend spending a Saturday afternoon at Henson Park.