Aquamarinejewel
12 Jul 2007, 01:30
The latest instalment - Game day preparation......
Anxiety, fear, paranoia (http://realfooty.com.au/news/news/anxiety-fear-paranoia/2007/07/11/1183833599061.html)
The Age
Robert Murphy | July 12, 2007
ONE can only imagine what Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were feeling in the moments before their rocket ship took off for the moon. Nerves and excitement, certainly, but did fear also go along for the ride?
Even with the world watching, I bet Aldrin and Armstrong could have flown that ship to Warragul and landed it on my childhood home with their eyes shut, so meticulous was their training, and so oblivious were they to outside influences. But what about the hours leading up to the countdown? Were they an excruciating battle against the great foe of anxiety, a decorated warrior with many a high-profile scalp on his belt?
We could talk about the pressures and intensity of football itself for eons, but this other battle that goes on in the AFL receives little media attention and is only fought in the homes and cars of players in the hours before we take the field. It is a silent war that I suspect has been going on forever.
Football players, in my observations, are some of the most paranoid people around. I suppose this comes from being watched and critiqued by coaches and media from a very young age. That sort of attention can take a toll, but does it explain some of the strange behaviour of a footballer on the morning of a game day, every week of the football year?
Last Saturday I woke, as I do most mornings, to the sound of Arthur's heavy breathing in my ear. For Arthur the new day will be almost identical to the last: sleep, toilet, toys, sniffing, toilet, food, afternoon nap.
For me, however, Saturday is quite different. It is, of course, game day, and we are taking on Port Adelaide at the Dome. It only takes me two seconds to gather my thoughts, and I'm jolted into the reality that in six hours I'll be going to war.
It's 7.45am, and as I go about my morning bathroom rituals only one thought occupies my mind — judgement day. Even as I stroll down to my local coffee shop, the city is still asleep, and it feels as though people are staying indoors for as long as they can.
On such a morning my coffee tastes a little off; just something different about it. It's hard to pinpoint, but I think the nerves are starting to take hold and the tastebuds are victim No. 1 in a long line of casualties over the next few hours.
You would think that after 100-odd appearances in my beloved red, white and blue, these feelings of anxiety would be handled a little better. But as each game passes, it feels as though the nerves get stronger and stronger.
By around 10am, I've already packed and unpacked my bag three times, and doubled that in trips to the lavatory. I've managed to put down two litres of water and a litre of sports drink, along with enough vitamins and potions to power a small town for a year.
The next big obstacle is eating lunch. With a 2pm game, I always like to have this out of the way by about 11. On the menu today is spaghetti on toast, and it goes down like sawdust. On the positive side, it has reached the first check point of 11am. There are only three hours to go before I can relax and have 22 grown men try to break me and my friends in half.
After lunch it is time to get my suit out of the wardrobe and prepare to at least look the part. After my fifth go at getting my tie how I want it, I load up the car, where I'm hoping the short trip to the Dome with my own tunes playing will drown out the nerves and internal dialogue.
The journey is going well and I finally feel I am getting on top of things, starting to feel confident and energised about what the day might bring. Then paranoia kicks in. I happen to check my phone while stopped at a traffic light, and see it has been switched off since I went to bed last night. The next few minutes are difficult for me to understand or articulate, so I will just present the facts as they unfolded.
Coming to a halt outside the Vic Market, I tell myself the game may actually be starting at 1.10pm and not the more traditional 2.10pm. This is based on no other information than the traffic being quite bad, and thinking that if I was actually running late, no one could contact me. I am thankful now no one was travelling with me in the car, because the next five minutes were more intense than the game itself.
As I arrived at the ground and scurried down to the changerooms, I found that I was one of the first there. Start time is 2.10pm. Like I said, we are a very paranoid bunch.
There are a still few things to do, most of them a nice distraction from the excitement and nerves. My personal favourite is the walk out to the ground in our suits, bouncing a ball and having a look around, just to make sure everything is the same size as it was last time.
After that it is down to business as we swiftly move into a routine that would put most choreographers to shame. Team meetings followed by some Aerobics Oz style warm-ups, then we bust out the testosterone with some loud yelling and tackling. The atmosphere is almost at fever pitch by the time we run out to play.
