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A Poem of appreciation for the many Saturday Arvo's (Afternoon's) enjoyment and thrill of watching the amazing Australian Rules
football skills of Aboriginal players and the pride of their
supporters especially their very, very, vocal mothers and their
frequent cry, recognising a player's skill ..
"Who's that boy's mother?"
THE KOORIE KID "WHO'S THAT BOY'S MOTHER?"
The crowd roars, scores equal, time on, the seconds racing down,
The time-keeper tense, eyes on the clock, his brow a furrowed frown,
The sinews in his hand taut, his finger aching arched above the siren button,
Upon his action a monumental result either way will decide the season.
The ball clears from the centre bounce and with a desperate mighty kick,
The ball flies high spinning, arcing, sixty, seventy meters, as the seconds tick
Away, one more chance to break the tie, the combatants fight to meet the ball.
The ball arcs down to a striving mass, each digging deep within, willing to give his all.
As one the crowd gasp, for above the leaping, straining sweat soaked duellists,
A black ball of energy flies, soars above the searching hands and spoiling fists,
Accepting the energy of the rest his arched body is catapulted a
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clear metre above the best,
His straining reaching fingers close strongly on the prize and gathers strongly, desperately, to his chest.
From the crowd an involuntary sigh of admiration, as from this rarefied height
He lands lightly to the turf, without hesitation, feigns to the left, then the right,
A bounce, a turn, a spin and aware of desperate lunging figures he takes one more measured pace,
Across his mind a fleeting thought, a time to call on the skills and knowledge that are inherent of his race.
The world stops, heavy with anticipation, the crowd now mute, not a sound nor a slightest breeze,
The ball is dropped to an instinctive kick that spears past desperate hands with uncanny ease,
Strikes the ground spinning, turning, and miraculous veers toward the goals, still spinning, spinning,
Hugs the earth, skidding past the goal posts and comes to rest, slowly turning, the dust slowly settling.
The crowd erupts, a thunderous roar fills the air, women scream and grown men seen to cry
Their hopes and aspirations for their team are at that moment are granted or are left to die,
The cries of "We've won", "We're the premiers", "No gammon, we love that boy he's our brother".
Are hushed by one lone female voice, with pride, boasting to the world "Who's that boys mother?"
Wilf (Bill) Lumley
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