Measuring a Good Game
The volunteer selling tickets smiled as I stepped up to the desk.
"Just one?"
"Yep," I replied. "As long as you're happy selling one to a Manly supporter."
He laughed.
That simple exchange turned into a conversation about childhood loyalties. He supported Manly Warringah in the NRL. So do I. We spoke about growing up with a team and how, once those colours become yours as a kid, they have a habit of staying with you. I told him about living on the Northern Beaches years ago and the family connections that still pull me back there, even though these days NWS Spirit is probably the club that makes the most geographical sense.
It felt like an appropriate way to begin the afternoon.
This was my sixth sporting event in seven days and my third football match in five. I'd watched football played at Premier League level, A-League level and now across the NPL. Without realising it, I was beginning to compare not just the standard of football, but the experience of watching it.
Walking into Rockdale Sports Complex on a Sunday afternoon, I expected another enjoyable game. Manly United FC v’s Rockdale Ilinden FC.
I didn't expect it to become my favourite football match of the week.
The conditions helped create the contest.
The afternoon had started pleasantly enough, but as the sun dropped the temperature followed it. A steady breeze drifted across the ground and seemed to play tricks on the ball. Passes travelled further than players expected. Other times they held up completely, leaving runners stranded underneath them. Long clearances became awkward. Through balls fell short.
It was just enough to make everything slightly untidy. And somehow, better.
Neither side ever really settled.
Rockdale probably had the better of the opening half and deserved their first goal. Manly thought they had replied almost immediately, only for the offside flag to rule it out. Then, with only seconds remaining before half time, a save led to a corner, and from that corner Manly finally found their equaliser.
The goal changed the mood.
The second half felt more confident from Manly, but it never became comfortable for either side. Chances kept coming. Breaks forward became shots. Shots became rebounds. Rebounds became another attack.
The ball seemed to spend long stretches trapped inside one penalty area before suddenly being launched to the other end of the ground. Even the players looked as though they were struggling to keep up with the pace of it all.
The football wasn't perfect. It didn't need to be.
The longer the game went, the more everyone became invested.
There was plenty of niggle. Players questioned decisions. Both sets of supporters questioned the referee. At one point a late challenge sparked players running in from well away from the incident before Manly's towering goalkeeper calmly separated everyone again.
I don't know if these clubs share some deeper rivalry.
Maybe they do.
Or maybe two evenly matched teams, both creating chances and both wasting them, simply reached the point where frustration became impossible to hide.
The crowd certainly felt it.
Without planning to, I'd ended up sitting amongst a pocket of Manly supporters tucked into one section of the stand. One of the blokes joked that perhaps we should all stay together rather than spread ourselves through the rest of the crowd. We all laughed because there was probably some truth in it.
As the afternoon wore on, the atmosphere developed its own rhythm.
Two particularly vocal supporters, one backing each side, seemed to conduct the soundtrack. They weren't arguing with each other. Instead they bounced off one another, each shouting at players, referees and missed opportunities with equal enthusiasm.
What amused me most was listening to some of the Rockdale supporters turn on their own players.
Miss an opportunity?
"What are you doing?"
Stand offside?
"Get back on!"
It was less abuse than exasperation, like family members who knew exactly how much better their team could be.
Meanwhile, the Manly supporters mostly stayed encouraging.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I wandered off for a coffee.
Walking back to my seat, somebody suddenly yelled, "Bucket bird! Bucket bird!"
An ibis had decided the middle of the football pitch was the perfect place for an afternoon stroll. It ignored everyone until the ball finally came close enough to convince it to leave.
It somehow felt completely at home in the afternoon's unfolding theatre.
When the fourth official held up the board showing three minutes of added time, a collective groan spread through our little group.
Not because we wanted more football.
Because none of us wanted to give the other side one last chance.
By full time, a couple of players from both teams simply lay flat on their backs where they had finished. Ninety-plus minutes of chasing, tackling, recovering and attacking had emptied them completely.
The match finished 1-1.
Looking only at the score, it doesn't sound particularly remarkable.
But the score tells almost none of the story.
What I'll remember is the conversation at the gate. The wind that refused to cooperate. The missed chances that somehow made the game more compelling rather than less. The crowd slowly finding its voice. The referee trying to keep a lid on growing frustration. The ibis wandering across the pitch. A very good coffee and an excellent bacon and egg roll with chilli from the clubhouse canteen.
Most of all, I'll remember discovering that the best football match I watched all week wasn't the one played by the best footballers.
It was the one where twenty-two players, a few hundred supporters and even one wandering ibis combined to remind me that a great game isn't measured by the scoreline.
Sometimes it's simply measured by how much everyone cared when the final whistle blew.
