As I sit at home, unemployed, bored senseless, watching my bank account take more hits than a girl dating Chris Brown, I feel the time is right for the self-indulgence of a blog.
Dom still has work to do to become an adult - revelation #32: It's one thing to make big life decisions. It's a whole other thing to actually follow through and live with them.
That, unfortunately, is the reality I now face after turning my life upside down in the pursuit, foolish or not, of inspiration during my holiday.
The first step before taking a long holiday: Unemployment.
Unemployment. The word itself is shameful to say.
For many people, a job isn't just about a wage and 9-5, it's how we define ourselves, it's how we differentiate ourselves, it's how we give our lives meaning. You don't even have to like your job, a purpose and goal will do for most.
The alternative is not a pretty picture.
Sure, my decision was made with a holiday in mind and I won't have to worry about finding work for a few months yet, but this preview of what's to come is not an attractive one.
I knew unemployment would eat into confidence and identity, but I never realised how much it would sap energy levels.
Doing nothing is incredibly tiring.
Today I made one phone call to my insurance company and wrote an email to a friend. I had to sit down afterwards and have a drink of water because of the unbridled effort it had taken.
For the past four years, I dreamt of sleeping in till 11am and watching DVD's in my trackies till the sun went down. Let me tell you, that gets old after about two days.
Laziness is creeping in. You know you're becoming a lazy person when you start to justify and believe your own lies.
You were right not to get off the couch for three hours, that spider on the ceiling could have been provoked by movement. You were right not to go for that run, you could have caught a cold. It's normal to wear the same trackies for four days in a row...
Goals you set for yourself while unemployed are so much smaller. Things you would usually cram into two hours on a Saturday all of a sudden take the best part of nine hours. "Today I'm going to get my hair cut and walk the dog. May god have mercy on my soul."
I'm needy, I'm lonely and I have way too much time alone with my thoughts. I feel like these are the pre-requisites to a flaming skull tattoo or mental breakdown.
The second step of a big holiday: Remembering why you planned the big holiday.
Amid all the planning, last-minute booking and reflection on everything I'll be missing while I'm gone, doubt had crept in.
What if this turns out to be a flop? What if I can't do it on my own? What if they find the 72kgs of cocaine strapped to my waist?
There was even a time when I didn’t want to go. Things were piling up that I couldn’t leave behind, change was scary and I had everything I wanted at home.
It's been so long since I travelled that I forgot why I wanted to do it.
One day, when I’m an old man, I'll wake up, pee four times in 15 minutes, then, I won't wonder what it would have been like to travel the world in the prime of my life. After I'm finished not wondering, I'll pull my pants up to my waist, complain about the younger generation and be genuinely concerned about a report on dodgy supermarket meat I watched on A Current Affair.
Apart from the adventure, inspiration and escape, there's another, much bigger reason for this trip - I just don’t know it yet.
In amongst the copious amounts of alcohol, pub crawls, new sights, new friends, weird accents and freedom from responsibility and commitment, I think it will reveal itself.
The third step of a big holiday: Going.
I’m a week away from jumping on the plane. It’s actually happening.
Here’s the plan, I'm putting together a list of things that I must complete before coming home. If I can get them all done, I'll deem the holiday a success.
Here they are, feel free to add any ideas.
Drink beer out of a red cup
Start writing a book
Attend a baseball game and any other US/Canadian sport in season.
Drive left-handed car without crashing
Give a homeless guy money
Win a game of beer pong
See a live gig
Get lost in NY - disgustingly lost
Full day on the beach doing absolutely nothing
Hit 26 black on roulette in Vegas
Have a Chicago deep dish pizza
Supersize something
Learn a new drinking game
Don't get shot
Don't get robbed
Eat a NY pretzel/food cart hotdog
Bon Voyage all, I’ll keep you updated with the blog as I go.
