Aussie Rules
by Gwen Boswell
You may know it as
‘Aussie Rules’ but to me, an
expatriate, a person who has packed her swag and
left England’s green and pleasant land, the
sport here in Oz is known as football. I know, I
know most of the world cannot be wrong either,
but in sunny Australia, proper football with a
round ball, is known as soccer. When a migrant
here is reminded as such, the word ‘soccer’
somehow sounds inferior.
But I won’t
stand for it, and when the opportunity presents
itself will say, ”if you don’t mind
– football!” Now this stand I take,
this battle to strongly protect my heritage,
often causes guffaws from Australians in the
local. “Bloody stupid game” they say,
“spectating in the pouring rain for 90
minutes and not a bloody goal in sight!”
“Load of bloody girlies, running around more
concerned about their bloody hair, then they are
about getting stuck into the opposition.”
I retort, “now
hold on one minute” (the Australian’s
put their beer glasses down and look at me and I
develop a twitch in that silly little muscle
under my right eye). I need courage; the pride of
England rests with me. I need inspiration; think
of things English quick. I am getting flustered,
bizarre pictures form in my mind’s eye, pork
pies, Benny Hill, threepenny bits, Yorkshire
puddings. But wait, things begin to take shape,
corgis, St Paul’s, Winston Churchill’s
face (or is it that corgi again..?) and then, in
all her glory the Queen Mum appears (RIP). She
shows her support by giving me one of her famous
smiles. She looks lovely, wearing one of her
flowery frocks with matching hat. She becomes
clearer still, and has a generous glass of
Bowmore in one hand, and a trout fishing rod in
the other. Out of respect, I quickly replace the
wellies she is wearing with sensible granny
shoes, shiny posh ones.
I restart “well,
at least our game has proper structure and rules!
Anything goes in Aussie Rules. You can
kick the ball on the ground, you can punch the
ball, you can bounce the ball, and you can throw
the ball. You can role about on the PITCH with
flaying limbs frantically trying to get the ball.
You can even pull shirts. Obstruction is fine
too,” (they call it shepherding – great
affinity with sheep, the Aussies), “and you
can jump all over someone’s back to grab the
ball and is that a foul, absolutely not, in fact
you are more likely to go down in the hall of
fame for a great ‘mark.’(You’d
think that it was the bloke whose back that had
been climbed all over with studs who has the best
mark(s)!)
I stop and await
the onslaught. This argument could go on all
night, which is worrying incase cricket gets
drawn into the conversation. Then the Aussies
pick up their beer glasses, turn their backs on
me and I hear, “stupid bloody Sheila, what
would she know…”
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