Hope vs Despair in the One Game that Really Matters

I wasn’t on the streets of Rome in 1982 or 2006 when Italy won the World Cup in football but I suspect it was a little bit like what I experienced on Saturday night in Wurrumiyanga on the Tiwi Islands.  When Hawthorn made their way into this year’s  AFL grand final the tiny top end community in the Northern Territory exploded.  Car horns sounded throughout the night air as cars adorned with Hawthorn flags made triumphant circuits of the streets.   Fans shouted themselves hoarse with “Up the Mighty Hawks”.  A serene elderly lady who had led some Darling Downs students on a cultural outing earlier in the afternoon became a fervent and passionate part of the brown and gold army.  The fact that one of their own, Cyril (Junior Boy) Rioli is a key part of the Hawks outfit plays no small part in the fervour.

 

When Bishop Gsell established a mission on Bathurst Island just over a hundred years ago the Catholic faith took root amongst the Tiwi.  But when the late Brother Pye left Downlands College for the Tiwi Islands in 1941 he brought another faith with him – the love of Australian Rules football.  And even if you are an innocent bystander it is hard not to get swept up in the passion of it all.  Everybody has a team and with that team is a story.  I’m on the islands at the minute as part of an immersion trip with students from Roma and Toowoomba.

 

The boys are staying with local elder, Bernard Tipiloura.  Bernard is a Collingwood fan and is living with a little despair at the moment – with his team bundled out last Friday night.  The girls are staying with Sr Anne Gardiner a legendary woman who has spent over 50 years on the islands.  Her team is the Sydney Swans and right now she is living in hope.

 

And hope and despair pretty much sum up our visit to four remote Aboriginal communities.  There is the hope of young men starting mechanical apprenticeships.  There is the visible signs of new homes being constructed to address the chronic issue of inadequate and unsuitable housing.  There is the success of the Tiwi Islands own football team in the Northern Territory League – the Tiwi Bombers.  There is the inspiring educational project of Tiwi College with offshoots such as the Matthew Hayden Way promoting horticulture and hospitality amongst up and coming Tiwi.

 

Then there is the despair of young girls walking aimlessly around town with strollers containing their babies.  There are the lives of young men lost to suicide and substance abuse.  There is the break-down of respect for elders and the traditions which have largely stood the test of time.   There is the lack of dignity felt by many by the heavy handed approach of the Stronger Futures legislation.   I’ve been returning to the islands for five years now and each time seems like a quarter from a football game.  Sometimes despair seems to have the upper hand with hope struggling to get their hands on the ball.  Other times hope just keeps diving full body length at the ball – refusing to give in – believing that the training and the game plan will eventually all come together.

 

This weekend I think the Hawks might sneak home with a bit of Tiwi Island magic.  But in the bigger game of life – I’m still cheering for the mighty team called hope.

The faithful runner

Toowoomba's Ridgy Didge Runners

Father it has been a week since my last run – well almost.  When it comes to running I find myself with my favourite atheist Phillip Adams describing people of faith.   Instead of ridicule I have an admiration for some of them.  I see what it does for them.  I see the joy it brings them but I just can’t bring myself to take that step.  It doesn’t seem to make sense.  2012 has been my year of experimenting with the truth of running.  Late last year two incidents pushed me onto the road.  A close friend had a serious health scare and I had my own little brush with mortality.  A torn calf muscle robbed me of a promising come-back as thirteenth man in local D Grade cricket.  I took myself off to the physio for the first time and legendary local manipulator Aaron Salisbury put me on the path to righteousness (well almost).   He gave me a plan to see me back on the pitch by Summer’s end.  I didn’t read the fine print which mentioned elite athlete – but within two months I was running for half an hour without stopping.  I recall my D Grade team got to the finals without me.   I have two secret weapons in pounding the pavement.  The first is the family’s  12 year old black Labrador.  She has been my walking ally and cries like a two year old child when left behind.  For those who don’t believe in redemption – Chloe as a teenager was a serial chook killer.  She now lies down in the sun with our backyard brood.  She protects them from cats and takes the odd egg in return.   My second weapon is (and I find this harder to admit) an iphone.  I don’t use it to listen to music – but it has this magical application that records each of my efforts and almost  encourages me as I go.  The voice of Assumpta Fitzgerald, the Irish landlady from the television series Ballykissangel (well I reckon it’s her) tells me in her special lilt how many kilometres I’ve covered and my current pace.   My wife doesn’t mind sharing me with Assumpta when it’s below four degrees outside with a slight mist of rain blowing across my path.  Just once I wish she’d let me know how well I’ve really done (Assumpta that is).  The thing about running and religion is that it is something that can be very private but probably only makes sense when we do it as a community.  I still label myself a walker – and a bit like a struggling sinner don’t feel worthy yet to join a running community.  But my few times of running with others have been quite uplifting and inspiring.  This last weekend at the Gold Coast I was one of thousands who chose to run together.  There were some amazing efforts like Toowoomba’s Patrick and Jack Tiernan who ran their races with nobody in front of them – but most of us ran with the pack.  And there were more than 28000 stories about what had brought people to the starting line.  Some ran for charity.  Others ran for a family member no longer with them.  I read a father and son’s t-shirt.  “Life starts on the 30^th June 2011.  Triple heart by-pass.  I promised my son I would run 10km.  Only family matters.”   Another group from Melbourne was running for children with club feet.  A friend of mine and her son who had walked the extraordinary journey of being a child with club feet sat and spoke with parents and other children with club feet.   Then there were the Indigenous runners with legendary marathon champion Robert De Castella.  Grace Eather from the tiny community of Maningrida in the Northern Territory summed it up when she said, “The hardest step in training is the first one out of the door.”    As I discuss my efforts and the  latest battle in man vs knee with my wife she looks across the breakfast table with narrowing eyes and says, “You’ve become one of them haven’t you?”   I’m not there yet but I’m almost starting to believe.