If anyone sees holiday Dom before I do, tell him to throw some beers in the fridge.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
No such thing as a travel bug
A few weeks ago, I followed through on months of planning, took the plunge and purchased an overseas flight.
At 24 years of age and as one of the 27 remaining men in Australia without a sleeve tattoo, I’ve decided to run away and spend an indefinite amount of time in Canada and the USA.
It’s not a smart decision. It’s not a logical one. It’s selfish. It’s immature.
With the money I’ve saved, I could put a deposit on a house, invest money in a horrible company or buy some magical beans.
In 20 years time, 45 year old me is going to read this blog, shake his head and go back to bed with his supermodel wife in a really shitty mood.
If you’ve ever travelled, you may understand my stupidity.
You can always tell when someone has been on a great holiday. When they try and recall their trip, they can’t finish full sentences without doing one of three things.
1) Pausing and looking into the distance longingly
2) Break out into tears or random bouts of laughter
3) Talk way too quickly for human comprehension
When I last travelled overseas two years ago, I told friends and family that it would be my ‘last adventure’ before I grew up, read the business section of a newspaper and got angry at kids walking on my front lawn.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
In the winter of 2009 I saved up all my pennies, borrowed many more pennies and jetted off to Europe for two amazing months with two great friends.
Every night was memorable. Every moment felt better than the last.
Sights and sounds live forever in your memory. Experiences last a life time.
You push your body to another level because the only alternative is to miss out on the best time of your life.
It's beautiful because it has to end. It's legendary because your only option is to make it legendary.
The thing you miss the most is the people. Strangers who you share your most amazing moments with. Instant friends who leave a lasting impression in the brief time you spend with them.
I did things I didn't know I was capable of. I reached a level of fun I didn't know existed. There was never a regret, never a hesitation. It was everything I hoped it would be.
While I was over there I met this one guy, his name was Holiday Dom.
Holiday Dom didn’t have deadlines, nor responsibilities. His liver was in pretty bad shape and his fitness was fast-approaching John Goodman-type levels — but damn that guy was having fun. He was happy.
I wanted to bring him home, but he would have nothing of it. He was happier behind the waterfall in Switzerland, playing beer pong during a Prague pub crawl and sitting under the Eifel Tower in Paris.
Disappointed that I had to leave, Holiday Dom made me promise that I'd visit him again. So that's exactly what I'm going to do.
People talk about 'catching the travel bug'. Well, I'm here to tell you there is no such thing as a travel bug. Don't get me wrong, if you're not careful, you may catch a bug or two, but I know now why people feel the need to travel again when they come back home.
They travel to see their holiday friend again - the one who’s free from burden. Life seems better when you're with them.
So, if you're sitting back now, wondering if you should take the gamble and travel overseas this winter, go, go now! Don’t look back.
And when you meet that friend, tell them Dom said hi.
At 24 years of age and as one of the 27 remaining men in Australia without a sleeve tattoo, I’ve decided to run away and spend an indefinite amount of time in Canada and the USA.
It’s not a smart decision. It’s not a logical one. It’s selfish. It’s immature.
With the money I’ve saved, I could put a deposit on a house, invest money in a horrible company or buy some magical beans.
In 20 years time, 45 year old me is going to read this blog, shake his head and go back to bed with his supermodel wife in a really shitty mood.
If you’ve ever travelled, you may understand my stupidity.
You can always tell when someone has been on a great holiday. When they try and recall their trip, they can’t finish full sentences without doing one of three things.
1) Pausing and looking into the distance longingly
2) Break out into tears or random bouts of laughter
3) Talk way too quickly for human comprehension
When I last travelled overseas two years ago, I told friends and family that it would be my ‘last adventure’ before I grew up, read the business section of a newspaper and got angry at kids walking on my front lawn.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
In the winter of 2009 I saved up all my pennies, borrowed many more pennies and jetted off to Europe for two amazing months with two great friends.
Every night was memorable. Every moment felt better than the last.
