My football team sucks and life has no meaning
My football team sucks. Give it a thousand straws and a factory full of Hoovers and it couldn’t suck more. Because of this, life is utterly pointless.
Have you ever watched The Footy Show and dribbled your dinner down the front of your finest shirt as your brain completely shuts down from the overload of inanity? That’s me right now, numbed by a season of football pain.
Technically, all is not yet lost. If my team wins by a handsome margin, and the two teams above them lose, and Jupiter crashes into Uranus, and Rove McManus says something funny, then maybe, just maybe, they might just flop into the finals.
Won’t happen, but.
As surely as it’s bad grammar to put a conjunction at the end of a sentence, my team will play no part in September.
As surely as the Labor party will contest the next Federal election, my team will contest a completely pointless match this weekend which is bound to end in ignominy.
It’s over. Kaput. Because of all this, I can’t really think of a reason to get out of bed anymore.
Oh, I’ll squeeze a week or two out of the blame game to keep me going. That game is reaching fever pitch at this very moment on online forums, which is more than you can say for any game my football team played this year.
Blaming stuff is more fun than chasing seagulls. It’s the coach’s fault for being stale, the senior players’ fault for not setting the right example, the young players’ fault for not improving quickly enough, the club CEO’s fault for not commanding the respect of the boardroom, yada yada yada.
Personally, I blame the janitor. His skill set was a little dusty this year and he just didn’t get as many garbage disposals as usual.
I suppose I could look inwards for fulfilment. As a bald, middle-aged and increasingly flabby suburban father, what don’t I have to look forward to?
Seriously, there is much more of importance in my life than the performance of a team full of blokes who think a sushi train is a form of public transport made out of fish.
There’s… umm… well there’s… y’know… umm… umm… other sport!
It’s only six weeks till that thrilling car race between two heavily taxpayer-subsidised dying car brands on a mountain near Bathurst which is really just a hill.
Then there’s the Melbourne Cup, where you get the chance to cheer for those brave Australian horses running 17th as their French counterparts whoosh by.
The Boxing Day cricket Test should be a beauty this year. We’re playing the might of Sri Lanka.
Oh, who am I kidding? Life without your team in the football finals is a whirling maelstrom of despair, a predicament as bleak and meaningless as Parliamentary Question Time or a low budget Australian film.
Still, I suppose things could be worse. I could be a soccer fan.
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