A Panther since before he could even spell their name, James Colley would like you to know that he and his team will never tire of winning, thank you very much.
I don’t trust fans of winning teams. I don’t understand their mindset. You’re telling me, you rock up to the game with the expectation that your team wins? You cheer as they score? You jump to your feet and wave your flags? You skip all the way home?
Pathetic. Childish. What a gawking, Marvel-fan mentality you have here. You need to see the supposed good guys win. You still foster belief – which is a child’s emotion, by the way, reserved for Tooth Fairies and Easter Bunnies.
True fans know that to support is to suffer. Real fans know that seeing your team take the lead is a poisoned chalice. They know that it is the hope that kills you. They know what it feels like to drag your feet all the way back to the train station, muttering under your breath that you hate football and that it’s a stupid game, anyway.
This was my experience with the game. I am a Penrith Panthers fan. It has been a part of my identity for longer than I could spell “Penrith”, which is a claim I can verify thanks to the years I had a Penrite Oil sticker on my wall, thinking I was supporting the team.
I’ve been there for the bad times. Hard-fought years in half-full stadiums. Saying things like “mathematically, we’re still in with a chance”, in the same way that we hope that perhaps there’s a long-lost uncle somewhere who has passed away and left us a hefty inheritance that we just don’t know about yet. I’ve seen the pitiful looks and sly grins on the faces of the more fortunate when I tell them which team I support. I have been a football fan.
Then, something happened that shifted how I understand the world. Like the poor Texas farmers in the Hill Country who suddenly discovered oil deep beneath their barren grounds, what was once a place of sadness became the home of unimaginable wealth. Penrith started winning. Not just a little, a lot. Too much, really, for anyone who isn’t a fan. Four premierships in a row (“and counting,” he whispers). All of a sudden, phrases start appearing like “undisputed” and “the greatest team of the modern era”.
I believe it was Donald Trump who told his supporters, “We are going to win so much, you may even get tired of winning.” Now, I would hate to impugn a man with such a stellar reputation for truth-telling, but I fear he might have been incorrect on this matter. I have not once found myself tired of the feeling of winning. It turns out, it’s kind of terrific.
To start this particular season, the team even microdosed losing, just to make sure we weren’t missing out on anything there, in the way that a long-married couple might have a “lost weekend,” so to speak. But no, they decided, this is not for us. And so, quickly and efficiently, the winning regime was reinstalled.
Nowadays, when people ask me about my team, there’s no sly grin. There’s no joy whatsoever. Penrith are no longer plucky underdogs, afterthoughts, or sad sacks. They’re the Evil Empire. They’re ruining the game for everyone else. Victory is sweet and all, but there is a question about identity here. It is not a charming conversation. It’s akin to when you read people talking about how winning the lottery has ruined their lives. Alright mate, we say. Sounds bloody tough. You’ve been through a lot.
But all good things must come to an end, and at some point, perhaps soon, we will see the end of these halcyon days. And here I am, the Rugby League Cassandra, crying out warnings of a dire future that awaits. I see small children, their faces painted, their flags waving, and I want to tell them that it was not always like this, and it will never be like this again. I want to tell them to savour every single moment, for soon we will return to the mud. Soon, you will know what it means to be a real fan. Soon, you will suffer, little children.
Am I being dramatic? Am I being unnecessarily pessimistic? Am I trying to snatch misery from the jaws of unrelenting positivity? Yes, I am. That is what being a fan is all about.
By James Colley
James Colley writes comedy for television and print. His debut novel The Next Big Thing is out now.
Published in ed#743
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