Sights and sounds live forever in your memory. Experiences last a life time.
You push your body to another level because the only alternative is to miss out on the best time of your life.
It's beautiful because it has to end. It's legendary because your only option is to make it legendary.
The thing you miss the most is the people. Strangers who you share your most amazing moments with. Instant friends who leave a lasting impression in the brief time you spend with them.
I did things I didn't know I was capable of. I reached a level of fun I didn't know existed. There was never a regret, never a hesitation. It was everything I hoped it would be.
While I was over there I met this one guy, his name was Holiday Dom.
Holiday Dom didn’t have deadlines, nor responsibilities. His liver was in pretty bad shape and his fitness was fast-approaching John Goodman-type levels — but damn that guy was having fun. He was happy.
I wanted to bring him home, but he would have nothing of it. He was happier behind the waterfall in Switzerland, playing beer pong during a Prague pub crawl and sitting under the Eifel Tower in Paris.
Disappointed that I had to leave, Holiday Dom made me promise that I'd visit him again. So that's exactly what I'm going to do.
People talk about 'catching the travel bug'. Well, I'm here to tell you there is no such thing as a travel bug. Don't get me wrong, if you're not careful, you may catch a bug or two, but I know now why people feel the need to travel again when they come back home.
They travel to see their holiday friend again - the one who’s free from burden. Life seems better when you're with them.
So, if you're sitting back now, wondering if you should take the gamble and travel overseas this winter, go, go now! Don’t look back.
And when you meet that friend, tell them Dom said hi.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Deck the halls
People are driving around with reindeer antlers on their cars, grown men are in shopping centres with fake white beards and my neighbours have started their annual 30-day stretch of being nice to each other – either Christmas is days away or marijuana has been legalised in Victoria.
Once upon a time, a young Dom Ciconte, full of optimism and hope, thought that Christmas morning was the Holy Grail.
Us Ciconte kids would battle through school, Mum’s torturous Saturday ‘clean-up days’ and the utterly ridiculous, unnecessary daily demand to have our beds made up, all for that sprint to the lounge room on December 25th so we could un-wrap our presents.
My mum was once a brilliant gift-buyer. She would somehow know everything I wanted before I even had a chance to throw around hints. Transformers, Lego, Super Nintendo games, a new footy – that was my childhood in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, my memories of Santa were not great. The guy gave us average gifts every year, almost like he was trying to make my mum and dad look even better.
A wooden dinosaur that I have to assemble myself? What the hell is this guy smoking? Mum, next year, tell Santa not to bother.
Christmas day would only get better from there. We would travel to our big family lunch, go wild with our cousins, get more presents from relatives and literally overdose on happiness.
And then we went and got old. What a stupid thing to do.
The 6am sprint to the lounge room has been replaced by a 10.30am stumble out of bed. The toys replaced with CDs, DVDs, clothes and vouchers. The overdose on joy replaced by an overdose of food and my Nonno’s wine.
No matter your religion or belief, we have a great excuse to come together, eat, drink, argue and look back on the year.
Even though it’s not as fun as it use to be, Christmas is what you make of it.
Just don’t force me to make another wooden dinosaur.
Merry Christmas
Once upon a time, a young Dom Ciconte, full of optimism and hope, thought that Christmas morning was the Holy Grail.
Us Ciconte kids would battle through school, Mum’s torturous Saturday ‘clean-up days’ and the utterly ridiculous, unnecessary daily demand to have our beds made up, all for that sprint to the lounge room on December 25th so we could un-wrap our presents.
My mum was once a brilliant gift-buyer. She would somehow know everything I wanted before I even had a chance to throw around hints. Transformers, Lego, Super Nintendo games, a new footy – that was my childhood in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, my memories of Santa were not great. The guy gave us average gifts every year, almost like he was trying to make my mum and dad look even better.
