“SHOVE THIS!” (Showdown 44: Port 95 - 90 West Lakes)

I’ve managed to save my reputation with the In-Laws and to introduce the game to my younger kid, but I’m not sure whether Adelaide is still standing.

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The alarm unusually rang at 4am on Saturday. I was still sleepy when I turned it off, trying to grasp what was going on. On the screen of my phone, it was written: “Showdown”.

I stood up, grabbed my phone, and left the bedroom as quiet as I could not to disturb the kids. My wife was in the bedroom next door, with a sister; while the hosts, my In-Laws, were a bit further. I was already proud of my ninja skills, when, almost at the last couple of stairs a second and a third alarm rang simultaneously, sounding like footy sirens.

Being a son-in-law is a curse! “Power-Crows is about to start,” said the messages from both AFL’s and Port’s apps. I held my breath. No sound was coming from upstairs, and I began to breathe again. I opened the WatchAFL app and reached for the earphones… Only to find nothing.

It was dark, and I couldn’t remember where I’d put those damn earphones I had smartly brought with me from home. As a good son-in-law that I am, there was only one thing I could do: stealing my mother-in-law’s headphone, which she keeps next to the TV for her nights of insomnia.

I’ve made myself a cup of coffee, a bowl with cereal and milk, and went to the table. Everything was finally set, and I was good to go. I clicked on the Showdown option, and the derby appeared live on my phone, 12,000km away from Adelaide. Game on!

American males famously love women’s breasts. It’s their thing. Brazilians, as a rule (I’m no exception), have a preference for behinds. I’m saying this because Port’s Q1 felt indeed pornographic. Behinds galore, but not as charming as those one can see wandering around Brazilian streets and shores. By QT, I was actually turned off.

Oh, the things we do for love. I had woken up to watch the game, and I stayed awake watching it. Q2 was better. I would have enjoyed it, if not for Q1. By HT, though, my soul was hurting. The schadenfreude from reading Port’s Big Footy Game Thread brought some relief — people there are the funniest when melting on defeat. [1]

When Q3 began, I had no hope whatsoever. I am sorry, Saint Robbie, patron of comebacks (both in football and in life), but I lacked faith. I repent for my sin. [2] Lucky me, after a derby win, all is forgiven. Port had scored 4.6:30 in the first half. We scored 7.5:47 in Q3 alone. Even better, we hold West Lakes to a score of 2.2:14. Overall, the game was 11.11:77 - 10.5:65. After 3 quarters, Port was miraculously in front!

I stoically remained in silence, though. Everyone was still sleeping, or so I thought. At some point of Q4, a bit past 6am, a little 6-year-old fellow emerged in the living room:

— Why are you awaken, buddy?

— I got scared, daddy.

— It was just a bad dream. You should be back to bed.

— Can you go with me?

“No, I can’t. I am watching the bloody game!” Well, that is what I wanted to tell him, but I actually said “Sure. Come with me.”

We went to bed, but the game was still on. I didn’t turn off the phone. The wi-fi, though, wouldn’t reach the whole of the bed. So, I laid down on my son’s feet:

— Stay with me, daddy.

— I am here with you.

— What are you watching?

— A game, and you should sleep. You will be tired, and we have grandma’s Mothers’ Day dinner tonight.

— Can I watch it with you? What is the team we are supporting?

That question broke me. “The black one. We don’t like the colourful other.”

— What is the score?

— Here, you can see it above. We are winning.

— And how much time is still left?

— It is in this red rectangle. There is 6 minutes left. The game is about to end.

He laid down his head on my lap. Then, the Crows scored; and again, and one more time to regain the lead. “Oh, my. They are winning.”

— That’s bad, daddy.

— Yes, son. It is bad, indeed.

The ball was bounced in the center circle. The Crows won the hit-out, but Ryder immediately tackled their player. The resulting kick was bad (for them!), and the ball went straight to Howard, who punted it forward. The footy landed between three Crows and one Jake Neade. Instead of playing for the ball, Neade showed his human bowling skills, striking down the opposing players and letting Sam Gray picking it up. Motlop crossed behind the pile left by Neade, immediately received the Sherrin from Sam, invaded their 50m arc in full speed, changed direction as bullfighter to avoid a tackle, and kicked the goal to put the Port ahead again.

I was in shock. “We just scored. We are going to win.” My son smiled. “But I won’t scream nor throw you high up. Everybody is sleeping.” His smile faded away. “It is Mothers’ Day, buddy. Let grandma and mommy sleep for a change.” The siren sounded. I gave him a big hug. “Come on. Let’s celebrate. What do you want for breakfast?”

Some more morning games, and I make him a Port’s man.

    

CARN THE POWER!

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Notes:
[1] I had written my melts there, too: (a) “Were we playing uphill or something? When we've dominated, going forward was hard; when they were in control, it was a massacre!”; (b) “They are better in this whole footy-thingy, aren't they? They play faster and cleaner than we do. They've punished our mistakes, while we have made too many of those. AND WE CAN'T KICK GOALS!”; (c) “We don't targets our 'targets'. We want them out of F50, so the couriers (small fwds) can move into the ‘open’ space. But no defence is fooled by that; Crows, no exception. They keep the zone and treat our smalls as KPF, and we look surprised the trick didn't work (and when eventually it works, we kick for behind).” I am very glad to be proven wrong!

[2] At least, I didn’t turn the phone off and went to bed, as I had done during HT of the JLT Showdown.