Grand Final Day..... as June saw it.

I wake to the radio blaring that today is sacred, Grand Final Day, as though the universe itself bleeds red-white-and-blue. I’d planned to spend the morning in bed with a joint and the cat, but, no, it’s our turn to host the annual footy circus. So, I drag myself downstairs, already hung-under from last night’s pinot, and find my husband, let’s call him “Mister Enthusiasm”, cranking the barbecue like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Bogan Edition.

Outside, the wind howls down the street, south-westerly, ice-tip, perfect for funerals, and flips the neighbour’s gnome flat on its smug face. I smile; one less thing standing upright today.

The Guests
They arrive exactly thirty minutes before bounce-down, clutching supermarket beer and tribal scarves. Hawks, Dees, Tigers, a lone, tragic Saint. Twelve of them if you count the better halves—though after three sauv blancs most will prove far worse. They clog my lounge like cholesterol, yammering about West Coast versus Collingwood as if it were Armageddon.

I hover near the antique table (Gran’s pride; my dust-trap) laying out fruit and “appetisers”, code for anything I can tip out of a packet before the edibles kick in. I’d rather be anywhere else, preferably 1994, back when I still liked my husband, footy, and the idea of hosting a party.

The Corporate Chorus
The telly shows the MCG corporate boxes: suits neck-deep in cocktails, betting thousands they’ll never miss. One bloke whinges that Melbourne’s exit ruined his ski weekend. My eyes roll so hard I see last Tuesday. Skiers grieving the Demons.....spare me.

Dave Bloody Marshall
Enter Dave Marshall, Collingwood scarf strangling his neck, brand-new six-pack in one fist, ego in the other. Dave and I have been scratching each other’s itches lately, more out of boredom than lust, maintenance shag, nothing artisanal. Everyone knows except Mister Enthusiasm, who plays oblivious like it’s his super-power.

Dave beelines to the kitchen and scoffs a brownie fresh off the cooling rack. I’d baked them for the puppy’s obedience class, chicken livers, wholemeal flour, no sugar, so naturally Dave proclaims them “five-star”. He grabs another before I can warn him he’s essentially eating Labrador cuisine.

I sidle up to Mister E., glass in hand.
“Your mate’s into the dog biscuits,” I mutter.
He stares, baffled. “Dog food?”
“Technically ‘dog treats’. High in protein, low in self-respect.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks, proving once again he lacks basic imagination.

Kick-Off
Bounce-down. The living room erupts: shrieks, slaps, spilt Shiraz. I retreat to the back deck, light up, and watch the barbecue smoke coil into the grey sky, tiny freedom spirals. Inside, Mister E. is reciting useless stats while his mates grunt in agreement, the linguistic equivalent of belly-scratching. Footy: men paid a fortune to chase a demented egg while grown adults tie their identities to the result. Spare me twice.

The Dog Biscuit Aftermath
Ten minutes in, Dave rises, not for a goal celebration but to wander glassy-eyed into the garden. He unzips and christens my new tomato seedlings with Carlton Draught-flavoured urine, then flops face-down on the grass and commences snoring like a chainsaw in therapy. His legs twitch, chasing imaginary sticks.
“Should we check on him?” Mister E. asks.
I sip. “He’s lived through worse, he married once.”
A Hawthorn supporter yells about holding the ball; I yell inside my head about holding my sanity.

Final Siren
Two hours later West Coast wins. Collingwood tears flow on screen; in my garden Dave is still horizontal, mumbling, “Another brownie… another brownie.” The party dribbles away, leaving half-empty glasses and my half-empty marriage.
I nudge Dave with my boot. Nothing. Fine, let the night air do the nursing. At least the tomatoes got watered, though I doubt they ordered a lager chaser.

I close the sliding door, twist the lock, and pour myself the day’s final pinot. Somewhere upstairs my husband hums the Eagles’ theme song, convinced the afternoon was a roaring success. I exhale smoke through the fly-screen and consider texting Dave a breakup essay, not that he’d read it. We’re all chasing sticks out here; some of us are just honest enough to admit the fetch isn’t fun anymore.

 Marty Shevelove Fan Fiction by FSF