A wooden dinosaur that I have to assemble myself? What the hell is this guy smoking? Mum, next year, tell Santa not to bother.
Christmas day would only get better from there. We would travel to our big family lunch, go wild with our cousins, get more presents from relatives and literally overdose on happiness.
And then we went and got old. What a stupid thing to do.
The 6am sprint to the lounge room has been replaced by a 10.30am stumble out of bed. The toys replaced with CDs, DVDs, clothes and vouchers. The overdose on joy replaced by an overdose of food and my Nonno’s wine.
No matter your religion or belief, we have a great excuse to come together, eat, drink, argue and look back on the year.
Even though it’s not as fun as it use to be, Christmas is what you make of it.
Just don’t force me to make another wooden dinosaur.
Merry Christmas
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Shopping - A sad tale
I could be the worst shopper in the world.
I’m impatient, I’m ignorant, I refuse to hold onto hard-earned money and I don’t put enough thought into what I’m doing. Shop owners see me enter their store and their hearts skip a beat.
I can be talked into buying anything: “What are those, suburban driving gloves? You think they’d look good on me? How much? Only $350? Ok, I guess I should.”
If shopping was like trying to stay sober, I’d be Charlie Sheen. If it was a swimming event in the Olympic Games, I’d be representing the People’s Republic of Congo. If it was a test of sanity, I’d be a Scientologist.
Unlike some, I can’t wonder around a shopping centre without a purpose, trying things on and looking for a bargain. Once I get in, I need to get out. I make a bee-line for what I want and then get the hell out of there while I still have my money and dignity.
This kind of attitude leads to clothes that don’t fit properly, wasted money on things I don’t need and a bank account that shudders every time I reach for my debit card.
Honestly, I would rather continue wasting money and making bad purchases than do the required leg work to improve. I just don’t have it in me and I never will.
But, having said all of this, I admire great shoppers. People who buy good gifts are harder to find than my mates when a taxi fare has to be paid.
Good shoppers are the people you want buying for you in a Kris Kringle. They think outside the box, they spread their money around wisely, they use coupons, they shop around and get the right price, they try things on, they keep receipts and they have a great rapport with retail staff.
I put knowledgeable shoppers right up there with people who can kill spiders for me — invaluable in a time of need.
We are now entering the crazy shopping season. Everyone knows its coming, but few prepare themselves.
Shopping centres will soon be packed with stressed out mothers ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Every store will have an amazing special that you MUST take advantage of. B-grade musicians will have moderate success with Christmas albums featuring the 345th different take on Silent Night.
This is the time of year where my terrible-shopping brothers and I get found out. We get confused by the bright lights and attractive girls in Santa hats. We buy something, only to find it 20 minutes later at half the price. We walk in planning to spend $300-400... and leave owing a loan shark named Bruno $2,000.
With all this in mind and in the spirit of Christmas, I’d like to give an apology in advance to the people I’m buying for this year. You know who you are, you’ve politely pretended to like my gifts for years.
I’m going to try and do better this year. I promise.
Socks and undies are still in vogue right?
I’m impatient, I’m ignorant, I refuse to hold onto hard-earned money and I don’t put enough thought into what I’m doing. Shop owners see me enter their store and their hearts skip a beat.
I can be talked into buying anything: “What are those, suburban driving gloves? You think they’d look good on me? How much? Only $350? Ok, I guess I should.”
If shopping was like trying to stay sober, I’d be Charlie Sheen. If it was a swimming event in the Olympic Games, I’d be representing the People’s Republic of Congo. If it was a test of sanity, I’d be a Scientologist.
Unlike some, I can’t wonder around a shopping centre without a purpose, trying things on and looking for a bargain. Once I get in, I need to get out. I make a bee-line for what I want and then get the hell out of there while I still have my money and dignity.
This kind of attitude leads to clothes that don’t fit properly, wasted money on things I don’t need and a bank account that shudders every time I reach for my debit card.
