2. Mud, Sludge and Chicken Parma
On a cold wintry night / On a ground bound for juniors / I met up with the thirds team / We were all too cold to sleep
So with the immortal words of Kenny Rogers butchered and sitting in my head I stepped out into a typical Melbourne winter’s evening. Cursing my inability to want to wear more than a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I managed to, once again, shock the squad readying to train in an array of compression, tracksuit pants and snowsuits.
But this wasn’t just a night of bravado
It’s the night six to twelve players who manage to leave their work on time slog through puddles, mud and the occasional reserves player. All under the watchful eyes of a smugly grinning coach who’s wearing more layers than a home cooked lasagne. The ground churns under our boots like badly cooked gravy and every metaphor I can think of is about the dinner I’m hoping to reheat when I get back home.
This kind of night is reserved for the players who can make it. Or at least those who aren’t stuck in an office working through overtime, driving from Cragieburn to Frankston or looking through their final notes for an exam at 9am the next morning. The player who still is nursing a hamstring injury from a previously mentioned acrobatic display will SMS through a response to the right contact or possibly meander in to warm himself by the light of a lit cigarette.
These fine athletes open the exchange with mutterings about the cold or a curse at the recent loss by an AFL team before starting the group opening jog at a pace slightly faster than a hobbled snail. As the bones, hammies, ligaments and vocal chords warm up the pace quickens to minimise terminal frostbite.
Held to the ground by a combination of suction, gravity and cynicism, the training session begins in earnest with possession games. Possession football is not just for for the professionals, you see, the team who plays well together has a high tendency to not crumble into a lump of bickering testosterone when the ball hits the back of the wrong net. The banter becomes limited with names and grunts taking the place of personal insults and far fetched stories. The professional level focus is salaried for by pride and pride alone.
The drills come into play and the intensity picks up for a start. A minute of intensive work at a time stretches out the players with volleys, chests, one touch passing and headers that has everyone wondering if the coach is part sadist.
Finally, the session winds to a close off with a small sided game, often leaning heavily for one half of the team. From the years as a junior of attempting to skin every player on the field before shooting from the corner cone, the game tends to steady with some jostling and insults especially when the inevitable ‘nuts’ occurs. Having bright new boots centers the targeting on myself for a brief time before I’m shouldered off the ball by a player a head shorter and a few weight ratings higher.
The mud seems to have made little difference to the quality of the game, the team seeming to have found the one non immersed patch of grass but the drills and jogging has ensured all clothing is smuggling a few kilos of dirt with it.
As the ‘last goal wins’ rule is enforced, the team head to the clubhouse to shower, talk more about AFL or Rugby or Football or whatever other sport, we all gaze in longingly at the canteen to see what is on the menu for dinner. Being the last to start by virtue of arriving late we have to hurry a little to duck into the dining area and grab a plate of high protein meal, often with a side of chips. The chicken parma is a favourite and our team hustle into a corner of the room to cheer when we’re mentioned, joke about the last game and talk about what plans we all have for the weekend.
The stories start and the fact I understand only one language often means I’m asking for a translation of an insult, a description or a town name, varying between Greek, Macedonian or heavily Welsh accented english. Beers are dropped in between isotonic drinks and the last of the rostered canteen staff wave as they hang up the apron and each of the players slowly head home to a family, a loved one, a pet or just a warm bed.
It seems a little quieter as I head to the car with the floodlights cooling around the grounds, and the game pitch for sunday looking pristine without the damage that we inflicted to the training grounds tonight.
Look out for part 3, it’s a home game this Sunday