Good fan article in the rAge today
When Jobe kicked a goal and time stood still
When Jobe kicked a goal, time stood still. A little bit like the champ himself over the past few weeks. All due respect Jobe, I love you and everything you have done for our club. You are all class. But in the last few games as a footballer, you’ve made an excellent barista.
At Etihad Stadium, on Saturday night, while Adelaide hustled us from the inside and out, while you could see our guys busting a gut to keep up, while the extraordinarily annoying Crows fan behind me with the very loud clappy hands boomed away in my ear all night, the clock stopped ticking for a moment.
Just inside the 50 at the city end, you demanded the ball, hard won out of a scrap at centre half forward, you took it cleanly, ran a step or two and it was then, in that instant, the entire Bomber world stopped spinning.
As the ball left the boot I found myself standing up. It was because the guy in front of me was standing up and the woman in front of him and the kid in front of her. You can’t be sure of too much in life, but I’m pretty certain every Dons fan from the gods to the corporates were on their feet. All sound disappeared in that split second. Holding our breath, holding our breath, holding our breath.
From my members’ forward pocket angle, it looked like the thing had sailed straight through. Had it? Did it? The cheer squad behind the sticks was roaring. In that second it was time back on and the sound was otherworldly.
There is noise at a footy game. And then there is the sound of unbridled joy. The clatter and crash, the thud and hum and resonance; the flow of the thing is almost alive.
We were on our feet screaming. For you, for us, for our club. We’ve donned the sash since birth and we’ve not taken it off. Ever. Just like you.
Your teammates hugged you, swamped you and enfolded you, as if to say, for all of us, an almighty thanks to someone who appears to be, from this fan’s seat at least, a very good man.
I don’t know you Jobe, but I do. That’s me you wave to and clap as you leave the field after a win, that’s me, a 50-year-old lady, whose sister just found my old woollen Essendon jumper, the No.32 crookedly stitched across the scratchy red sash on the back.
The Crows were too good, but the lads tried hard and showed they could match it for decent chunks of the game. We will be the better for it. We are the better for you.
When Jobe kicked a goal, it was like something bright and terrible and hard and beautiful all burst open. The best part though? Old crow clappy hands behind me had not one thing to say.