The Clubhouse
Twenty-four hours earlier I'd been sitting at CommBank Stadium watching Parramatta take on Penrith. Tonight I was making the familiar walk from Dee Why to Cromer Park for Manly United against Sydney Olympic. The contrast between the two venues was obvious, but it wasn't what stayed with me.
It was bloody cold.
The afternoon sunshine had disappeared, the temperature had dropped sharply and almost everyone was properly rugged up. Jackets were essential. Quite a few people had gone a step further with beanies and scarves, and for once they weren't just winter accessories. They were doing exactly what they were supposed to do.
Around 150 people had made their way through the gates. Some headed for the grandstand, others found a place along the fence line, while a few had already settled into the clubhouse. After an obligatory egg and bacon roll from the canteen, I found a seat in the grandstand.
One of my favourite things about Cromer Park isn't actually the football. It's the kids behind the goals, on the grass hill or practice zone.
While everyone else is watching first grade, they're busy playing their own match. Every so often one of them glances towards the main game before immediately returning to the far more important business of beating their mates. It almost feels as though the first-grade match is interrupting theirs.
Another small detail caught my attention during the first half.
The top of the grandstand is lined with a row of boxes. One of them houses the media team, with the television cameras positioned just outside. Sitting nearby, I could hear the commentators talking as they called the match. Never the words, only the cadence of voices from a conversation taking place just above me. Every now and then I'd catch myself instinctively trying to listen before giving up and turning my attention back to the pitch.
The football itself was enjoyable. Manly deserved their 1-0 lead at half-time, but the match still felt evenly poised. Sydney Olympic had their moments, both goalkeepers had been called into action and there was nothing to suggest what the scoreboard would eventually say.
When the referee blew for half-time, I climbed over the row of seats to head towards the clubhouse. Or at least that was the plan.
One foot made it. The other didn't.
My shoe somehow stayed behind while I became awkwardly wedged between two seats. After a few seconds of wriggling I managed to free both my foot and what remained of my dignity. I don't think anyone noticed.
That's what I choose to believe.
I'd walked past the clubhouse on previous visits without ever really going inside.
This time I wandered through properly.
People were ordering dinner, having a beer and chatting while a television quietly carried the live camera feed from the ground outside. Some watched it. Others barely glanced at it.
Standing there, I found myself thinking about something a barista at my local café had said to me months earlier.
He'd told me he liked coming to Manly United to watch the football, have a beer and eat dinner. At the time I'd heard that as three separate things. Only now did I understand what he meant.
Instead of returning to the grandstand, I walked out onto the clubhouse verandah for the second half. The view wasn't quite as good, but it gave me a completely different perspective on the evening. Behind me, meals were still being served, drinks were being poured and conversations continued. In front of me, the match resumed.
Within minutes Manly scored. Then they scored again. You could almost see the confidence grow. Players who had looked measured during the first half suddenly seemed more willing to express themselves. Sydney Olympic continued to compete, but the momentum of the game had shifted.
The final 4-0 scoreline probably flattered Manly a little. Manly deserved the win, but the match itself was closer than the scoreboard suggested.
One part of the evening did disappoint me. A small group of Sydney Olympic supporters left behind broken glass and rubbish, lit flares and directed abuse towards players, officials and the crowd. It felt completely out of place.
Cromer Park works because it's open. You simply walk in, choose somewhere to watch, wander into the clubhouse if you feel like it and strike up conversations with people you've never met before. Places like that rely on everyone understanding the sort of environment they're sharing.
As the crowd dispersed, I made the familiar walk back towards Dee Why. While waiting for the bus I found myself chatting with another supporter about the game, another one of those conversations that seem to happen surprisingly often after local sport. A few minutes later the bus arrived and we went our separate ways.
I probably looked like I'd dressed for the wrong game. An Ice Dogs beanie, an Ice Dogs T-shirt and a Manly Warringah Sea Eagles scarf isn't exactly the standard Manly United match-day outfit. Then again, on the Northern Beaches it probably still made it fairly obvious where I called home.
I went to Cromer Park expecting another football match. I left understanding what a football club is.
