I didn’t go to any footy games this weekend but for some reason I feel as if I did, and not one or two games, but many.

My weekend began with a quiet friday night at home on the couch and in front of the box. A beer, a wine and some take away for sustenance. Most of the family were around in dribs and drabs.

The newspapers, the radio and the TV channelled a variety of footy games, stories and sagas. It was my lounge room though, that gave way to the real games, live to air.

These were games punctuated with spectacular armchair marks and polished floorboard slippages. Centre tap outs took place over the brown faux mink throw rug, that should have been draped with a casual nonchalance  over the back of the lounge suite. Play and commentary were simultaneous.

The crowd roared.

Several on field altercations took place between the floral Laura Ashley cushions. No numbers were taken. Goals, points and behinds fell between door jambs and window frames.

Marking the quarters, an ipad siren sounded; the end of one game meant the start of another. Friday nights’ game became Saturdays’ game which, in turn, became Sundays’ game.

I’m not really sure who the winners and the losers were, but I do know that the stats and results were transcribed to sheets of A4 reflex paper in a scrawling cursive script and coloured textas. The fridge magnet ladder was adjusted accordingly.

These games were alive.

I was warm, bemused and quietly happy.

Image: Lounge Room Footy, ink brush pen and ink wash sketch