There is one last chance for some paranoia, though, as I duck under the banner, careful not to touch any paper. Finally, free to run and do what we love, the nerves and anxiety that were almost crippling only minutes before feel like a distant memory. It is time to play ball. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Anxiety, fear, paranoia (http://realfooty.com.au/news/news/anxiety-fear-paranoia/2007/07/11/1183833599061.html)
The Age
Robert Murphy | July 12, 2007
ONE can only imagine what Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were feeling in the moments before their rocket ship took off for the moon. Nerves and excitement, certainly, but did fear also go along for the ride?
Even with the world watching, I bet Aldrin and Armstrong could have flown that ship to Warragul and landed it on my childhood home with their eyes shut, so meticulous was their training, and so oblivious were they to outside influences. But what about the hours leading up to the countdown? Were they an excruciating battle against the great foe of anxiety, a decorated warrior with many a high-profile scalp on his belt?
We could talk about the pressures and intensity of football itself for eons, but this other battle that goes on in the AFL receives little media attention and is only fought in the homes and cars of players in the hours before we take the field. It is a silent war that I suspect has been going on forever.
Football players, in my observations, are some of the most paranoid people around. I suppose this comes from being watched and critiqued by coaches and media from a very young age. That sort of attention can take a toll, but does it explain some of the strange behaviour of a footballer on the morning of a game day, every week of the football year?
Last Saturday I woke, as I do most mornings, to the sound of Arthur's heavy breathing in my ear. For Arthur the new day will be almost identical to the last: sleep, toilet, toys, sniffing, toilet, food, afternoon nap.
For me, however, Saturday is quite different. It is, of course, game day, and we are taking on Port Adelaide at the Dome. It only takes me two seconds to gather my thoughts, and I'm jolted into the reality that in six hours I'll be going to war.
It's 7.45am, and as I go about my morning bathroom rituals only one thought occupies my mind — judgement day. Even as I stroll down to my local coffee shop, the city is still asleep, and it feels as though people are staying indoors for as long as they can.
On such a morning my coffee tastes a little off; just something different about it. It's hard to pinpoint, but I think the nerves are starting to take hold and the tastebuds are victim No. 1 in a long line of casualties over the next few hours.
You would think that after 100-odd appearances in my beloved red, white and blue, these feelings of anxiety would be handled a little better. But as each game passes, it feels as though the nerves get stronger and stronger.
By around 10am, I've already packed and unpacked my bag three times, and doubled that in trips to the lavatory. I've managed to put down two litres of water and a litre of sports drink, along with enough vitamins and potions to power a small town for a year.
The next big obstacle is eating lunch. With a 2pm game, I always like to have this out of the way by about 11. On the menu today is spaghetti on toast, and it goes down like sawdust. On the positive side, it has reached the first check point of 11am. There are only three hours to go before I can relax and have 22 grown men try to break me and my friends in half.
After lunch it is time to get my suit out of the wardrobe and prepare to at least look the part. After my fifth go at getting my tie how I want it, I load up the car, where I'm hoping the short trip to the Dome with my own tunes playing will drown out the nerves and internal dialogue.
The journey is going well and I finally feel I am getting on top of things, starting to feel confident and energised about what the day might bring. Then paranoia kicks in. I happen to check my phone while stopped at a traffic light, and see it has been switched off since I went to bed last night. The next few minutes are difficult for me to understand or articulate, so I will just present the facts as they unfolded.
Coming to a halt outside the Vic Market, I tell myself the game may actually be starting at 1.10pm and not the more traditional 2.10pm. This is based on no other information than the traffic being quite bad, and thinking that if I was actually running late, no one could contact me. I am thankful now no one was travelling with me in the car, because the next five minutes were more intense than the game itself.
As I arrived at the ground and scurried down to the changerooms, I found that I was one of the first there. Start time is 2.10pm. Like I said, we are a very paranoid bunch.
There are a still few things to do, most of them a nice distraction from the excitement and nerves. My personal favourite is the walk out to the ground in our suits, bouncing a ball and having a look around, just to make sure everything is the same size as it was last time.
After that it is down to business as we swiftly move into a routine that would put most choreographers to shame. Team meetings followed by some Aerobics Oz style warm-ups, then we bust out the testosterone with some loud yelling and tackling. The atmosphere is almost at fever pitch by the time we run out to play.
There is one last chance for some paranoia, though, as I duck under the banner, careful not to touch any paper. Finally, free to run and do what we love, the nerves and anxiety that were almost crippling only minutes before feel like a distant memory. It is time to play ball. I wouldn't have it any other way.