Murph's Age Column for 2009

Murph's Age Column for 2009
Changes aplenty but life's constants shine
Robert Murphy | March 26, 2009
http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/changes-aplenty-but-lifes-constants-shine/2009/03/25/1237656995750.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1

THE more things change, the more they stay the same. I've no idea who first uttered that, but they should step forward and take a bow because it's brilliant. It might not make sense, but it does make beautiful poetry.

Not everything has to make sense, does it? I was never much good at maths and science at school; I never had the answers, and in those subjects it's all about answers. I was much more comfortable sitting in an art room looking out the window and talking about space, asking pointless questions that weren't meant to be answered.

In a footy sense, "the more things change, the more they stay the same" has never rung truer. The game is on the verge of a breakdown, so I keep hearing — ugly footy and negative tactics, rolling zones, clusters and the like. It's not enough that the front of the paper is full of doom and gloom, now it's spread to the back.

I'd like this particular space in the paper to be a bit more "glass half-full", and fully expect the game to sort itself out and be as good as it's ever been. No matter how many strategies and rule changes the game endures it will always come out shiny, because at its heart it is beautiful and unique, a game played by bodies of all shapes and sizes chasing an odd-shaped ball.

Chaos will always play an integral part in our game. The answers are never going to be as simple as 2 + 2, and we're best to throw out the maths and enjoy footy for what it is. No matter what the trends of the day, you still have to get the ball first and use it better than the other team. Do that and most of the time you'll win; all the other stuff becomes blotter.

So, just what has changed and what's stayed the same since we last spoke? My holidays got off to an ordinary start — post-season surgery is always a bit of a downer, aside from the few moments of pure bliss you have before going under. Not so good coming out of theatre, mind you, in pain and utterly confused.

There were first steps — mine post-surgery, wobbly and painful. Then Jarvis, taking his own long-awaited first paces at the ripe old age of 17 months — wobbly, too, but funny.

Then Arthur finally confronted his fear of the water, first plucking up the courage to walk through his first puddle. Cute. Then, with Jarvis, his mum and I and a couple of teammates setting sail off Barwon Heads for a spot of fishing, and Arthur looking on longingly from the pier, our little sausage dog took a leap of faith and, to our horror, was suddenly tumbling down the river, out of sorts and out of breath. Strange dog. Courageous, but strange.

And then there was marriage, the biggest leap of all in many ways, but a much more enjoyable one than Arthur's off the pier.

Jarvis' mum is some gal, so I've taken extraordinary steps to show my commitment to her, and will now be known as Bob Quigley. Brian Lake, eat your heart out.

Along with the new, there have been comebacks, too. The bronzed playboy who had it all and threw it away is back on top where he belongs, looking a little life-weary (as you would after being put through the wringer for a year or two), but appearing to have lost little of the magic. Welcome back, Mickey Rourke.

Despite my disappointment at Mickey missing out on an Oscar, it was heart-warming to see such a star with talent and charisma to burn return to the main stage to delight the masses. Kinda reminds me of someone else who'll be having a run tonight. A great chance to silence the sideshow of intrusion on his dining rituals, and show us why the fascination started in the first place. Best of luck to him.

There is a moment every year when this city changes gear and finds the slower pace of winter, and arriving home this week I think I felt it, something in the air and also the way the light had softened on the bricks of my little neighbourhood. Winter has always been a better fit for Melbourne, I think.

The football season feeds on a huge amount of oxygen, and its ups and downs, wins and losses, glory and pain can leave you feeling a little short of breath if you don't step back every so often and inhale. But it's gripping enough to bring people out in their droves, to fly a flag and yell at the players and umpires, even though they know we can't really hear them.

Gee, it's good to have the footy back. I hope 2009 belongs to my Bulldogs and Van and Cal Walker, and brings good weather for ducks.

The beauty, the splendour of hair.
Robert Murphy | April 2, 2009
http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/rfnews/the-splendour-of-hair/2009/04/01/1238261649005.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1

'WHO are you? Ooh ooh, ooh ooh." Ah yes, one of the classics from one of the all-time great acts, The Who, who blasted into town last week to delight the petrolheads. Mind you, it would take The Beatles to get me along to the grand prix.