Honestly, I would rather continue wasting money and making bad purchases than do the required leg work to improve. I just don’t have it in me and I never will.
But, having said all of this, I admire great shoppers. People who buy good gifts are harder to find than my mates when a taxi fare has to be paid.
Good shoppers are the people you want buying for you in a Kris Kringle. They think outside the box, they spread their money around wisely, they use coupons, they shop around and get the right price, they try things on, they keep receipts and they have a great rapport with retail staff.
I put knowledgeable shoppers right up there with people who can kill spiders for me — invaluable in a time of need.
We are now entering the crazy shopping season. Everyone knows its coming, but few prepare themselves.
Shopping centres will soon be packed with stressed out mothers ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Every store will have an amazing special that you MUST take advantage of. B-grade musicians will have moderate success with Christmas albums featuring the 345th different take on Silent Night.
This is the time of year where my terrible-shopping brothers and I get found out. We get confused by the bright lights and attractive girls in Santa hats. We buy something, only to find it 20 minutes later at half the price. We walk in planning to spend $300-400... and leave owing a loan shark named Bruno $2,000.
With all this in mind and in the spirit of Christmas, I’d like to give an apology in advance to the people I’m buying for this year. You know who you are, you’ve politely pretended to like my gifts for years.
I’m going to try and do better this year. I promise.
Socks and undies are still in vogue right?
Monday, November 8, 2010
A proud legacy...sort of...
Having dinner with my grandparents is usually the highlight of my increasingly-boring weeks.
I enjoy keeping them company, deciphering my Nonno’s english and the look on my Nonna’s face as her husband of 60 years tells me how Deal or No Deal is rigged.
The last time I sat down with them, enjoying my Nonna’s cooking a little too much, we got to talking about what life was like when they first came to Australia from Italy.
They told me about how no one understood a word they said, how they had to overcome poverty and sickness to raise a family, how they taught themselves a new language, toiled on fields and made a new home.
By comparison, it makes my lifestyle today look like a walk in the park – which in reality is an understatement.
My grandparents have seen a fair bit in their time: World War 2, the first TV, the telephone, man on the moon, the Cold War, the Vietnam War, the medical revolution, the internet, reality TV, the Sopranos finale, Avatar, a black president and a female Prime Minister.
How did they manage to go through life without mobile phones, Facebook, Twitter and 38-hour work weeks for those first 70-odd years?
While we’re on the subject, what would my beautiful Nonna twitter in 1952?
Nonna_CoolJ: Just walked 22 kilometres to do some shopping, am off to cook for my husband, fend off snakes and pick peas in the farm. Thank God I was born in this era.
Every generation works hard so their children and grandchildren can have a better life.
In 20 years, I’ll be sitting down with my little son Dominic Jnr or daughter eBay, trying to get them to respect me and my plight and I’ll have nothing.
“I never copped a beating, fought in a war or faced any real hardship, but during my time… ummm… petrol prices were pretty high.”
“WOW dad! Tell us again about that horrible day you had to iron your own shirt!”
What legacy will we leave?
We were able to successfully justify laziness? We had the combined attention span of a three year old child? We stood idly by and let Paris Hilton become a celebrity?
I've had enough. I'm putting a stop to this. I'm going to stand up and do something memorable. Something my grandchildren can respect me for… right after I’m finished watching this show…
I enjoy keeping them company, deciphering my Nonno’s english and the look on my Nonna’s face as her husband of 60 years tells me how Deal or No Deal is rigged.
The last time I sat down with them, enjoying my Nonna’s cooking a little too much, we got to talking about what life was like when they first came to Australia from Italy.
They told me about how no one understood a word they said, how they had to overcome poverty and sickness to raise a family, how they taught themselves a new language, toiled on fields and made a new home.
By comparison, it makes my lifestyle today look like a walk in the park – which in reality is an understatement.
