When I was in kindergarten, I do not recall much alpha male stuff happening. Sure, kids got picked on, not invited to birthday parties, spun on the wizzy dizzy against their will until they puked or pissed themselves, or got ambushed while crawling through the hoopy tunnel thing, having both ends tied up with skipping ropes until saved by Miss Duff, but that was just kids being kids! If you pissed your pants while painting, because you just really really thought you could finish before... ohhhh.. no... but I didn't want that bit to be yellow... if you pissed yourself, the teacher just got you some spare, presumably clean undies out of the tub - boys or girls, blue or purple, pink or green, it didn't matter - you put them on and suffered. You suffered because everybody poked their head under the desk for the rest of the day and laughed at me.. er I mean whoever, but that was because you were just wearing undies for the rest of the day - not because of the cut or because of the colour!
But move forward a year or so to Grade 1 and there was an awakening happening. It started on the very first day of class... like some testosterone suddenly magically manifested in our gonads in unison, all the boys stood up and one by one, in an unspoken initiation ceremony.. actually this bit isn't true. It was still magical, but the truth was more profound. You see it started with one boy, with big balls who, after unpacking his new stationary supplies, stood up, went to the bin and snapped his pink pencil and texta, before discarding them in disgust. It was after seeing this, all the other small-balled boys followed. They went to the rubbish bin with their pink pencils and pink textas and snapped them in half, throwing them in the bin. I still have vivid memories of staring down into that rubbish bin and seeing those brand new pencils and textas lying in the bottom of the bin, broken, before making my sacrifice, not really knowing why I was doing it, only that I should. This seemed to do something weird to a few of the girls as well (and remember this is a true story) as a few of them also took out their pink pencils and started to hitch their school dresses up a little and.. er.. pull their panties to the side to insert them into themselves.. like some kind of new age eastern European feminist movement.. again all eyes were under the table.. This was a lot to take in for a shy 6 year old..
This activation meant that long socks and sandals when you lost or broke your school shoes was no longer an option - which meant for many, gumboots were the only option. It also meant that the boys formed factions easily, at least at first. I remember these at one point being based on what we thought the 'real' names of a doodle and fanny were. Some said 'dick' others said 'utensil'. I don't recall anybody having an answer to challenge fanny, that was simply a mystery to us mortal 6 year old boys. Again, it was the big-balled one who led the way, declaring that the real names were 'penis and vagina', and he knew because his mum told him. At first, all were in disbelief, as if! I remember thinking they are not even real words! And who talks to their parents about such things anyway, and worse, his mum was my Sunday School teacher (where sandals and long-socks were still okay)!
Some bravely mocked the big-balled one, and others, maybe even more bravely sought the counsel of a parent or older sibling.. and after a time the consensus was in, and it was indeed true.. but even we knew as 6 year olds that these were grown-up words, so for now we would still use doodle and we would still use fanny.. but though our vocabulary didn't change, something had shifted. These were the two great signs that the big-balled one was our leader - until this point, we did not even know that we needed leading, but our gonads had spoken, and they had chosen for us a KING..
Well not quite. The truth was, we hadn't chosen a king at all. He had been chosen by some force, but we had no say in it. Even if somebody wanted to walk their own path, they couldn't - or if they thought they could they risked being beaten and bashed by the King's minions. Never by the big-balled one himself, not that I ever remembered anyway. And the funny thing is, I never remember feeling injustice or wishing any harm on him, as I had seen the miracles myself, and there was an air of resignation that this was the way things just… were. I remember a lot of bullies throughout my school years, but this felt natural, not forced. From strength, not from weakness. The King was my best friend, but we were in no way equals.
I remember when I befell his judgement. The decree was to rid the school ground of any boy who was NOT a Geelong supporter. Now I don't really remember following a VFL team before this moment. I remember I used to like barracking for any team that Collingwood was playing to try and spite my father as a young boy, but the truth was, Dad played football every Saturday afternoon (and from all accounts was very very good at it) and in the early to mid 80's the VFL games were played mostly at 2pm on Saturday, and so I was always where ever he was - playing in the dirt with my match-box cars at Bethune Park, finding ancient artefacts in the pine trees at Lilydale, getting covered in red mud at Scottsdale or looking for dinosaur bones at Bluegum Park in George Town.. My footballing heroes were those I watched play with my dad - all hairy and oiled with footy shorts two sizes too small - they were like gods who I inspired to be like when I grew up, and they were who I pretended to be when we played in the back-yard or had a kick at half-time, not a player on some team on the TV screen - the TV was for 'The Smurfs', for 'He-Man', for 'Battle of the Planets' and for 'Astro-Boy'
But I do remember at some point having to pledge my allegiance to Geelong. Not to the King, that was a given, but to Geelong. So I did, as did all the boys.. eventually. And that is how as a kid in grade one, I became a Geelong Supporter..
