I don’t mean to talk so much about “the footy” (Australian Rules Football), but I can’t help it. It is a very big part of Victorian culture. In Melbourne, there are multiple teams that play four games per weekend in front of crowds that would sell out any stadium in the United States. It has been a couple of months since this happened and I have told a few people about it, but I think the story merits a retelling...
Before Julie and the kids arrived, I made the decision that we barrack for the Saint Kilda Saints. Yep, that’s our team. Side note, in Oz, you always say “barrack for” and never “root” as “root” is slang for to have intercourse with. After making this very serious and legally binding decision, I decided to get some Saints clothes. I travelled all the way out to Moorabin and went to the official Saint’s store. I purchased Zoe a dress and matching hoodies for Carson and I.
On our first full day in Australia, I decided to get the kids out of the house and let Julie do some unpacking. I’m the kind of dork who is willing to dress my son in a matching outfit and we both headed out in our Saints hoodies. Our first stop was a local coffee shop that has a nice play area. I drank my coffee while the kids played with some new friends.
The parents were rather friendly too and I asked them about the best parks in the local area and general parenting advice. After a few minutes of conversation, a man in his fifties approached me and smiled widely.
“Excuse me,” he said, “do you have an American accent?”
I smiled, I had done my best to blend in with the hoodie, but once I opened my mouth, I gave myself away. “Yes,” I replied.
“Where are you from?”
The smart ass in me wanted to say Perth, but I had officially retired that joke. Maybe the reason I made the joke up in the first place is because I have a hard time answering this very simple question. I was born in a suburb of Philadelphia. I lived there for six weeks, so I hardly consider that home (what the hell were my parents thinking moving with a three year old and an infant?). I moved too many places to count and don’t remember any of them before I was four. My childhood that I do remember was spent in Phoenix, Arizona. As an adult; I wandered to Colorado Springs, Evanston, Los Angeles, Silicon Valley, and Seattle. For whatever reason, I told the man I was from Seattle.
He paused for a moment. “Top left, isn’t it?”
I smiled. I had never thought of it that way, but yes, top left if a fairly accurate description of the geographic location of my supposed home town.
“So, I have to ask, why do you barrack for the Saints?”
I liked this guy and I was enjoying our conversation. I began to really open up. “First of all, we live in Port Melbourne and Saint Kilda is the next town over. I jog there all the time. Then there’s the history. The Saints have the losingest record in the history of the AFL. More recently, they just went to two Grand Finales without winning. In recent years, they look great on paper but can’t seem to find a way to win which is perfect because I need a team that is guaranteed to break my heart.”
The man found my response to be funny and fairly well researched. With all of the pride that a father can have for his adult son, he told me, “I’m Nick Riewalt’s dad!”
Without thinking, I responded simply, “Who?”
My new friend’s smile faded a bit. He had just spent several minutes talking to an American wearing a Saints hoodie, talking about the history of the Saints, and living in the area who didn’t know who his son, the captain of the Saints and their star player, was. Whoops. Even after this faux pas, I enjoyed talking to him. I would also like to make it clear that he was truly a nice guy and I hope to run into him again.
It’s kind of funny to hear people talk about my accent. I had the kids at the zoo and I was trying to get them to leave. Carson grabbed my hand and insisted we see one more exhibit. I had no idea where he was taking me but was trying to herd Zoe in the same direction. We got there and I read the sign, “North American Otter”. Without thinking, I said, “Oh, they’re otters!”
Two Aussie women overheard me. “It sounds so funny in your accent.”
I laughed. They kept saying “ot - terrrrr” over and over again. It didn’t sound anything like me, but they were very amused. Ot - terrrr. That’s the funny, harmless part of having an accent. Sometimes, it’s not so funny and I am completely misunderstood.
I somehow lucked into having great neighbors. They graciously offered to take me to a finals game of the AFL (they say finals instead of playoffs). I was happy for a reason to go to the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) and watch a game even if it wasn’t my team.
The AFL started here in Melbourne and has slowly branched out to the rest of Australia. My neighbors are from Perth (ironically) and support the West Coast Eagles. Of the 67,000 plus people in attendance, maybe 1,000 of them were cheering for the Eagles. The other 66,000 were cheering on the number one ranked Collingswood (a suburb of Melbourne). My neighbors belong to a club of Eagles supporters and we sat in their section. My neighbor, Greg, knew just about every one of the thousand Eagles fans.
The game started and the Eagles played well in a valiant defeat. After the first quarter, Greg and I wound up heckling the girl sitting in front of us. It was probably my NFL football jersey that gave me away, but she started to give me a list of things to do in Melbourne.
“You need to go to Healesville.”
“I’ve done that.”
“You need to go to Luna Park.”
“I’ve done that.”
“You need to see a kangaroo in the wild.”
“Look, I’ve done everything there is to do in Melbourne except execute a hook turn.”
If this scene were in a movie, all 67,000 people in attendance would have stopped cheering, the players on the field would have stopped playing, the crazy noise surrounding us would have gone to absolute silence. The only thing that would have been heard would be the sound of a record scratching.