My grandparents have seen a fair bit in their time: World War 2, the first TV, the telephone, man on the moon, the Cold War, the Vietnam War, the medical revolution, the internet, reality TV, the Sopranos finale, Avatar, a black president and a female Prime Minister.
How did they manage to go through life without mobile phones, Facebook, Twitter and 38-hour work weeks for those first 70-odd years?
While we’re on the subject, what would my beautiful Nonna twitter in 1952?
Nonna_CoolJ: Just walked 22 kilometres to do some shopping, am off to cook for my husband, fend off snakes and pick peas in the farm. Thank God I was born in this era.
Every generation works hard so their children and grandchildren can have a better life.
In 20 years, I’ll be sitting down with my little son Dominic Jnr or daughter eBay, trying to get them to respect me and my plight and I’ll have nothing.
“I never copped a beating, fought in a war or faced any real hardship, but during my time… ummm… petrol prices were pretty high.”
“WOW dad! Tell us again about that horrible day you had to iron your own shirt!”
What legacy will we leave?
We were able to successfully justify laziness? We had the combined attention span of a three year old child? We stood idly by and let Paris Hilton become a celebrity?
I've had enough. I'm putting a stop to this. I'm going to stand up and do something memorable. Something my grandchildren can respect me for… right after I’m finished watching this show…
Monday, October 18, 2010
Now I can die in peace
Ever since I was old enough to walk, talk and complain, there's been one thing I've wanted above all else.
Like every other kid, I pined for video games, bikes, toys and complete immunity from unloading the dishwasher, but I would have given all that up for something much more important - a Collingwood premiership.
Rightly or wrongly, my parents brought us up with a passion for all sports, especially football. This never correlated into any physical talent to speak of, but the scene was set for a lifetime of entertaining ups and downs.
The older I got, the more the passion grew. The more the passion grew, the more desperate I got for success. The more desperate I got for success, the more I had my heart broken.
This vicious cycle continued to haunt me until October 2, 2010.
At 24, masquerading as an adult, I had seen a fair bit in life, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Nothing would prepare me for the day that I finally got what I wanted.
Here’s what I remember…
9.30am: Awake. I complete my zombie walk from bed to the shower and slowly become a human being again.
10.15am: The usual morning routine – Brush teeth, sneak a quick gulp of milk from the carton and wonder around the house aimlessly for 10 minutes.
10.30am: Crisis. I can’t find my lucky Collingwood scarf. Crisis!!
Collingwood can’t win without the scarf!
We’re ruined!
Wait...wait…crisis averted, it was right in front of me.
10.35am: Get picked up by great mate Brendan, throw drinks into his eski, make our way to the MCG.
11.15am: Get to the mighty MCG, open up my first cold beer and take in a perfect spring day in Melbourne.
There’s a buzz in the air. I love that moment before a big game when everyone at the stadium still has hope and excitement.
11.30am: We take out a football for a kick. With hundreds of people sitting around enjoying barbecues, I decide to go up for a big mark, slip and start my big day by eating a mouthful of dirt.
It wasn’t bad enough to fall, but I think I seriously injured my hip. With everyone watching on and small children laughing at me, I soldiered on.
12.00pm: We make our way inside the ground, put some bets on and find our seats.
1.00pm: Lionel Ritchie headlines the pre-game entertainment. 40+ year old woman are uncontrollable. The rest of us were just happy we didn’t have to sit through INXS again.
2.00pm: The nerves are unbearable. After such a long season and the drama of a drawn grand final, I don’t think I’d ever recover from a loss.
2.30pm: First bounce! Collingwood start like a house on fire, putting the first two goals on the board. The crowd is unbelievable.
2.45pm: The Saints go forward, break the Collingwood zone and the ball makes its way to Nick Riewoldt in the goal square. Point-blank-bloody-range.
No! Smothered on the goal line! Heath Shaw! What the hell!?
