G’day people!
There was a lot of love for last week’s contribution from Mim on the pain and passion of being a Fremantle supporter. it seemed to touch a nerve with everyone in purple.
One of those people was Tim Yap, who reached out with a piece of his own around how supporting Fremantle has shaped him and what this year’s success has meant.
If you’ve got something to contribute, drop me a line at nick@jumperpunches.com.
And while I’ve got you, if you’re headed to the WAFL Grand Final at Optus Stadium this Sunday, make sure to drop into and say hi at the Sullivan Logistics Sports Deck just inside Gate D.
There will be haircuts by Soulbys Barbers, free footies to win and if you’re a Jumper Punches subscriber (free or paid) you can spin the wheel to win a heap of prizes including Varsity vouchers, new Jumper Punches merch and plenty more.
Alright, let’s get stuck in. Enjoy this from our mate Tim Yap…
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My name is Tim. I’m 29 years old and work as a Paediatric Emergency Doctor in Perth. And whenever I imagine being in the crowd, watching Fremantle lift the premiership cup, I start to cry.
I know it seems ridiculous. But it also makes all the sense in the world.
I got married this year, one week before round one, with my best man on the day being my partner in supporting the Dockers since we were six years old.
In my wedding speech I tried to sum up the relationship (with my best man, not my wife):
“I wish I could stand here and talk about all the good times, but to be honest it’s been full of pain, crushed dreams and yelling creative expletives watching the Dockers.
“We joked about what it would be like if we didn’t have a flag by the time we were 30.
“Well, we are 29 this year, we have full-time jobs, facial hair, eight finals appearances, seven finals wins, a Nat Fyfe debut, two Nat Fyfe Brownlows, a Nat Fyfe retirement … and no flag.
“But I am in some way grateful for each of those painful moments, because I’ve been able to share them with you.”
Now - some six months, 19 wins and a minor premiership later - our childhood dream seems closer than ever. And it’s got me thinking about the words I spoke that night, what September means to so many of us across Australia, and the relationship football has played with my own mental health, through some of the most challenging periods of my life.
I first started supporting Freo in 2003. A small, asian six-year-old kid in a school full of Aussies, I used sport as a way to fit in.
I didn’t have a dad around to kick the footy with me, he passed away when I was young. But that didn’t stop me kicking the ball around for hours alone in the driveway. I would make up player careers and season scorelines, but the storyline always finished with the Dockers lifting the cup.
I was obsessed with all things footy, regularly hiring out 100 Years of Australian Football from the School library and photocopying pages to study later. By the time I was eight I could’ve told you the winner of every grand final, Norm Smith and Brownlow Medal going back 50 years.
If I didn’t look like you, that was ok, I’d run harder on the field, and learn more about the game than you ever could.
As a Dockers fan in the early 2000s, it felt like everyone in WA besides me and my best mate barracked for West Coast. They played in finals and won flags, while we hung our hats on derby wins. Still, I’d argue with the Eagles fans in the playground until I was red in the face. (Sure they won the flag in 2006, but we beat them twice that year, so who was really the better side? We would’ve beat them in that Granny anyway)
Then came Ross, and with him a rare period of success that defined my teenage years. With finals euphoria and heartbreak that would dictate my mood for the week.
At this age I hadn’t yet grasped the fleeting nature of all things good and bad in life, and unfortunately for us Freo fans, fleeting the good truly was.
What was difficult for me during this next phase as a Dockers supporter however, was the convergence of the team’s demise with that of my own mental health. Something I could’ve never predicted.
It’s often said that for so many of us, sport is an escape. A place where we can find temporary relief from what can be at times a cruel and unforgiving world.
But what happens when that escape begins to emulate the cruelty of our own reality? When sport changes from a beacon of hope and joy, to a microcosm of the happiness and success we ultimately feel we don’t deserve?
Well in some of the darkest times of my own life, I was faced with this exact question. And like so many of us, I kept showing up. Whether it be at the ground or on the couch, footy was the only constant in my life. But instead of distracting me from my own hardships, it acted as its own.
I wanted to pull away, find a new hobby or place to invest my time that didn’t hurt so much, but as we all know all too well, that passion simply cannot be replaced.
Which is why I hate the phrase ‘it’s just a game’.
Because of course there are more important things than football. I’ve been reminded of that many times throughout my own life, I’m reminded of that every day at work. I’ve lost loved ones, I’ve lost patients, and at times I’ve lost myself. But for better or for worse, footy has always been there, weaving its way into the fabric of my own identity.
And when I look back at some of my most cherished memories - passages of play I can replay beat-for-beat in my head, lines of commentary I can repeat word for word - I don’t just see games of football, I see different versions of myself, facing different hurdles throughout my life, that have shaped the man I am today.
Footy has taught me resilience. At times when just getting out of bed onto the couch to watch the game was an achievement in itself.
It’s reminded me to always show up; for my team, for my loved ones and for myself, no matter the situation, no matter the stakes.
And it’s allowed me to remain connected with people when life has gotten in the way; a medium to foster more meaningful relationships that are so difficult to find in the modern world, particularly amongst young men.
So as this incredible season reaches its pinnacle, and I look back on the words I spoke six months ago, this September for me represents the passing of time.
I’m 29 now, and my life is now full of so many wonderful things that I am truly grateful for.
But when I take my seat at Optus Stadium, or turn on the TV at home, I’m still that six-year-old boy in his driveway, finding his place in the world, dreaming of September glory.
There’s still work to be done. But preparing to watch the team this Friday night, and whatever comes after, I can’t help but look back on the journey endured to this point and be proud of the person I’ve grown to become, through life and through football.
So no, it’s not just a game. It’s Australian Rules Football. It’s an identity.
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