By Kim Waters.
From our eyrie at the MCG we watch
As the helicopters swoon and levitate
Telecasting players who, with an auto-cued,
Deep-voiced, crescendo announcement,
Blast onto the ground like stage-duck divas.
A strobe of movement circles the stadium
As the crowd offers up a choreographed wave,
Dancing to a belief stronger than reason.
With all the hallmarks of a rock’n’roll revival,
The players hurl themselves through the banner
Of a catchy-worded crepe-paper curtain,
Then stand in linear formation mouthing
The forgotten lyrics to a forgettable anthem.
After some shoulder-to-shoulder coercive rubbing,
The siren wails and the ball is splash-bounced
To a ruckman who taps it into the en bas arms
Of a waiting team-mate. On demi pointe,
He kicks it down the haloed ground
As other players sprint and bolt, tackle and turn,
Punctuating marks, scissoring high above
The cloudy heads of their lofty opponents.
Half-time and the teams retreat to their chambers
Passing by the champions of old, whose photos
Have grown sepia-toned. At this moment,
The spirit of another age and time is evoked
By a desperate coach hoping to reboot
His team’s wilting game. Back on the ground,
The players, armoured with lineament, eager
To double their first-half efforts, clash as knights
In a medieval joust, their fetlocks straining,
Their arms out-stretched for the holy chalice,
A chance to boot a golden vessel into
The history books of Australian mythology