The Who's anthem poses an interesting question, that of our identity. Who are we to others? And who are we to ourselves?

Last week I had a brief dalliance with an alias, Bob Quigley. While it was fun to shed the old skin for a few days, it's back to who I really am this week. Plain old Bob Murphy might sometimes struggle to get a kick, but poor old Bob Quigley can't even get on the park.

My weekend again raised the question of identity: am I a footballer, or am I a spectator?

It's always a strange feeling to be part of the team when you're not actually playing, a bit like a woodchopper who's lost his axe.

Seeing your boys disappear up the race towards the lush Subiaco turf is, I imagine, a bit like watching your wife (if she was an actress) on the big screen in the clutches of another man. You're happy for them, but you can't help but feel a little jealousy, too.

From the unique viewpoint of the coach's box, I was able to enjoy a team I'm usually part of do what they do best, and I was immensely proud. Finals aside, interstate wins are what it's all about, and I could sit back on the midnight horror content that the excitement on a young player like Cal Ward's face at game's end showed what good hands our game and our club are in.

Football and life, life and football. When did the two become so complicated? For a player in the modern game it's impossible for a line to be drawn between the two — they are one and the same. Like it or loath it, football defines us. Michelangelo is remembered for his work, not by what he did in his spare time.

The game is all about trends, and the one I'd like to dig away at this week is hair — or a lack of. I've been keeping a close eye on scalps for a few years now, quietly stockpiling data to pose the big question: are AFL footballers' hairstyles a reflection of society's youth?

I'm sure most of you noticed the number of players who turned out last week with shaved heads, and surely we can't attribute them all to the No. 32 at Tigerland. (Round one's hairy exception was the beard on my big mate Ben Hudson, a modern-day rebel if ever there was. That it was deemed "not hot" by the little paper is reason enough to keep dodging the razor.)

This trend goes right to the heart of what aches in the youth of today, a youth I can still hold claim to (just). I'm 26, soon 27 — with a wobbly knee! In a football sense that's middle-age, and even a crafty deflection to music won't help me this time; in rock 'n' roll, 27 often spells death.

This hair theory first occurred to me a few years ago when the amount of wacky hairdos seemed to triple almost overnight, and I wondered if it was a subconscious reaction to players finding their own individuality. What is there to rebel against these days? For the most part we live in a free-thinking environment where creativity and ambition are rightly encouraged. The shackles are off, basically, but maybe this has left us feeling no pressure to follow "the norm".

Kids are asking themselves the Hoodoo Gurus' eternal question, "What's my scene?" Or rather, "What's my hair?"

The latest head-shaving epidemic says to me that we've now put our hands up and said, "We actually don't know what we're doing. Life is too complicated, too fast, so I'm going to take control of my hair because I've lost control of everything else."

Wrestling with my own identity, I took myself off to a proper, old-fashioned barber shop. Walking in, I was struck by the pictures of Elvis that lined the walls. "This is my barber," I thought. "Actually, this could be my church!"

I sat up in the glorious old barber's chair, wondering how many million hairs had fallen over this very seat. I asked about the pictures, readying myself to talk about all the classics — Kentucky Rain, Suspicious Minds, In the Ghetto. I was salivating.

Then my barber revealed that he was more of a karate lover than a music lover, and his affection for The King lay more in the exposure Elvis gave the karate community than his music. Thirty minutes of talking about karate was a lot (I was done after two, to be honest).

My barber's rant threw me, and the next thing I knew I was ignoring the voice of Jarvis' mum ringing in my ears ("your head is too skinny to shave, you'll look stupid"), and I emerged into the autumn glow not only $15 lighter and with a better knowledge of karate, but with a flat-top to boot.

Fair trade, I thought. At least I can find comfort that, despite my ageing body, I'm still part of a youthful generation — confused and taking it out on our hair.

View Full Version: Murph's Age Column for 2009