Perth’s Optus Stadium will host its first AFL grand final on Saturday night. Photo: OPTUS STADIUM
An overcrowded metro train
is nearing Burswood Station,
the dazzling Optus Stadium
the chosen destination,
where kids are playing kick-to-kick,
and zealous fans embrace,
and stalls are selling scarves and things,
they’ll even paint your face,
and little boys in fluro smocks
patrol like feudal lords,
with gusto they repeat the word:
‘Rec-ords! Rec-ords! Rec-ords!’
Inside the incandescent ground,
the stands are filling up,
and everybody’s wondering
who will lift the cup.
A grand display of LEDs
illuminate the stands,
transmitting power from heaven’s throne
to faith-abiding fans.
The Catholic has the Vatican,
the Jew, the synagogue,
the Buddhist has the temple,
the Aztec lauds the dog,
every culture looks towards
a supernatural force,
Australians have their footy fields…
oval shaped of course.
While conquered nations play the games
their captors make them play,
‘Let us play a different game,’
those quaint Australians say.
And watch them play their different game
on quagmire, grass or sand,
from rugged shores of Albany
to cliffs of Arnhem Land.
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At last! At last! The hour has come,
the players line the race,
the seagulls screech farewell then
disappear without a trace,
and then a mighty rushing wind
ignites the anxious choir
as teams emerge, supporters stand
and speak in tongues of fire.
The umpy strides to centre square,
the players take position,
supporters roar like maniacs,
(oblivious of their condition),
and players feel surrounded by
a million hungry lions,
and in the sky the setting sun
sizzles like an iron.
The umpy holds the ball aloft,
the siren finally sounds,
the noise has reached crescendo,
the heart of a nation pounds,
a sound reverberating like
the Colosseum’s roar
when the hapless Christian chanced upon
the hungry lion’s jaw.
*
What an exhibition!
The crowd cannot keep still
but shift and sway with each display
of power, grace and skill,
such dazzling moves enthral the crowd;
they tap-dance with the ball,
and like a grand Shakespearean play,
there is a part for all:
the seasoned star, the skinny kid,
the tall, the short, the dreamer,
the birdman flying through the air
to take a breathless screamer,
the loose man streaming down the wing,
the thrilling one-on-ones,
the goal sneak scouting by the packs
to gather up the crumbs.
*
The siren sounds, the ground is filled
with scenes of jubilation,
supporters, players, coaches, gods
are joined in celebration.
The skipper lifts the golden calf
to echoes of the choir,
and once again that zealot crowd
speak in tongues of fire.
September’s moon has slipped behind
a brooding mass of cloud,
but players drink the cup of joy
and dance among the crowd.
And when the dark of night descends
the crowd is up and gone
across the Matagarup Bridge,
above the mighty Swan.
The bridge lights up the darkness like
a luminescent kite,
and all who walk upon it now
are bathed in beams of light.
Parts of this poem are adapted from the book ‘Strange Game in a Strange Land’
