The air smells like old hot dogs,
And grass that should be green is dirt bare on the hill,
As little would be Hayne’s, and Gallen’s
Scuffle in games of five on five in front of the jumping castle.
Beers bounce in groups of four,
As the pre game entertainment begins,
No-one watches the cheerleaders until the pink pigs begin to fly,
And no-one notices the afternoon sun fading as the gladiators take to the field.
A chill blows in and dark clouds gather,
But this is more than self preservation for the jumperless,
The raincoatless hordes who have one eye on the field and one on the screen,
And not even cold wedges can distract the kids from the kickoff.
And as the first drops of rain hit,
The fullback takes the bomb,
the opposing colours move in like a Tsunami,
intent of sweeping all before it back into the ocean.
For forty minutes they strive valiantly,
Like an arm wrestle between Titans,
The confidence that the current placing on the League ladder will guarantee victory,
Means nothing to the hungry who are about to beat West’s record for failure.
The blue and gold meet the black white and blue,
But Jarryd doesn’t feel like a superstar,
He just feels like a kid who wants to be somewhere else,
And Ricky is waving his hands wildly from the window.
And the unknown winger does it once,
And he does it for the pride of the Shire
And the unknown winger does it again.
And his place in the team is safe…for now.
For some this is not sport, it is life.
And for some this is not life, it is more than that,
And God looks down from Heaven and says,
I created you in my image….please remember me.
And Jarryd looks down at his yellow Nike’s,
And Paul raises his fists in the air,
The people of the Shire rejoice, could it be…
That the tide is turning for us this year.
The buses headed for Parramatta are full of the mourning,
And the merchandise man shuts his van door,
He counts his money while the sons of the Shire
Sing ‘up, up, Cronulla’.
Because this is more than a sport for some people,
And this is more than life for some,
But God holds them in His hands and whispers
“Remember me, remember me”.
The Policewoman wears a poncho,
As the soaked masses storm Captain Cook Drive,
The thrill is replaced by chill,
And all we can think of is a hot shower.
Down in the Park on Gunnamatta Bay,
Is a man who can’t afford a hot dog,
He went for the Sharks once,
But now he’d swap a thousand grand finals for a shelter with walls.
And in the mall a girl is vomiting,
Her parents think she is at the footy,
While her boyfriend puts his hand on her back
And wonders if he should dump her for her best friend.
In the streets the crowd still sings “up, up Cronulla”
But it’s a microcosm of the Shire,
Once the spectacle is over,
It’s back to the mundane and the veneer of life until the next carnival.
And down in the park on Gunnamatta Bay,
Where the lights of yachts and waterfronts glisten like dancing faeries on the water.
The rain blows coldly into the pavilion,
A cold night full of cold people,
And this is Gods country.