My grandfather wasn’t a man of many words. In fact, for the first 10 years of my life, our interactions were remarkably similar to those between Wayne Bennett and the media.
A few monosyllables, maybe a wisecrack or two, but that was about it. However, unlike Wayne Bennett, my grandfather wasn’t intentional in his reservation. He just wasn’t a man of many words.
About the only thing that could muster a passionate response during my youth was sports. Every Friday night, and almost every Sunday afternoon (whenever he didn’t have a game of tennis to play, of course), he was parked on his favourite chair watching NRL on Channel 9.
As it turned out, his love of sports was genetic – particularly when it came to rugby league. When I was 12, a sudden switch was turned on in my brain which demanded that I learn everything there was to know about rugby league, and I did my utmost to comply.
In the early hours of November 2004, during a routine stay at my grandparents’ house, I was startled awake by the sounds of footsteps. Then, the door opened, and without seeing a face I heard “The Tri-Nations Final is on. Want to watch it?” It was a rare invitation, and I leapt at the opportunity.
Before the game, my grandfather – or Granddad as we called him – gave me a brief rundown of the history behind the occasion. He told me about the famous Kangaroo tours of the late 1980s and early ’90s, recalling the famous players who hade donned the green and gold.
Names such as Ricky Stuart, Andrew Ettingshausen and Wally Lewis rolled off his tongue with ease, and while I would soon become familiar with them, at the time I didn’t have the slightest clue as to who they were. But that didn’t matter. Me and Granddad were watching the footy together.
After doing his utmost to build the match as something important and must-see, Granddad promptly fell asleep in less then two minutes. Of course, after the full-time siren had sounded, and the Kangaroos had won 44-4, he woke up and stated, without skipping a beat, “Impressive win, that, The Brits never had a chance”.
It is a memory I cherish to this day.
Looking back, a lot of important milestones in sporting history seem to be associated with my Grandfather.
There was the time, at the age of 12, when I sat outside the living room, where my Grandad was watching the historic 2005 Australian Open Final in which Lleyton Hewitt took on Marat Safin. After enduring three consecutive sets in complete silence, trying to remain undetected (I was suppose to have gone to bed two hours earlier), Granddad spoke up “Well, this is probably going to be the final set, so you may as well come in and watch the rest of it”.
Apparently, he’d known I was there the whole time. As it turned out, he was right in his prediction, as Hewitt lost the match. I still considered it a personal victory of sorts though.
Speaking of tennis, I must mention the summer of 2007, in which I spent two weeks with my grandparents. During that time, Granddad and myself watched the entirety of the Hopman Cup together. I didn’t know what was at stake, and still can’t remember who was playing, nor have I watched a full game of tennis since.
But it remains a particularly enduring memory from my teenage years, because even though we didn’t say a whole lot to each other, the memory of sitting next to my Granddad watching two nameless tennis players hit a ball back and forth for hours on end is one I wish I could relive.
(Photo by Brendon Thorne/Getty Images)
Of course, I’d spent a lot more time seated next to my Grandfather watching NRL, and over time I came up with a game. A game only I knew was being played. Whenever we watched the NRL, it was incredibly hard to gauge what he liked and didn’t liked.
As far as I knew, he didn’t go for any team. Nor did he have a favourite player. He just watched it for the love of the game itself. While it’s an outlook to be respected, I couldn’t fathom of such a thing. I bled the colours of my favourite team, and my bedroom walls were adorned with posters of whomever my favourite player was at the time.
So, I decided that I would randomly read out stats from my Big League magazine and see what stuck. At first, it didn’t draw the desired response.
I thought that, since he was a fan of John Wayne, maybe the strong, silent type was his kind of player.
“Hey Granddad, did you see Ben Kennedy’s stats from the weekend? Unbelievable the amount of work he gets through”.
No response.
Hmmm. Maybe he preferred to keep his finger on the pulse of whatever was new and exciting.
“Man, Greg Inglis with over 200 metres on the weekend. Reminds me of Michael Cronin during Parra’s glory days in the mid 80s!” (I was born in 1993).
No response.
Finally, a hail Mary.
“That Robbie Farah, I swear he’s one of the most consistent players in the comp. Just look at his numbers here in Big League.”
(Photo by Cameron Spencer/Getty Images)
“Well, he’s the most consistent player in the competition, and I think he’d make a great captain for New South Wales. No better hooker in the game”.
Turns out, he was a huge fan of Robbie Farah. Who knew?
There’s a scene in The Simpsons which depicts Abe Simpson witnessing famous events in history from the same spot on the couch. The moon landing, the assignation of JFK, you name it – he watched it. All from the comfort of his loungeroom.
Granddad was very much the same way when it came to the NRL. Andrew Johns darting to the blindside, Thurston’s field goal in the 2015 Grand Final, Cattledog, I’d wager a handsome sum that he was sitting in his recliner taking it all in, his facial expression barely changing the entire time.
As a young child, I shook my head at the moments my Granddad was missing out on. He had the means, so why didn’t he go watch a game in person from time to time.
