Hold All Tickets

Righto, let’s take a breath.

What a week. Can you remember a bigger build up to a footy game? And a better result? I doubt it.

Locky bowed out a winner. We shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Ricky was sad. He shed a tear. The football Gods got it right. Queensland smiled.

Now, I know Fridays are usually time for a racing story or two. A tall tale, or a bold prediction. Maybe some nonsense about a special that slipped through our unlucky paws.

Today, however, something different. A change of pace. The reason? There was a State of Origin incident. It was kept pretty quiet. Nothing in the papers. But the story should be told. I nearly killed a grandmother.

You think it was noisy at Suncorp Stadium? Nothing compared to our house. Because the Blues’ most vocal supporter was sitting on my lounge. My sweet mother-in-law.

Before I explain the two-hour verbal assault, I should tell you a little about the Treasurer’s mum.

She’s a sweetheart. The kindest, caring, most thoughtful old girl you could imagine. Even bakes cheesecakes. But put the footy on, and cross her at your peril.

It could be any game. Origin. Titans. Runaway Bay Under Tens. She will support her team like life depends on it. Loudly.

I have no idea where the voice comes from. It’s un-relenting. Play after play.

If we’re at the game together, I can usually organise an escape. Head to the end of the row. But in my own home, I was trapped.

Referees are particular targets. Opposing teams are always off side. Opposing players are always tackling around the head. I know this, because she yells such comments at a level on par with a jet engine. Constantly.

During a tense time in the first half, I swear Tony Archer looked our way. The Origin whistleblower must have heard her through the telly, thirty suburbs away.

Fighting back is futile. She’s in the zone. Anyway, it would be a brave man who argues the interpretations of the play the ball law with the woman who’ll be preparing his post-origin desert.

My only defence was to turn the TV volume up. Through the roof. For a while it worked. Until I realised I was swapping mum-in-law for Gus Gould. Volume down. The barrage continued.

I imagined my defence lawyer. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the defendant had no choice. The noise became too much. Insanity by way of disrupting Locky’s farewell. Can you blame him?”

Ok, I’ve gone too far. No one took harm in the construction of this article. Except my ear drums.

As is always the case, the crazed footy fan departed on the stroke of full-time. Replaced in an instant by the Grandma we love so much. She even clapped Locky. Said kind words about Mal. Then gave me a hug and did the dishes.

I admire her passion. Even if it is deafening. She’s the same about her kids and  grandkids. Her son-in-law too, who wears the wrong colours. Loves us all. And doesn’t care who knows. Just ask Tony Archer.