About five years ago I would have called myself a keen Port Adelaide supporter and would make a point of watching at least some of each game on the weekend. I cheered myself hoarse at their finals victory in 2004 to make up for my folorn weeping over their finals losses in previous seasons, and quietly gloated over our obvious superiority in the Showdown statistics against the hated Crows.
Then, Erin was born, the club’s fortunes faltered, and in the last two seasons I have barely watched a game – especially this year, when time with the whole family has been pretty much confined to the weekends. And every time I got a glimpse, the Ports were in mid-table mediocrity and not even considered worthy of speculation for September glory.
All of a sudden they’re in the grand final? Since what with the who now?
I just found this out the day we got back from Australia after the wedding. You could have knocked me over with a (large, weighted) feather.
I’ll be watching on the weekend of course, but a Port Premiership will be greeted with blank surprise in this household, much as if Bob Brown were to become Prime Minister in November. It just doesn’t seem possible that they’re even there.