NEVER let it be said the Whacker is not up to speed with what’s going on in the outside world – like Melbourne.
For example, it’s been a fair while since anyone heard yours truly encouraging someone on the footy with the voice of experience (and more flags than most): “It’s not bloody netball, mate. Stop playin’ like a sheila and tackle him next time.”
Looking back, I can see why that was wrong.
The bloke in question on that occasion – and when I have thought about it, quite a few others who also received similar, sage words of advice – weren’t playing like sheilas, because I’ve seen plenty of sheilas who play a whole lot better.
Certainly in netball (yes, yes, that is a little Whacker joke) but also in plenty of other sports.
One grandling played junior hockey and they had this one girl who tried out with them and played all the way through under 18s.
I remember initially being taken a little aback meself the first time I saw her run onto the field in a skirt, not at all surprised by the sniggers from the opposition – which invariably stopped the minute the game started.
That little girl went on to play with the Hockeyroos and win gold at the Olympics.
True story.
Then I met a father who pulled his daughter out of the local footy team at primary school, even though she was far and away the best player, because he was genuinely concerned about how it might affect her future life.
Never was sure exactly what he meant there, and wasn’t game to ask.
That might have been 40 years ago but I bet it wouldn’t be happening today.
So where, you might ask, is the Whacker going with all this born-again, holier-than-thou outlook on life?
Well, I guess you all might have noticed there’s a soccer tournament going on right now.
I have to say “soccer”; I just can’t bring myself to label it “football”.
Girls’ soccer, what’s more (well, they all look like girls from where I’m sitting, although most are technically women, some are mothers, but there are a few youngsters there as well).
So let’s split the difference and move on.
If you had told the old Whacker anytime in the past 70 or so years he would be skipping the game of the round to watch women’s anything he wouldn’t have just laughed at you, he would have made a citizen’s arrest and hung onto you until the men in the white coats with butterfly nets turned up to collect you.
But on Saturday afternoon, and then well into the night as it went on and on and on, there I was, almost literally glued to the increasingly bigger small screen we have acquired recently.
Fortunately the missus was on hand to keep the refreshments coming.
To put this in context, the number of times I have watched any soccer game in those 70 or so years would not even require me to remove my socks.
How anyone can play any game for 90 minutes or more and end up with absolutely no score beggars belief.
And for some years I thought soccer was the off-season activity for the Australian diving team and they got a lot of practice at their specialty by playing soccer.
Most important of all, I was pretty convinced for a long time the word “sheila” was actually something brought with some of our many immigrants for those who played soccer.
But I have been totally bewitched by this bunch of ladies.
For a start, they have made the game entertaining.
They play it with a passion that’s missing in some much of today’s professional sport.
They look to me as if they play for the sheer joy of it.
And like all good Aussies, they play for each other.
They remind me a lot of the young Whacker when he was conquering the local footy and cricket scene (in between suspensions) and loving every minute of it (although having seen some of the behind-the-scenes shots I am glad I don’t have to match the training any of these professionals go through these days).
Now I hear more people watched the weekend’s game than any other televised event in Australian history.
Rightly bloody so.
The problem our real national teams have always carried around (that would be national expectation) is a very bloody heavy burden.
It has broken many before these Matildas.
And yet it does not seem to have touched this group.
Take that plucky little goalie.
Could have won the game single-handed and stuffed it up, then stepped back into goals and instead of collapsing in the face of her teammates, the roaring masses in the stands and the millions watching, she won it again.
Now that’s my kind of sheila.
I hope those useless lumps I incorrectly honoured with that title all those years ago realise that by comparison they weren’t even in the hunt.