I was confused. Greg and the girl looked at me and then at each other appalled.
“You know, when you make a right turn from the left lane?”
“OH! A HOOK (pause) TURN!”
It then dawned on me that they thought I casually suggested that I needed to execute a hooker. It was my turn to be appalled.
“My ten year old neighbor is sitting right next to me! What did you think I was talking about!”
If I could be that misunderstood amongst friends, it made me wonder what else I’ve said that has been radically misinterpreted.
As we were leaving, Greg introduced me to a friend. He saw my Arizona Cardinal’s jersey and told me proudly he was part of the “Steeler’s nation”. I was shocked and a bit surprised. Not that he cared about the NFL, Aussies love sports so much they will watch anything, but that he would choose the Steelers.
“Have you ever been to Pittsburgh?”
“No.”
“Do you ever plan to go to Pittsburgh?”
“No.”
“If you could go anywhere in the United States, would Pittsburgh even rank in your top ten of cities you would want to go to?”
“No.”
“Then why do you give a shit about the Steelers?!”
I got an answer that he liked the colors when he was a kid and watched them win a Super Bowl in the late seventies. Here, once you pick a team you can never change. I say that’s bullshit.
A week later, the NFL season started. I woke up at 6AM Monday morning and the morning games from Sunday back in the States were already over. A few hours later, I received a text from my mate, Darren, gloating that his beloved Niners had solidly beaten the Seahawks.
For the last several years, Darren and I have bet when our two pathetic teams meet. Since Darren won’t bet money; it has resulted in Darren listening to the musical “Cats”, me listening to the “Best of Billy Ray Cyrus”, and other acts of unspeakable torture. For whatever reason, Darren and I never worked out any sort of bet for this season.
I saw his text and my first thought was, “We never made a bet, so I’m not going to have to listen to Barbara Streisand!”
My next thought was, “Who gives a shit?”
I replied back that I no longer care about the Seahawks, I will never attend a game at Qwest field, and I now consider the Chargers to be my team. There was no immediate reply and I forgot about the whole conversation.
A few hours later, Darren texted saying that I can’t do that and switching teams would result in anarchy. It made me think of the Steelers fan I met at the footy. Why should I care about a team in Seattle when I don’t live there anymore, don’t want to live there anymore, and never particularly liked living there in the first place?
I’m now coming out publicly to say, I officially renounce my fandom of the Seattle Seahawks and henceforth pronounce myself to be a fan of the San Diego Chargers. I have asked a few Australians for their views on this unconventional move. Surprisingly, once I presented my case, most have been supportive. What do the Americans have to say? (Except Darren - he doesn’t count)
Before Julie and the kids arrived, I made the decision that we barrack for the Saint Kilda Saints. Yep, that’s our team. Side note, in Oz, you always say “barrack for” and never “root” as “root” is slang for to have intercourse with. After making this very serious and legally binding decision, I decided to get some Saints clothes. I travelled all the way out to Moorabin and went to the official Saint’s store. I purchased Zoe a dress and matching hoodies for Carson and I.
On our first full day in Australia, I decided to get the kids out of the house and let Julie do some unpacking. I’m the kind of dork who is willing to dress my son in a matching outfit and we both headed out in our Saints hoodies. Our first stop was a local coffee shop that has a nice play area. I drank my coffee while the kids played with some new friends.
The parents were rather friendly too and I asked them about the best parks in the local area and general parenting advice. After a few minutes of conversation, a man in his fifties approached me and smiled widely.
“Excuse me,” he said, “do you have an American accent?”
I smiled, I had done my best to blend in with the hoodie, but once I opened my mouth, I gave myself away. “Yes,” I replied.
“Where are you from?”
The smart ass in me wanted to say Perth, but I had officially retired that joke. Maybe the reason I made the joke up in the first place is because I have a hard time answering this very simple question. I was born in a suburb of Philadelphia. I lived there for six weeks, so I hardly consider that home (what the hell were my parents thinking moving with a three year old and an infant?). I moved too many places to count and don’t remember any of them before I was four. My childhood that I do remember was spent in Phoenix, Arizona. As an adult; I wandered to Colorado Springs, Evanston, Los Angeles, Silicon Valley, and Seattle. For whatever reason, I told the man I was from Seattle.
He paused for a moment. “Top left, isn’t it?”
I smiled. I had never thought of it that way, but yes, top left if a fairly accurate description of the geographic location of my supposed home town.
“So, I have to ask, why do you barrack for the Saints?”
I liked this guy and I was enjoying our conversation. I began to really open up. “First of all, we live in Port Melbourne and Saint Kilda is the next town over. I jog there all the time. Then there’s the history. The Saints have the losingest record in the history of the AFL. More recently, they just went to two Grand Finales without winning. In recent years, they look great on paper but can’t seem to find a way to win which is perfect because I need a team that is guaranteed to break my heart.”
The man found my response to be funny and fairly well researched. With all of the pride that a father can have for his adult son, he told me, “I’m Nick Riewalt’s dad!”
