Little Clouds

I had chosen Manly United as my NPL Women’s team, which made it slightly ridiculous that I was approaching the end of the regular season without actually seeing them play.

Their remaining game was at a time I was already committed elsewhere, but Gladesville Ravens and NWS Spirit were playing at Christie Park on Thursday night. I had a free evening, it was easy enough to get to after work and, if I am being completely truthful, it also helped my event count for the week. I had only been to one other NPL Women’s game, so it was also a chance to see a little more of the competition before the regular season finished.

I arrived at Christie Park about an hour before kick-off. A junior girls’ game was still being played and there were people scattered across the complex. Some boys were training or going through some kind of coaching session on another field, while players, parents and friends seemed to be wandering between things without much urgency.

There was also a Gladesville tent and barbecue set up near the ground. Combined with Gladesville being listed as the home team, that answered something I had wondered about on previous visits. Christie Park might also be associated in my mind with NWS Spirit, but tonight I was very much inside Gladesville’s home environment.

I went to the canteen, bought a burger and chips and did a little work while I waited. I had also brought along a borrowed chair to test for events where the seating is less forgiving.

A comfortable folding chair seemed like a sensible solution. Unfortunately, the chair was just low enough that when I sat in it beside the football pitch, the fence became the main attraction.

Test failed.

By kick-off there were a few hundred people around Christie Park, although not all of them were there specifically for the first-grade women’s game. That made the place feel busy without the match itself ever feeling crowded.

It was also surprisingly relaxed. People stood around talking. Others sat wherever they had found somewhere comfortable. Players and coaches seemed quieter than I was used to, and even the usual complaints about refereeing decisions barely developed beyond a couple of comments.

I kept trying to work out why. Maybe it was Thursday night. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was because this was the final round and neither team had finals ahead of them.

Or maybe I was imagining a pattern that was not there.

Whatever the reason, the entire night seemed to operate at a slightly lower volume.

The football itself did not. Gladesville spent much of the first half putting NWS Spirit under pressure. Spirit kept holding them out, sometimes at the last possible moment, then occasionally escaped and created something at the other end.

During the warm-up I had thought Spirit looked short of players. Once the game began, I kept watching the sideline and became increasingly convinced there were no substitutes available. Nobody came on. Nobody went off.

That seemed a difficult way to finish a season.

Gladesville eventually broke through in the first half and went into the break one goal ahead. Spirit were better after half-time and pushed forward often enough to make the game feel less settled.

Then one of their attacks disappeared in the opposite direction.

A Gladesville player broke away and ran almost the entire length of the pitch. Suddenly it was attacker against goalkeeper, with nearly everyone else chasing from behind. The attacker won.

Two-nil.

The third goal was less enjoyable to watch. A Spirit defender tried to head a high ball away. Instead of clearing it back into the field, the ball travelled backwards and dropped over the goalkeeper into her own net.

There are probably more painful ways to concede a goal, but in football I am struggling to think of many. Three-nil, late in the final game of the season. Their season was finished too.

What I remember most clearly, though, is not any of the goals. It is the cold.

A few days earlier Sydney had briefly felt as though spring was arriving. Thursday night decided otherwise. Spectators were wrapped in puffy jackets and blankets, and as the game went on heavy dew started settling across Christie Park. The chairs became wet. My bag became wet. My glasses began fogging. Anything left sitting outside seemed to slowly collect a layer of moisture.

Then I started noticing the players. Under the lights and against the dark sky, steam was rising from them as they ran.

Towards the end I realised the same thing was happening to everyone.

Walking back towards the station afterwards, I breathed out and watched another cloud appear in front of me. It felt like I was breathing fire. There is something slightly juvenile about still being entertained by that, but I was. Manly’s season was ending without me ever managing to see them play, but I would still be keeping an eye on the finals.

I kept walking to the station, breathing little clouds into the cold.