Collingwood fans look at one another, hope in their eyes, too scared to say the obvious for fear of reprisal – That’s a sign. This is our day.
3.50pm: After the Saints squandered chances in the second and third quarters, Collingwood kick clear. Dane Swan runs into an open goal, putting Collingwood up by 46 points.
I let myself believe.
4.20pm: The last quarter is party time. After a Dale Thomas goal, I hug everyone around me.
At this point I look down at my phone. No signal. Thanks so much Vodafone. Way to let me down.
It’s very hard to believe this is actually happening. I get Brendan to hit me to make sure.
4.45-ish-pm: The final siren goes, Collingwood win the premiership.
Collingwood fans embrace. Everywhere I turn people are crying. I start tearing up.
We sing the song 25 times, watch the players do a lap of honour and decide to head back to the car and begin our celebrations.
Still can’t believe it. Still waiting for the world to explode.
5.45pm: The scenes outside the ground are unbelievable. A guy steps up to me and says, “YOU, hug me NOW!”
There is no such thing as strangers now. If you’re wearing black and white, get ready for a deep, meaningful embrace.
6.30pm: We get back to Brendan’s jeep, open up the eski and I have the sweetest-tasting beer of my life. With the MCG in the backdrop and pie fans in song everywhere, we start making phone calls to family and friends.
8.00pm: 40,000 fans pack into neighbouring AAMI Stadium as Eddie McGuire addresses the faithful on stage.
Every loss and dissapointment is forgotten as he says proudly, "Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Collingwood!"
The rest of the night was a haze of singing, drinking and one very expensive taxi home.
Following a premiership team… I could definitely get use to this.
Like every other kid, I pined for video games, bikes, toys and complete immunity from unloading the dishwasher, but I would have given all that up for something much more important - a Collingwood premiership.
Rightly or wrongly, my parents brought us up with a passion for all sports, especially football. This never correlated into any physical talent to speak of, but the scene was set for a lifetime of entertaining ups and downs.
The older I got, the more the passion grew. The more the passion grew, the more desperate I got for success. The more desperate I got for success, the more I had my heart broken.
This vicious cycle continued to haunt me until October 2, 2010.
At 24, masquerading as an adult, I had seen a fair bit in life, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Nothing would prepare me for the day that I finally got what I wanted.
Here’s what I remember…
9.30am: Awake. I complete my zombie walk from bed to the shower and slowly become a human being again.
10.15am: The usual morning routine – Brush teeth, sneak a quick gulp of milk from the carton and wonder around the house aimlessly for 10 minutes.
10.30am: Crisis. I can’t find my lucky Collingwood scarf. Crisis!!
Collingwood can’t win without the scarf!
We’re ruined!
Wait...wait…crisis averted, it was right in front of me.
10.35am: Get picked up by great mate Brendan, throw drinks into his eski, make our way to the MCG.
11.15am: Get to the mighty MCG, open up my first cold beer and take in a perfect spring day in Melbourne.
There’s a buzz in the air. I love that moment before a big game when everyone at the stadium still has hope and excitement.
11.30am: We take out a football for a kick. With hundreds of people sitting around enjoying barbecues, I decide to go up for a big mark, slip and start my big day by eating a mouthful of dirt.
It wasn’t bad enough to fall, but I think I seriously injured my hip. With everyone watching on and small children laughing at me, I soldiered on.
12.00pm: We make our way inside the ground, put some bets on and find our seats.
1.00pm: Lionel Ritchie headlines the pre-game entertainment. 40+ year old woman are uncontrollable. The rest of us were just happy we didn’t have to sit through INXS again.
2.00pm: The nerves are unbearable. After such a long season and the drama of a drawn grand final, I don’t think I’d ever recover from a loss.
2.30pm: First bounce! Collingwood start like a house on fire, putting the first two goals on the board. The crowd is unbelievable.
2.45pm: The Saints go forward, break the Collingwood zone and the ball makes its way to Nick Riewoldt in the goal square. Point-blank-bloody-range.
