Open Post: this thing called sport…

 

AFL is not my sport. You know?

For those who don’t know: AFL stands for the Aussie Football League, the biggest sport in this country. As Melbournians celebrate AFL Grand Final day with more zest than they do on Australia Day, even if it’s not my sport, it’s hard for me not to make it my sport for at least that one day a year.

In tennis terms: the final was a battle of Fedal proportions. Two teams worlds above the rest, top of the ladder for the whole season, setting themselves up for this inevitable final clash to determine which team will win the holy grail of Australian sport. 

And they took it to each other toe-to-toe, until the very last last quarter in which a few flashes of intensity sealed the fate of history. There was desperation, there was shoddy umpiring. There was drama and broken noses. In the end, there was a winner and there was a loser. So close, but as the saying goes, no cigar.  

The pictures below are of the Nick Riewoldt (the Saints captain) after the match. In many ways, it reflected the reaction of the entire St Kilda team in defeat: utter devastation. It was the sort of emotional wreckage that turns grown men into inconsolable babies, weeping into their parents’ arms after they walked off the field as the vanquished.

 

 

 

Which brings me to my point: this thing called sport – IT FRIGGIN HURTS. 

I may not be a Saints supporter or an ardent AFL fan, but I can empathise. Sometimes you leave it all out on court: heart, guts and pride, and you walk away empty-handed. 

You fight from Day 1 of the season, through each round, until you reach the final. Until – against rational judgement – you allow yourself to hope, and to dream about holding the trophy in your arms. To taste victory before victory is taken.

And then? Nothing. 

Another year gone by. Another titanic struggle lost knowing that next year, you’ll have to start again. Next year, you may not make it this far. The “if only’s” creep in and start to kill you inside.  

So all you can really do is to cry like a wounded baby in the arms of your family and loved ones. Much like the way Roger Federer choked back his tears during the Australian Open trophy presentation earlier this year. 

Yeah, this thing called sport, it sucks and it hurts like hell sometimes. 

 

 

So tennis fans, I got a question for you: what are your best and worst sporting memories?

 

My own worst: Wimbledon 2008 final.

I was on vacation in New Zealand at the time and watched it from my hotel room. When match point happened in that hazy darkness, I threw a pillow at the TV.

“I  hate Roger Federer.” I crawled into bed, wanting to sleep the rest of the day away.

“Oh boy, I gotta tape this as evidence,” my friend joked.

So I wasn’t traveling with the most sensitive friend I have. But she did take me out to a nice dinner, before we downed 2 mojitos, a Finlandia mule and 6 beers, and walked back to our hotel singing “Teenage Dirtbag” at the top of our lungs at 2am in the morning.

Rather comically, we had booked to go paragliding the next day. Just as well our tandem master cancelled because of sickness – fancy diving off the cliff the day after the Wimbledon final.

 

 

Ben Radford/Corbis

 

My best sporting memory: French Open 2009.

Quite possibly, this was also one of the worst slams I’ve experienced. Half way through it, I wanted to puke my guts out. I watched as Roger struggled against Acasuso, lost a set to Mathieu, and then the culling really began. Seeds fell consecutively – Djokovic, Nadal, Murray.

NADAL.

The Tennis Gods parted the seas for Roger Federer, but can he finish a road laden with land mines? The thought of it made me feel sick. How I survived the French Open I do not know. Every second was agony, every match watched in fetal position.

This thing called sport … it turns perfectly sane people into lunatics.

But it was all so worth it. There was a great moment in the final when Soderling was serving at 3-5 in the final set. The camera zoomed up on Roger’s face as he walked to the baseline to receive. His expression was contorted, that crybaby was about to break out the tears.

You fucker! You still have another game to win! I screamed hysterically. 

And when he won it, I sat there in front of my computer sobbing like a teenybopper. Gone were all pretenses of cynicism and sarcasm. The weight of the last 18 months, the nightmares of the Australian Open and Miami, the last 4 years at Roland Garros came crashing down on me. Vindication came with all the sweetness and gratitude in the world and I have never felt so ecstatically happy for another stranger human being.

But Roger wasn’t exactly a stranger, like so many people out there that day, I felt like he took me, took us, on a wonderful journey.

 

 

So this thing called sport, it’s like a drug, an addiction.

You put your heart on the line and go back again and again, only to be hurt each time. You cry like a silly baby over painful losses, all in hope that one day, just for once, you might be the one standing there holding the trophy.

Or you might be the one sitting in front of a computer screen at 3am in the morning, grinning through misty eyes.