Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
A few years ago I accidentally dated a geologist. You see, he told me he was studying the foundations of Australia, so naturally I assumed he meant football. What he was actually doing was mapping out the Kimberley Ranges and therefore had the task of officially naming several fault lines in that region. So in a gesture I think he interpreted as romantic, he decided to name one of the fault lines after me. "See Tegan, it's all your fault". And you know what? When it comes to the terrible year many sports men and women are facing in 2015, I'm beginning to fear that he did something and now it is, in some way, my fault.
Hear me out. I'm not normally an overly superstitious person. I open umbrellas indoors, I walk under ladders and when I was boxing on a regular basis I changed my pants regardless of how lucky they made me feel. But this year the three biggest sporting bodies I've dedicated my support to - the Melbourne Vixens, Carlton Football Club and Manny Pacquiao - are all going terribly! And the only other variable between these three is the fact that I've decided to barrack for them. Even on Thursday I foolishly thought to myself, "Maybe Kyrgios will win the Madrid Open", only to see him fall to big-serving John Isner the very next day. And worst of all, on Friday, I went along to support my best friend's amateur soccer team, and at half-time the water boy literally exploded!
I'm a Carlton supporter in my late 20s, and therefore must face the horrible fact that I've spent more than three quarters of my life without experiencing a grand final victory. Or to put it into stark reality, Carlton last won a grand final the same year Braveheart came out. That's right, it was so long ago that people still liked Mel Gibson. It was so long ago that the most popular mobile phone of the day (if you even had one) was 3.5 centimetres thick. For goodness sakes, it was the first year Fremantle Dockers were even in the league! Now they're leading the competition while I sit at the bottom wondering how Bryce Gibbs can get through an entire game without laying one single tackle. In a typical day even I'll successfully land three tackles, dammit! And that's just while trying to get a seat on the 86 tram.
But it was only recently that I acknowledged exactly how much faith I'd lost in my club when my sister gave birth to my first-ever nephew. Immediately he was signed up as a Carlton member. In fact, we were told he was the youngest member at Carlton. But instead of feeling pride, or longingly anticipating his first trip to the MCG, instead I sat by the door waiting for child services to arrive. Getting your children interested in football is risky enough as it is, with dangers of them suffering a dislocated everything, or getting knocked out Tom Rockliff-style. But surely signing them up to Carlton given the future that lies ahead must constitute neglect, cruelty, or just sheer bad parenting? Next I'll be buying him Pete Evans' Paleo book for babies, and my descent into being the world's worst aunty will be complete!
But football isn't the only area I'm feeling the disappointment this year. As I shared with everyone in February, I now support the Melbourne Vixens. For a while, this seemed like an excellent decision. They won last year's grand final and after opening the season with three wins, I thought glory was guaranteed. However, cracks began to appear, not only in Madi Robinson's knee but overall team composure. And from there it all went downhill. In fact, the Vixens suffered their biggest loss to date last Sunday and Liz Ellis reported during the week that the Vixens have a 2.2 per cent chance of playing in the finals. Not to be the pessimist, but if someone told me I only had 2.2 per cent chance of, say, living, I'd be out there right now, finalising my will. And by "will", I mean "the napkin which states that my dog gets that envelope with nine dollars in it".
Then, last Sunday even my boxing dreams were shattered. Not only did Manny Pacquaio lose, he did it in a match so underwhelming that I lost consciousness during the fight more than he did. And now with talk of a rematch afoot, we'll go into another round of "will they, won't they?" that promises to be more excruciating than waiting for Mulder and Scully to finally hook up on The X-Files.
So now I'm scared. I just found out that my favourite Australian boxer, Susie Q Ramadan, will be fighting at the Melbourne Pavilion on June 5. Dare I dream? The Netball World Cup is coming up fast and Australia has the difficult task of retaining the cup. Do I go? I've been so scarred by loss this year that I'm even reluctant to do my famous half-time show at the footy: where I head onto the ground, set up a series of priceless antique mirrors, and smash them with a cat I stole from a local Gypsy's porch.
Maybe instead, I'll go and talk with my ex. Have him rename his discovery in the Kimberley Ranges "Mick".
That's right. It's Mick's Fault.