I stepped out of the dry sterile air of the plane and into the wet heat of Townsville in summer, like walking into a French whore’s g-string, except it smelled like frangipani and sea water and only cost ninety-nine dollars to get there.
Logistical difficulties with Kevin’s work travel schedule forced us to spend Super Bowl Monday in the tropics. BooHoo. Sydney’s weather has been total shithouse for the last few weeks, and I welcomed the sweltering seaside humidity. It’s not like the exhaust stained humidity of the city that clings to your eyeballs and pools in the bottom of your lungs. It’s fresh and cleansing, like being in a pretty bathtub for three days, except for the drunk aboriginals.
Townsville seems to be falling down and building up at the same time. The skyline is dotted with several cranes constructing large hotels and giant warehouses along the port, yet every other storefront along the main drag is gutted and boarded up. The parklands of The Strand are maintained with meticulous splendour, the massive fig and macadamia nut trees filled with black cockatoos and honey eaters. The brick walkways of The Flinders Street Mall are dusty and jumbled, the benches filled with black men with skinny legs and shaggy white manes drinking beer.
Castle Crag looms majestically above Townsville, staring out across the bay at Magnetic Island, perhaps longingly. After World War II, an American Corps of Army Engineers offered to dismantle the giant rock cliff to build a bridge to the island. I think they were just looking for a good excuse to stay. Townsville wisely declined. And so Maggie maintains an aura of remote mystique, even though it is only 25 minutes away by ferry and infested with luxury vacation homes and dirty back-packers.
I do not feel there is any reason for me to recap the play-by-play drama of the main event, since I am reasonably sure that most of my reading audience was among the 140 million people that tuned into the Super Bowl at some point, and if you weren’t watching the gripping second half, then you obviously don’t care about it anyway and wouldn’t want to suffer through my bombastic narrative. As per usual, I came very close to getting kicked out of the Cowboy’s League Club. What can I say, I got excited. And I had been drinking beer since 9 am. Swearing in public is frowned upon with an amazing intolerance here. But Christ, it was the Fucking Super Bowl and I was in a Rugby League Club! I pulled myself together and managed to direct my angst inward during the last few minutes of the game:
I took advantage of the occasion to revel in the glory of the anniversary of the most exciting sport’s bet I have ever made, retelling the tale to anyone who would listen. Our gains were appreciably more modest this year, though we did double our money and cover our drinks with a Giant’s win and Eli’s nomination to MVP, and if Plaxico Burress hadn’t been triple covered on the first drive, we would have paid for dinner too.
Logistical difficulties with Kevin’s work travel schedule forced us to spend Super Bowl Monday in the tropics. BooHoo. Sydney’s weather has been total shithouse for the last few weeks, and I welcomed the sweltering seaside humidity. It’s not like the exhaust stained humidity of the city that clings to your eyeballs and pools in the bottom of your lungs. It’s fresh and cleansing, like being in a pretty bathtub for three days, except for the drunk aboriginals.
Townsville seems to be falling down and building up at the same time. The skyline is dotted with several cranes constructing large hotels and giant warehouses along the port, yet every other storefront along the main drag is gutted and boarded up. The parklands of The Strand are maintained with meticulous splendour, the massive fig and macadamia nut trees filled with black cockatoos and honey eaters. The brick walkways of The Flinders Street Mall are dusty and jumbled, the benches filled with black men with skinny legs and shaggy white manes drinking beer.
Castle Crag looms majestically above Townsville, staring out across the bay at Magnetic Island, perhaps longingly. After World War II, an American Corps of Army Engineers offered to dismantle the giant rock cliff to build a bridge to the island. I think they were just looking for a good excuse to stay. Townsville wisely declined. And so Maggie maintains an aura of remote mystique, even though it is only 25 minutes away by ferry and infested with luxury vacation homes and dirty back-packers.
I do not feel there is any reason for me to recap the play-by-play drama of the main event, since I am reasonably sure that most of my reading audience was among the 140 million people that tuned into the Super Bowl at some point, and if you weren’t watching the gripping second half, then you obviously don’t care about it anyway and wouldn’t want to suffer through my bombastic narrative. As per usual, I came very close to getting kicked out of the Cowboy’s League Club. What can I say, I got excited. And I had been drinking beer since 9 am. Swearing in public is frowned upon with an amazing intolerance here. But Christ, it was the Fucking Super Bowl and I was in a Rugby League Club! I pulled myself together and managed to direct my angst inward during the last few minutes of the game:
I took advantage of the occasion to revel in the glory of the anniversary of the most exciting sport’s bet I have ever made, retelling the tale to anyone who would listen. Our gains were appreciably more modest this year, though we did double our money and cover our drinks with a Giant’s win and Eli’s nomination to MVP, and if Plaxico Burress hadn’t been triple covered on the first drive, we would have paid for dinner too.
3 comments:
Och, I caught the last 11 minutes of the game and was outrageously happy with the outcome. I'm sorry you had to it game in Townsville, of all places, but thankfully the locals allowed you to watch it in relative peace without issuing the standard left/right combination uppercut.
Australian's don't really understand American football and what they don't know they criticise, which is narrowminded.
I mean, I hardly understand it but love watching it. It is quite reminiscent of rugby union - altho with less running, more padding and bigger muscles. And the crowds? My god. If 80,000 people turned out to watch a live rugby union game in Oz every single weekend, there'd be a national holiday declared.
... I meant "... you had to watch it in Townsville ... "
Ahem.
Actually, I *really* like Townsville. I'm not sure if it would be interesting enough to live there, but I feel very happy whenever I am there. Perhaps there is a little vortex between Castle Hill and Maggie.
I cannot count the number of conversations I have had comparing rugby to gridiron (I like calling it that now...let soccer be called football - really, it makes more sense.) Most Aussie's immediately try to put me on the defensive by claiming the superiority of rugby players because they don't play with pads or require oxygen after running 100 yards. I try to be diplomatic and explain that they are completely different types of athletes. Football players train for power, and rugby players train for speed and endurance. If Rugby players were being tackled by 350 pound linebackers, they might re-think their stance on pads and helmets. Still, I am in comlete awe everytime I watch one of them fling themselves at the ground for a goal. It is clearly not necessary, and I can't imagine it is really all that much fun! But it does make for good highlight footage.
I spoke with one gentleman here who admitted, cordially, that gridiron is an incredibly complicated game to learn to watch, that it is hard to figure out what is going on without in depth commentary and analysis, and that Australians don't want to be bothered by that in their sport. (Don't flame me - this was said by an Australian!)
That said, I still cannot figure out what the hell is going on in The Cricket! And I refuse to believe that those guys are 'athletes'!
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