By Brett Goshorn

He never sat on the sidelines,
He always stood,
And I never paid much attention to it.

But as the years passed,
I found myself dragging an extra chair,
To the weekly ritual of the round ball.
Where it would be thrown on the cold earth,
Unused,
Wrapped in its shroud.

The ladies loved to sit.
And that was fine.
Blankets, gloves, hot chocolate for the young ones.
Dark interrupted by the artificial glare of the lights.
Half time.
Left over gummy snakes passed down the line.
Good and close,
Their yarns covering them like doonas.
Small breaths of fog disappearing into the night.

Some of the blokes joined them in their sitting
And that was ok too
No one would blame them for snuggling right in there,
Close to the talkin’ which would warm their innards
Like smoldering embers.
Warmth.

While on the outside…,
‘Fuck it’s cold.’

There’s a lot to be said for standing.
To feeling part of the game.
Your weight shifts,
An ever so slight proxy kick,
Or run,
Or tackle.

They dedicated the year to this man who always stood on the sideline.
This man that was part of the team,
The Everyman who was a part of the weekly armada of sideline warriors.

Sidelines full of spirit,
Cheering on their daughters, sons, grandchildren, nieces, nephews…

And so I’ll stand and let the spirit wash over me.  The spirit of Everyman.