“Don’t kick it to Buddy, don’t kick it to Buddy.” As Cyril Rioli grabbed the ball just outside fifty, shrugged his man and surged towards goal, this is what I was thinking to myself. I could see Buddy was free. He was only one goal away from his hundred. But I didn’t want him to have the ball in his hands. Not now anyway.
A few minutes earlier, with Buddy goalless, my daughter decided she needed to go to the toilet. She often asks to go to the toilet when the actual need isn’t there (she is three). Despite my wife’s assertion that it might be best to wait, with the way the game was going, and quarter time not far away, I assured her that they wouldn’t miss anything, so off they went. Within moments of their departure, Buddy marked and coolly slotted through his first for the night. With just one goal needed for the 100, I found myself barracking for Carlton for the next few minutes.
This seemed to have little impact. So as Cyril, unselfishly, floated a pass to the unmarked Buddy, I began to panic. What if they don’t make it in time? The whole basis of us attending this game was to see this moment, together. Buddy started his goalkicking ritual, one that was fortunately longer than normal. Lately, with his kicking awry, he has often dispensed with those little things like preparation and routine before shooting for goal, preferring to swing around and take a flying snap after a mark. Luckily, he was on the wrong side to do that, if there is a wrong side for Buddy to do that.
After taking a few deep breaths, and pulling up the socks there was still no sign of my wife and eldest child. Buddy was about to do likewise out in the middle. Things were getting close. Then, as Buddy settled himself for a final time before walking in for his shot at history, I could see my wife and daughter scrambling up the stairs (battling the wave of people heading down to jump the fence and get on the ground) managing to reach our seats just as Buddy connected with the football. The ball sailed straight through (well as straight as his kicks can be) and then we witnessed, as my wife called it, the reverse volcano. From every corner of the ground we saw a flurry of arms and legs as the crowd descended on Buddy. My daughter looked on in awe. “I want to go out there Daddy.” So did I but we were stuck at the very back of level three. We had to be content with watching from afar. But it was still spectacular.
What happened after that? Well the Hawks went on to win by 13 goals and there was some more drama as Fevola closed in on his own milestone, eventually falling one goal short, but for one three year old (and her two parents and no doubt countless others) in the crowd, all that mattered was that Buddy got his ton and we were there to see it.
This week, with the finals starting, it’s back to reality, with the result of the game once again, all important. I’ve been waiting a while so bring on September. But it was nice to go to the football, with my team playing, and just soak in what turned out to be an intoxicating atmosphere. And in case your wondering, it wasn’t a false alarm for the little one… and she made it just in time.