Let me tell you a story.
Last week, when I got home from the Sydney game, I had a most bittersweet moment.
Iāve been teaching my 3.5 yo twin girls about footy and the Dees. They havenāt been to a match yet (wouldnāt last a quarter!), but I take them to watch the local Girlsā team and the Thirds play at our local EFL ground. They call out and point to anyone playing footy ālook daddy thereās a demon!ā. They know we like red and blue. They can pick out the Dees mascot in their toddler AFL book. The brainwashing is working. And they know about 75% of āgrand old flagā.
Anyway, when I was leaving the G last week in a [censored] rage, I made the obligatory text to my non-football-loving lady that I was on my way home. Without caring to check if we had won or not, she had a āgrand old flagā singalong with the girls queued up for when I walked through the door, complete with flags and scarves.
I smiled , shook my head and said maybe we should save it for the next win. Iād gotten 2 new flags for the girls but left them bitterly in the boot of the car. Their smiling faces beneath their Dees beanies just ripped my bloody heart out; as much as the club had an hour earlier. It took every ounce of mindfulness to enjoy the moment for what it was, albeit gut wrenching.
Today, the girls were obliviously playing elsewhere as I watched us forge a win to get us into finals for the first time in 12 years. A third of my lifetime. Once Kent kicked that goal, I got the flags from the boot of the car, put the girls beanies on and made them watch the dying minutes. We danced around the coffee table, waving flags, me choking back tears and the girls loudly singing āgrand old flagā on its 14th repeat.
And they knew all the words.
The future is bright, people.
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