Jack and Phoebe go to the footy

Are you a footy fan? Do you enjoy watching a match of a weekend? Does a night at the 'G sound like your ideal outing?

Before we go on, I must clarify - by 'footy', I am not referring to soccer. Or (heaven forbid) rugby. The only footy in my world, at any rate, is Aussie Rules. I appreciate the fact that soccer, or football, is the darling of Europe, and that apparently, rugby is very popular. I wouldn't know - I don't watch either of them. But I do love AFL.

I was raised by an excellent footy player and a committed footy widow. As my Dad was coaching (and playing for) Casterton when I was born, my birth was written into the footy report in the local newspaper. In actual fact, the fact that Casterton had won that week was the headline - my birth was included as a bonus for the coach! Nice.

Growing up, Dad played for many different clubs around Victoria, and coached several of them. I'll never forget running through the banner with my Dad and my brother before the Bellarine Peninsula Grand Final. I got a mouthful of crepe paper. And Anglesea, under my Dad's guidance, won the premiership.

My siblings and I spent years running around various ovals at country football games. And if we weren't actually at a game, Dad would be watching it at home, in between mowing the lawns and painting. I loved having a kick-to-kick with my mates at school - despite Dad's uber-patient coaching, I was atrocious at marking and bouncing the ball. However, I had a half-decent drop-punt which I could safely boot a fair distance, as long as I wasn't expected to catch it first.

Given that my Dad arrived at the hospital when Jack was born with a Bombers jumper he'd ordered specially (in Size 1!!), it was always inevitable that my kids would be involved in footy. They may have a considerable influence towards cycling from Daddy, but there is AFL written in the DNA they received from me.

Like most five year old boys living in Victoria, Jack has become increasingly footy-savvy since beginning school. He's always watched it on telly, especially when the Hawks are playing and we might spy Pa in his trainer's uniform, jogging around the screen in between goals. But recently, Jack has become more and more interested in barracking for the winning team, and the rules of the game, and the fact that the Bombers (his team) are going to beat "Colton" (his best mate's team).

Last night, we left the Mouse with Grandma and trekked into the city to watch the Bombers annihilate the Bulldogs at Etihad Stadium. Many people scoffed at our plans when they heard we were taking an almost-four-year-old and a five year old to the city, at night, to watch a very long footy match. Christian and I figured if we made it to half-time, we'd done well. We'd decided that it was worth a try, and that we'd happily leave when the kids had had enough.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you those kids sat up, wide-eyed in the food court at Crown, and ate their dinner without being prompted to hurry. They walked from Crown to Etihad on their own two feet, Bombers scarves and beanies worn jauntily and with pride. They told everyone who looked sideways at them, that they were going to watch the Bombers win. They sat for the entire game, watching, barracking, cheering, clapping, occasionally colouring in, but mostly enthralled by the spectacle before them. Even poor Phoebe, who developed an icky tummy early in the evening, bravely whooped for her team in between trips to the bathroom.

When the Bombers celebrated a resounding win, our kids stood up in the stands, and danced and bellowed the team song like true footy veterans. By this point, I was expecting them to wilt - but they walked all the way back to Crown, chattering and skipping and smiling at the crowds. Weaving through the throngs at the casino, they grinned as people asked us who had won. Their pride at being a part of the Bombers family was so cute to watch.

They didn't fall asleep until we were halfway home. By this point it was after 11pm, and Christian and I had to tell them to close their eyes. For kids whose normal bedtime is 6:30, it was a fairly huge night. I was so proud of them and the way they behaved - it was simply a wonderful night (even with an intimate knowledge of the location of every ladies' bathroom in Etihad...)

And now, just as the kids were infected with cycling fever during le Tour, I fear my poor husband is going to have to endure a few feverish weeks until the AFL Grand Final is over. Jack and Phoebe were so excited by the Bombers' win last night, they want to go again. Jack wants to know "how big is big enough?" for him to play Auskick. And apparently Santa is going to be hit up for a Sherrin. ("A proper one, Mummy. For big boys.")

And me? Well, the win last night was brilliant. There's something quite thrilling about being at a twilight game on a clear, cold night, while the strains of the Bombers' theme song is belted out without harmony or rhythm. But the best part about last night was that is marked the beginning of an era. Football was such a happy element of my childhood, with enduring memories triggered by warm pies, muddy grass, the thump of leather on booted foot, and the smell of Deep Heat. I am so excited to be sharing this love of mine with my kids. I don't care if they play, or not - for me, the best part is caring enough to be passionate; being involved enough to get excited; loving the game enough to be happy just kicking the ball in your backyard. It's not really about playing the game, but it's about passion, pride, and sharing a common goal with friends. It doesn't matter who they barrack for. It doesn't matter if they can't kick for peanuts. It's footy, and we love it.