Still Playing

Jubilee Stadium looked completely different in daylight.

Four days earlier I had arrived at Carlton on a cold Wednesday night, walked down through the suburb with Sydney FC supporters and spent the evening sitting out of the wind. This time it was Sunday, midday and one of those bright Sydney spring days that makes almost everything look easier.

The western grandstand was in shade. The rest of the ground sat in full sunshine. There were a couple of food trucks outside, entry was painless, and I arrived about fifteen minutes before kickoff with considerably less ceremony than I had earlier in the week.

It was NPL grand final day. The women were first, UNSW against Bulls Academy at midday, followed by Sydney United and APIA in the men's final at three. I was only staying for the first game. The Sydney Swans were playing later, not far away, and that was really the main event of my day.

The timing worked, provided the football cooperated.

I had come as a neutral, although that lasted for roughly as long as it took the teams to come out. I had seen UNSW play a couple of times during the season. I knew almost nothing about them beyond those visits, but apparently that was enough. Within a few minutes I realised I was supporting them.

There was no particular reason to dislike Bulls. If anything, part of the club is based around Northbridge, which is much closer to my normal life than UNSW. But familiarity had quietly done its job. I recognised one team and not the other, so that was apparently where my allegiance now sat.

The crowd was bigger than I had expected. Only the grandstand was open for the women's match and the lower level was reasonably busy. There were drums, small groups of supporters for both teams and enough competing noise that one chant would occasionally provoke an answer from somewhere else.

It felt more animated than the much larger Sydney FC match I had watched here a few nights earlier. That game had more production around it, more television, more presentation and considerably more people. This was much simpler, but with two sets of supporters genuinely responding to each other, the noise felt less organised and somehow more alive.

At one point a small bunch of balloons appeared above the ground. I have no idea where they had come from. A nearby birthday party seemed as good an explanation as any. They slowly dropped towards the pitch and for a while looked as though they might actually land on it.

The crowd started watching them. They got lower, drifted sideways, then escaped over the edge of the field. People applauded. It was that sort of afternoon.

The football itself was considerably less willing to go anywhere. UNSW seemed intent on keeping the ball, moving it around and looking for openings. Bulls looked dangerous whenever they got the chance to run at them.

There were chances at both ends, but no goal. Every time the game looked as though it might loosen, it tightened again.

Somewhere during the first half, I also started feeling terrible. It was warm outside, but I put my jacket on and started shaking. Sitting there in the middle of a beautiful spring day suddenly felt very strange. I took fewer photos than usual and spent more time than I normally would thinking about how uncomfortable I felt. I stood when I could, then sat down again because standing was not much better.

By the second half another problem had started to become more important.

The clock.

I had always known extra time was possible. This was a grand final. Scheduling another event after it involved an obvious risk, and I had accepted that risk when I planned the day. Knowing that did not make nil-all any more useful.

As the second half went on, I found myself wanting someone to score. At first I wanted it to be UNSW. Eventually I was not particularly fussy.

A goal would settle things. Someone would win. I could leave Jubilee, head up the road and get to the Swans.

Instead, the match kept resisting that outcome. Even late in the half, neither team abandoned what they had been doing. There were still chances, attacks and moments when a goal looked possible, but nothing actually changed.

Ninety minutes finished nil-all.

It was the worst possible result.

I had spent the last ten minutes knowing this decision was coming and still had not made it. Leaving then would have been perfectly reasonable. I had another ticket. The Swans were the game I most wanted to see that day, and every extra minute I stayed here was now a minute of that game I was going to miss.

So I stayed, at least for the first half of extra time.

Bulls scored with a terrific strike, hit cleanly from outside the immediate congestion of the penalty area and driven into the net. That seemed like my moment.

I could leave now. Bulls had finally broken the deadlock, UNSW had spent more than a hundred minutes trying to score without managing it, and my other game was getting closer.

Except I did not believe UNSW were finished.

They were getting the ball, pushing forward and making Bulls work. The match had never really escaped either side.

So I stayed for the second half.

By then I had moved. I left my seat upstairs and went down to ground level, finding somewhere close to the exit so that when I finally made the decision I could get out quickly.

The perspective changed with it. The players were suddenly much closer. The men's teams had started appearing for their warm-up. Television interviews were happening nearby. The next grand final was beginning to assemble around this one while the first refused to finish.

Very late, the ball went into the Bulls penalty area. There were players everywhere. It bounced around between bodies, never quite clearing, until eventually someone got enough of it.

UNSW had equalised.

I had been right.

This was not especially helpful.

There were only a few minutes left. Bulls tried again. UNSW tried again. Nothing changed.

After 120 minutes of football, the grand final was level, and that was enough for me.

I had watched all the football. What remained was a penalty shootout, and somewhere up the road the Swans were already playing.

I left.

There was some frustration in that. I had stayed through extra time, stayed after Bulls scored because I thought UNSW had something left, watched them prove me right, and then walked out before the championship was decided.

But I had already pushed the schedule about as far as it would go.

Later, I learned that Bulls Academy won the shootout 4-2.

By then I was somewhere else.