Football is not life or death

I have for many years been a supporter of the South Sydney Rugby League football team.

Souths are a little different. They are called the Rabbitohs, after the peddlers who sold rabbits around the streets of Redfern at the turn of the last century. The Club mascot is a fairly gentle looking fluffy white bunny. It is an old and proud working man's Club with tradition and spirit.

Supporting Souths builds character and resolve. The club may have won more premierships than any other, but it has won absolutely nothing for forty years. The lads made the semis twice in the late eighties and were knocked out of the finals early a couple of years ago. Given that there are eight teams allowed to play in the finals each year, Souths' perennial capacity to finish near the bottom of the ladder almost every year I have supported them is a remarkable underachievement. They were even expelled from the competition for a couple of years, until a Federal Court Judge determined the expulsion to be unlawful for contraventions of the Trades Practices Act. It was a clever and dedicated bunch of lawyers who managed to get them over the line, by the way.

Souths are now owned by Russell Crowe, the superstar actor. Rusty is a bloke I secretly admire. He's very bright and charismatic, but still likes a beer and a bit of roughhousing with the lads. He gets cranky and throws telephones at hotel staff, yet also quietly donates obscene sums of money to charity. From all reports he leaves the players and administrators of the Club to attend to their own business, without giving "helpful" advice as to how to tackle or how the website should look.

For the last few seasons, Souths have been financially stable and Rusty's supernova standing has enabled the Club to assemble a group of very talented players. This year, we have added a gun coach. The lads can now hold their own against any of the opposition and, just maybe, the Club is on the verge of achieving big things.

Souths started the season patchily. They thrashed one of the average sides (Penrith), gallantly lost to two seriously good sides (Melbourne and Brisbane) and threw away a match-winning lead in the final minutes to lose to another average side (Sydney Roosters).

Yesterday, they aimed up for their fifth game of the season, against the Wests Tigers. The Tigers are another old, proud working man's outfit. They have performed pretty well over the last few years but started the season poorly. It was a game ready for the good guys to win.

I try to get home for a few hours at a time on weekends and was well enough to get home for the big match. Camilla had organised a barbeque with Lord and Lady Bellbowrie, and heirs and issue, to attend.

The match was tight, rugged and low-scoring. However, the Tigers kicked away in the second half and held a commanding 16-4 lead with four minutes to go. Then the Rabbitohs's hooker scored his second try of the game and we were down by six with only two minutes to go. Bellbowrie and I looked at each other and dared to dream. Bellbowrie is not a league man. In Australia they play Rugby Union in the better schools and Bellbowrie is a student of the more gentlemanly game. His boys call league bad rugby. Nonetheless, Bellbowrie is a true sports connoisseur and he was enjoying the spectacle. For the record, I absolutely love Rugby Union as well. It is an obligatory lawyer thing, but also a wonderful game in its own right.

I said to Bellbowrie, cautiously, "You know I've got the pecs surgery riding on this game?. I had irrationally required the gods to send me an omen. If the Rabbitohs won I would not need the reconstructive surgery prior to transplant. Completely silly for a man of logic, but I had done it anyway. You do these things after nearly seven months in hospital.

Bellbowrie frowned. He knew Souths well and was disappointed I had hitched my wagon to such a dim, dim star.

Anyway, Souths miraculously scored with seconds to go, from a perfect grubber kick by a second rower of all people! The rookie halfback playing his fifth game calmly potted the conversion from near the sideline. Scores level on full time! On to extra time!

The Rabbitohs took command of extra time and calmly and clinically rucked the ball up the paddock into field goal range. The ball was passed to our superstar fullback, Greg Inglis, and he took a wobbly shot at field goal. It hit the uprights, fell and hit the crossbar and sneaked across. Rabbitohs win! Somehow. In the most unlikely and nailbiting of circumstances.

We then enjoyed some exquisite rib fillets with excellent wine. A Lakes Folly 2009 Cabernet. Much befitting the win and the fine crew we had assembled for dinner.

This morning, Doctors Thomson and Javorsky examined my sternum wound. They were delighted with the extent to which it has healed, and now wish to review it in a few days. If it continues to heal, we may avoid the pecs surgery. Still too early to call but the signs are good.

My recent experiences have taught me that football games are not life or death affairs. I am not on the field and do not even know any of the players. Whether my side wins or loses does not make my life better or worse. Indeed, my rugby team, the Queensland Reds, actually won the Super Fifteen last year. I was at the game, cheered them on and downed a million beers afterwards. They have never won the title before and will almost certainly never win it again (although I am happy to be proven wrong on that). A few weeks later I was in a coma.

I no longer sweat the small stuff. A football game is just a football game. It's not as important as having a functional heart.


Until next time,