GenQ - For the not so straight individual

For some, Grand Final weekend is the culmination of a season of passionate supporting and considered tipping. For others, it is simply a weekend when the shops are devoid of queues and traffic is non-existent. It's fairly safe to say that I fall into the latter category. More accurately, I actually relish Grand Final weekend for all that it stands for: the end of the bloody football season. So it was of great surprise to me that my mother and I found ourselves ?assuming the position? on Saturday: on the couch in front of the telly, bevvy in hand.

I've often wondered why, for such a physically demanding sport, the footy fanatic is generally portrayed as a middle-aged, slightly overweight, pasty-white pie aficionado. You know the kind ? a vision in knitted apparel, clutching a tinnie to within an inch of its life. A single kick from a favoured side is all that it takes to decide whether that tinnie-grip will be pushed to the next level, showering the lounge-room golden with VB.

Quite clearly, Mum and I did not transform into Norm in his ?Life, Be In It? heyday of the early 90s, but for certain reasons (hers: heartbreak, mine: hangover) on Saturday, we did begin to take on characteristics quite peculiar to ourselves. We were ? gasp ? captivated by the game. For those of you with an interest in AFL, sport-wise or tight-shorts-wise, this will be a relatively un-shocking revelation. To my lipstick sisters out there, however, I share your disbelief.

During that fateful afternoon, Mum and I were possessed by a footy demon. Conversation of man-hating was replaced by nods of man-loving: ?That was a great mark.? Wails of despair were replaced by manic screams: ?Kick it'KICK IT!!!? Calculating revenge was replaced by calculating points: ?Just one more goal, come on!? Short of sticking the tea-cosy on my head and throwing Mum a ring-pull can of tomatoes, we were the epitome of the elite Australian sport's fans.

It wasn't until a particularly tense moment was over and Mum leaned in to ask ?so, why are we going for the Swans?? that the full extent of our transformation was exposed. In just two quarters (and 36 points) we had evolved from crossword-addicted, tea-drinking girls, to rowdy, passionate supporters of a game we didn't even understand. How did this happen?

Some would say that we realised what a great game Aussie Rules actually is. Of course, these people are footy fans and should be treated with a degree of caution reserved to those who enjoy wearing teeny-tiny shorts with knee-high socks. Others ? and these are my sort of people ? might propose that football tells a story like no other sport, captivating its watchers and taking them on a journey from clean socks and rags, to dirty, bloodied riches.

We all have dreams of greatness, of overcoming our opponents and sweating it out until the end, and if you pardon the pun, footy personifies these goals. When I thought of football on Saturday, inspirational images came to mind. These guys fight and run and kick and mark, then sweat and bleed and go back into battle all over again, bones exposed and skin flapping in the breeze, all to support their team.

And so, when that final siren sounded and the Swans cried tears of jubilation, Mum and I cried, too. Granted, hers were more of heartbreak and mine of self-pity, but there was something else there. Sports fans don't have to be super-fit protein bar-munchers. Anyone, anywhere can take something more than a broken nose out of a game of footy. Even Norm.