Hottie Geelonga Jimmy Bartel.
As you all know by know, I’m an avid Kangaroos supporter (Go Shannon!), but I couldn’t help but get excited about the Grand Final this Saturday. It was the Port Adelaide Power vs. the Geelong (say it again with me now: Ja-long) Cats, and when I say people were going mad, I mean mad.
Here’s the deal: Most teams in the AFL are based in and around Melbourne, VIC, (You’ve got Melbourne, North Melbourne, Carlton, Essendon, Collingwood, Geelong, and more — all local neighborhoods), but when the league expanded to the outer states (Perth, Sydney, Adelaide) the league pumped money into the teams to even out the competition. Unfortunately, it was a bit too much money, and the outerstates have now taken the title for the past few years. Bringing the victory back to Victoria was a big deal for Geelong, especially considering the club itself hadn’t won a cup in 44 years.
Come Saturday, Geelong’s blue and white stripes were everywhere. Kelly Clarkson even played one of the pre-Grand Final extravaganzas. There are official breakfasts, official concerts in Federation Square — even the morning show hosts were wearing team scarves. For a state that takes a sanctioned day off for the horse races, I was surprised people were working at all.
After a morning of shopping, I joined Shannon at an official Aussie barbie. Finally! I found myself alone, surrounded by drunk Aussie men, after Shannon ran out with a friend for a minute, so the first place I stopped was the barbeque, duh. To my horror, the guy grilling started chatting me up, desperately trying to get me to “smell that Aussie barbie!” Um, grey-ish, blue sausages? No thanks. Still, he pushed on (pushing me, literally, into the wafting sausage fumes): “Bring THAT back to America!” So I did what any nice American girl would do when faced with a raucous Aussie bloke: I ran away.
Moments later, Shannon reappeared and the game commenced. I had my money on Geelong, mostly because I couldn’t root for the team I watched beat Shannon. Turns out they didn’t need much rooting on. They won by 119 points. 163-44. The worst whooping in a Grand Final ever. Yee-haw.
Eventually I did eat one of those sausages (it was yummy, yay), and chatted with a few of Shannon’s mates. I barely remember anyone’s name: all I know is, it ends with an “o” or an “a.” I think I met a Coffo, a Gazza, who knows who else, and of course Shannon is “Swatta.”
We went out last night and the mad city was buzzing — thanks to the drunk girl on the tram, I’ve got the Geelong song stuck in my head: “Weee are Geelong, the greatest team of aaalllll…”