Without thinking, I responded simply, “Who?”
My new friend’s smile faded a bit. He had just spent several minutes talking to an American wearing a Saints hoodie, talking about the history of the Saints, and living in the area who didn’t know who his son, the captain of the Saints and their star player, was. Whoops. Even after this faux pas, I enjoyed talking to him. I would also like to make it clear that he was truly a nice guy and I hope to run into him again.
It’s kind of funny to hear people talk about my accent. I had the kids at the zoo and I was trying to get them to leave. Carson grabbed my hand and insisted we see one more exhibit. I had no idea where he was taking me but was trying to herd Zoe in the same direction. We got there and I read the sign, “North American Otter”. Without thinking, I said, “Oh, they’re otters!”
Two Aussie women overheard me. “It sounds so funny in your accent.”
I laughed. They kept saying “ot - terrrrr” over and over again. It didn’t sound anything like me, but they were very amused. Ot - terrrr. That’s the funny, harmless part of having an accent. Sometimes, it’s not so funny and I am completely misunderstood.
I somehow lucked into having great neighbors. They graciously offered to take me to a finals game of the AFL (they say finals instead of playoffs). I was happy for a reason to go to the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) and watch a game even if it wasn’t my team.
The AFL started here in Melbourne and has slowly branched out to the rest of Australia. My neighbors are from Perth (ironically) and support the West Coast Eagles. Of the 67,000 plus people in attendance, maybe 1,000 of them were cheering for the Eagles. The other 66,000 were cheering on the number one ranked Collingswood (a suburb of Melbourne). My neighbors belong to a club of Eagles supporters and we sat in their section. My neighbor, Greg, knew just about every one of the thousand Eagles fans.
The game started and the Eagles played well in a valiant defeat. After the first quarter, Greg and I wound up heckling the girl sitting in front of us. It was probably my NFL football jersey that gave me away, but she started to give me a list of things to do in Melbourne.
“You need to go to Healesville.”
“I’ve done that.”
“You need to go to Luna Park.”
“I’ve done that.”
“You need to see a kangaroo in the wild.”
“Look, I’ve done everything there is to do in Melbourne except execute a hook turn.”
If this scene were in a movie, all 67,000 people in attendance would have stopped cheering, the players on the field would have stopped playing, the crazy noise surrounding us would have gone to absolute silence. The only thing that would have been heard would be the sound of a record scratching.
I was confused. Greg and the girl looked at me and then at each other appalled.
“You know, when you make a right turn from the left lane?”
“OH! A HOOK (pause) TURN!”
It then dawned on me that they thought I casually suggested that I needed to execute a hooker. It was my turn to be appalled.
“My ten year old neighbor is sitting right next to me! What did you think I was talking about!”
If I could be that misunderstood amongst friends, it made me wonder what else I’ve said that has been radically misinterpreted.
As we were leaving, Greg introduced me to a friend. He saw my Arizona Cardinal’s jersey and told me proudly he was part of the “Steeler’s nation”. I was shocked and a bit surprised. Not that he cared about the NFL, Aussies love sports so much they will watch anything, but that he would choose the Steelers.
“Have you ever been to Pittsburgh?”
“No.”
“Do you ever plan to go to Pittsburgh?”
“No.”
“If you could go anywhere in the United States, would Pittsburgh even rank in your top ten of cities you would want to go to?”
“No.”
“Then why do you give a shit about the Steelers?!”
I got an answer that he liked the colors when he was a kid and watched them win a Super Bowl in the late seventies. Here, once you pick a team you can never change. I say that’s bullshit.
A week later, the NFL season started. I woke up at 6AM Monday morning and the morning games from Sunday back in the States were already over. A few hours later, I received a text from my mate, Darren, gloating that his beloved Niners had solidly beaten the Seahawks.
For the last several years, Darren and I have bet when our two pathetic teams meet. Since Darren won’t bet money; it has resulted in Darren listening to the musical “Cats”, me listening to the “Best of Billy Ray Cyrus”, and other acts of unspeakable torture. For whatever reason, Darren and I never worked out any sort of bet for this season.
I saw his text and my first thought was, “We never made a bet, so I’m not going to have to listen to Barbara Streisand!”
My next thought was, “Who gives a shit?”
I replied back that I no longer care about the Seahawks, I will never attend a game at Qwest field, and I now consider the Chargers to be my team. There was no immediate reply and I forgot about the whole conversation.
A few hours later, Darren texted saying that I can’t do that and switching teams would result in anarchy. It made me think of the Steelers fan I met at the footy. Why should I care about a team in Seattle when I don’t live there anymore, don’t want to live there anymore, and never particularly liked living there in the first place?
I’m now coming out publicly to say, I officially renounce my fandom of the Seattle Seahawks and henceforth pronounce myself to be a fan of the San Diego Chargers. I have asked a few Australians for their views on this unconventional move. Surprisingly, once I presented my case, most have been supportive. What do the Americans have to say? (Except Darren - he doesn’t count)
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