What led you to follow your Footy team?
But move forward a year or so to Grade 1 and there was an awakening happening. It started on the very first day of class... like some testosterone suddenly magically manifested in our gonads in unison, all the boys stood up and one by one, in an unspoken initiation ceremony.. actually this bit isn't true. It was still magical, but the truth was more profound. You see it started with one boy, with big balls who, after unpacking his new stationary supplies, stood up, went to the bin and snapped his pink pencil and texta, before discarding them in disgust. It was after seeing this, all the other small-balled boys followed. They went to the rubbish bin with their pink pencils and pink textas and snapped them in half, throwing them in the bin. I still have vivid memories of staring down into that rubbish bin and seeing those brand new pencils and textas lying in the bottom of the bin, broken, before making my sacrifice, not really knowing why I was doing it, only that I should. This seemed to do something weird to a few of the girls as well (and remember this is a true story) as a few of them also took out their pink pencils and started to hitch their school dresses up a little and.. er.. pull their panties to the side to insert them into themselves.. like some kind of new age eastern European feminist movement.. again all eyes were under the table.. This was a lot to take in for a shy 6 year old..
This activation meant that long socks and sandals when you lost or broke your school shoes was no longer an option - which meant for many, gumboots were the only option. It also meant that the boys formed factions easily, at least at first. I remember these at one point being based on what we thought the 'real' names of a doodle and fanny were. Some said 'dick' others said 'utensil'. I don't recall anybody having an answer to challenge fanny, that was simply a mystery to us mortal 6 year old boys. Again, it was the big-balled one who led the way, declaring that the real names were 'penis and vagina', and he knew because his mum told him. At first, all were in disbelief, as if! I remember thinking they are not even real words! And who talks to their parents about such things anyway, and worse, his mum was my Sunday School teacher (where sandals and long-socks were still okay)!
Some bravely mocked the big-balled one, and others, maybe even more bravely sought the counsel of a parent or older sibling.. and after a time the consensus was in, and it was indeed true.. but even we knew as 6 year olds that these were grown-up words, so for now we would still use doodle and we would still use fanny.. but though our vocabulary didn't change, something had shifted. These were the two great signs that the big-balled one was our leader - until this point, we did not even know that we needed leading, but our gonads had spoken, and they had chosen for us a KING..
Well not quite. The truth was, we hadn't chosen a king at all. He had been chosen by some force, but we had no say in it. Even if somebody wanted to walk their own path, they couldn't - or if they thought they could they risked being beaten and bashed by the King's minions. Never by the big-balled one himself, not that I ever remembered anyway. And the funny thing is, I never remember feeling injustice or wishing any harm on him, as I had seen the miracles myself, and there was an air of resignation that this was the way things just… were. I remember a lot of bullies throughout my school years, but this felt natural, not forced. From strength, not from weakness. The King was my best friend, but we were in no way equals.
I remember when I befell his judgement. The decree was to rid the school ground of any boy who was NOT a Geelong supporter. Now I don't really remember following a VFL team before this moment. I remember I used to like barracking for any team that Collingwood was playing to try and spite my father as a young boy, but the truth was, Dad played football every Saturday afternoon (and from all accounts was very very good at it) and in the early to mid 80's the VFL games were played mostly at 2pm on Saturday, and so I was always where ever he was - playing in the dirt with my match-box cars at Bethune Park, finding ancient artefacts in the pine trees at Lilydale, getting covered in red mud at Scottsdale or looking for dinosaur bones at Bluegum Park in George Town.. My footballing heroes were those I watched play with my dad - all hairy and oiled with footy shorts two sizes too small - they were like gods who I inspired to be like when I grew up, and they were who I pretended to be when we played in the back-yard or had a kick at half-time, not a player on some team on the TV screen - the TV was for 'The Smurfs', for 'He-Man', for 'Battle of the Planets' and for 'Astro-Boy'
But I do remember at some point having to pledge my allegiance to Geelong. Not to the King, that was a given, but to Geelong. So I did, as did all the boys.. eventually. And that is how as a kid in grade one, I became a Geelong Supporter..
What led you to follow your Footy team?
