joy, as in f*** you: footy and stories.

I can’t untangle the story of my queerness from the story of my relationship with footy.

I realised I was queer in my mid-twenties, a couple of months after I’d joined a women’s footy team (yes, go ahead, laugh it up). I met my wife at a screening of the 2018 Grand Final in England at an eye-watering hour of the morning. We played nine-a-side footy together on muddy rugby pitches through the English winter. We watched games while we were long distance, 17000km apart but sharing the same feelings.

We played for England. (It is not as impressive as it sounds.)

I didn’t mean to become an AFLM fan. I’d been a footy-crazy kid, then a sport-hating teen, and I’d played for a while without getting interested anew in the men’s game. But my wife was a rusted-on Collingwood supporter, and she won me over with the stories. All those narratives, entwining and unfolding for season after season. Joy, sorrow, grit. Comedy, tragedy, triumph.

(And alright, yes: I like the shorts.)

My wife and I got married in 2022 on the day of a preliminary final. I lost her at the reception and found her with a bunch of footy fans clustered around an iPhone. I joined her, obviously, and the photo of us huddled around that phone is a favourite. 

One of the best things in the world is to sit on the grass and watch the footy. It feels nostalgic, even though it’s not something I did as a kid. 

And then, of course, there’s the other stuff. You’d think I’d know better than to read comment sections by now. But I do, sometimes. Occasionally in the guise of research. And sometimes I hesitate when I go to put on my Pride scarf before an AFLM game.  

I’ve travelled in places where visible indicators of queerness are not a good idea. It creates in me a constant state of wariness, a background buzz of self-invigilation. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I flick into the same state of alertness at the AFLM. Some part of me whispers don’t draw attention to yourself. 

It’s been a strange month as an AFLM fan. The whiplash of Isaak Rankine to Mitch Brown to hearing the Crows fans booing Isaak Quaynor. Sometimes I think about giving up on the AFLM. I don’t know what I would have done in that crowd at Adelaide oval. 

But in the end: I’m too much of a sucker for the stories. And the AFLM has some fucking good ones. Mitch Brown came out, and my phone lit up with delighted messages. I cried listening to him talk. Actually, I cried before he even started talking. He exhaled, and I felt that exhale in my bones. 

I wish every moment as an AFLM fan could be as uncomplicated as the joy that shoots you to your feet at the moment of the perfect goal, the perfect kick, the perfect smother. The joy of playing muddy football with your mates. Of finding a fellow fan and a phone at a wedding. I’m not giving up on the joyful stories because some fans would rather keep things straight and sanitised. 

For a while there was a tshirt or a meme or something that said queer, as in fuck you. In this case, maybe it’s joy, as in fuck you. It’s our game too. Piss off, if you don’t like it.