No! Smothered on the goal line! Heath Shaw! What the hell!?
Collingwood fans look at one another, hope in their eyes, too scared to say the obvious for fear of reprisal – That’s a sign. This is our day.
3.50pm: After the Saints squandered chances in the second and third quarters, Collingwood kick clear. Dane Swan runs into an open goal, putting Collingwood up by 46 points.
I let myself believe.
4.20pm: The last quarter is party time. After a Dale Thomas goal, I hug everyone around me.
At this point I look down at my phone. No signal. Thanks so much Vodafone. Way to let me down.
It’s very hard to believe this is actually happening. I get Brendan to hit me to make sure.
4.45-ish-pm: The final siren goes, Collingwood win the premiership.
Collingwood fans embrace. Everywhere I turn people are crying. I start tearing up.
We sing the song 25 times, watch the players do a lap of honour and decide to head back to the car and begin our celebrations.
Still can’t believe it. Still waiting for the world to explode.
5.45pm: The scenes outside the ground are unbelievable. A guy steps up to me and says, “YOU, hug me NOW!”
There is no such thing as strangers now. If you’re wearing black and white, get ready for a deep, meaningful embrace.
6.30pm: We get back to Brendan’s jeep, open up the eski and I have the sweetest-tasting beer of my life. With the MCG in the backdrop and pie fans in song everywhere, we start making phone calls to family and friends.
8.00pm: 40,000 fans pack into neighbouring AAMI Stadium as Eddie McGuire addresses the faithful on stage.
Every loss and dissapointment is forgotten as he says proudly, "Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Collingwood!"
The rest of the night was a haze of singing, drinking and one very expensive taxi home.
Following a premiership team… I could definitely get use to this.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The final day
Strange things happen to grown men who follow football.
Logic, decency, maturity… They’re either ignored or never there to begin with.
For the whole of 2010, I’ve attended and watched games, spilling beer on myself, losing all my bets and repelling women.
Something’s been different this year- we’ve been winning. There’s been less stress, more fun and a lot more hatred thrown my way.
With a grand final appearance just days away, it’s got to the stage where a premiership is finally a genuine possibility.
This has me nervous, excited and scared.
I’ve built a personality around near misses and heartbreak. I have no idea what to do with success and happiness.
What do successful people wear? Should I learn how to smile? What do I do with my hands?
What happens to people after success? Do we enjoy our moment and then disappear into obscurity like Will Smith? Or can we carry on and have long-lasting success like an Australian Idol winner?
Do I rub it in people’s faces? Do I wear a smug smile on my face for 6 months?
I’m so lost.
At the very least, if we cop another heart-breaking loss, I’ll know what to do with myself – Cry into a pillow, post a rhetorical depressing Facebook status update and tell myself that everything will be ok…Just like every other Friday night.
Logic, decency, maturity… They’re either ignored or never there to begin with.
For the whole of 2010, I’ve attended and watched games, spilling beer on myself, losing all my bets and repelling women.
Something’s been different this year- we’ve been winning. There’s been less stress, more fun and a lot more hatred thrown my way.
With a grand final appearance just days away, it’s got to the stage where a premiership is finally a genuine possibility.
This has me nervous, excited and scared.
I’ve built a personality around near misses and heartbreak. I have no idea what to do with success and happiness.
What do successful people wear? Should I learn how to smile? What do I do with my hands?
What happens to people after success? Do we enjoy our moment and then disappear into obscurity like Will Smith? Or can we carry on and have long-lasting success like an Australian Idol winner?
Do I rub it in people’s faces? Do I wear a smug smile on my face for 6 months?
I’m so lost.
At the very least, if we cop another heart-breaking loss, I’ll know what to do with myself – Cry into a pillow, post a rhetorical depressing Facebook status update and tell myself that everything will be ok…Just like every other Friday night.
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