In 2005, my father (the son of the aforementioned Granddad) managed to procure favourable seats to that year’s NRL Grand Final. Perhaps the biggest selling point for me was that Granddad was going to go.
Sure, he was pretty inexpressive when it came to watching a game live on TV, but I was sure that the intoxicating atmosphere of such a major event as the Grand Final would overwhelm him, and he’d react animatedly as each moment played out in front of him.
At the end of 80 minutes, as the “Eye of the Tiger” blared throughout the stadium, and the Wests Tigers had achieved a famous victory, I took a break from screaming Benji Marshall’s name to look back at my Granddad, who was surely beside himself with jubilation.
In hindsight, his reaction is something that has become more special in time. There he was, sat amongst a crowd of drunken lunatics, with a wry smile, not looking too different to if he’d watched the game at home.
At the time, I was worried. Had he not enjoyed the game? Was something wrong? As the thousands of fans filed out into the Sydney night, I slowed down to talk to him. He didn’t have much to say, but I continued walking beside him in silence.
Twenty minutes later, having reached the hotel, we bid farewell. Before we went our separate ways, however, my grandfather paused, looked at me and said “That flick pass was impressive, wasn’t it? Benji Marshall is a good player”.
To me, it was Granddad code for “That was a fun night at the football, James. Although in future I would prefer to watch the game from the comfort of my recliner, on television”.
While I continued to attend the NRL Grand Final for the next several years with my father and brother, my Granddad stayed at home in his favourite spot. I understood. I mean, even the Wests Tigers haven’t recovered from that night (Sorry, I had to).
Two years later, after having expressed his preference to watch NRL on television and not in person, my grandfather made a triumphant return to live sport in 2007. Only, this was about as far removed from the splendour of a Grand Final as an NRL fixture possibly could be.
Benji Marshall on the run in 2005. (Photo by Matt King/Getty Images)
Taking place at the former Bluetongue Stadium in Gosford was a game between the resurgent South Sydney Rabbitohs and the lowly Newcastle Knights, who were in the midst of an ill-fated facelift under new coach Brian Smith.
Although I’d expressed an interest in going to the game, Granddad had every right to tell me it wasn’t happening. In fact, he could have just opened the respective team lists, as well as the ladder, and merely gestured toward them, at which point I would’ve responded “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stay home and read about it in tomorrow’s paper”.
But he didn’t do that. No, Granddad broke his self-imposed, and never publicised, prohibition on attending live sports to go the game with me.
I don’t remember much of the game. I think the score was 30-something to 12, but I can’t be sure. I don’t recall who won. The only thing that mattered to me, both then and now, was that I was sitting in the stands at an NRL game with my Granddad. And that was all that mattered.
I have a vague memory of him humming along to “Freebird” on the way home, although that may be a personal embellishment.
It would be the last game my Grandfather attended, although not because of any impending demise on his part. No, he was a man of few words, and thus he preferred to sit in his lounge room on his familiar recliner, watching on his familiar television, not surrounded by thousands of unfamiliar (and usually rambunctious) patrons.
Nor did he have to deal with a ground announcer shouting “Get on your feet for [Instert team here]” while Mötley Crüe’s “Kickstart My Heart” blared over the loudspeakers at 2pm on a Sunday afternoon.
Eighteen years after our sojourn to Bluetongue Stadium (which now operates under the much-less catchy name of Polytec Stadium), I attended a recent game between Newcastle and Manly at McDonald Jones Stadium. It was very cold. And loud. It was very cold and loud. Having had enough, at halftime I left and went home to watch the remainder of the game on television. Despite my discomfort, I managed a smile on the way out, finally understanding why Granddad was the way he was.
I’ve been to Suncorp Stadium, Accor Stadium, Brookie Oval, McDonald Jones Stadium, and a litany of other famous rugby league grounds, but none compare to the spot I once occupied on the lounge in my grandparents’ living room, seated right next to my Granddad.
As time went on, and I grew older, my interest in rugby league – and sports in general – began to wane, even though I continued to attend a couple of games a year. Still, whenever I visited my grandparents, I made sure to buy a newspaper or two, devour the sports section, and then talk with my Granddad about whatever was going on in the world of rugby league. He was never any the wiser.
Daniel Tupou celebrates scoring. (Photo by Darrian Traynor/Getty Images)
A fortnight ago, in the final weekend of his life, my grandfather lay in a hospital bed, aware the end was nigh. Despite the ominous circumstances, he managed to watch one last game of football. Some 150km away in my Newcastle home, I watched the same fixture, in which the Sydney Roosters took on the North Queensland Cowboys.
I didn’t have any interest in either team, nor did I care who won, but it was still an opportunity to watch one last game of footy with Granddad, even if we weren’t together.
I didn’t go to his funeral. For me, I wanted to remember the countless hours we’d spent saying very little while watching a lot of sport.
When I was younger, as a rugby league fan I was obsessed with seeing my favourite team (at the time) Manly win a Grand Final. Now, all I want is to watch one more game with my Granddad.
James Ditchfieldhttps://https://ift.tt/gCAHSrs ties: Why sport is more than about the simple business of winning and losing
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