Dear Richmond,
Well, here I am again, little old me your absentee fan writing to you again. Another couple of lonely weeks spent waiting for you to bring a win home. Another couple of wasted weekends with you promising to bring home roses then turning up with nothing but a bunch of thorny stems. I even gave you some money so you could finally buy us a Rolls Royce, and all you’ve come back with so far is a plastic two wheel scooter. There’s so much heartbreak, infidelity and unrequited love that I can hardly go on.
I’ve forgiven you so much lately. When you were unfaithful with that harlot Carlton, I wrote in your defence. Perhaps foolishly I placed myself between you and the ruthless hordes of your less forgiving, bitter, joy-starved lovers. I just made them angrier, and if they could have gotten their hands on me they would have stuffed pages of Shakespeare in places I care not to think about and forced me to repeatedly watch Anthony Banik’s 15 second highlight reel until my eyes bled.
And since your latest tropical flirtation (which ended with you tied up and whipped by the cheapest new tart on the block, the disgrace of it), many of my deeply concerned friends have urged me to strike hard at you this time, lash out and end it once and for all.
Last weekend, I had my friend Ben follow you so he could keep an eye on you and report to me first hand what you get up to when you head north. Yes. He was in the crowd up there in that far north play pen that you’ll spend a lot of time mucking around in during the next three years. (I know you’ve done it for the money, and part of me understands that, but once you’ve done it for the money sweetheart, a certain reputation sticks...). Ben saw it with his own eyes and rang in regularly to update me as you gave yourself up yet again to Miss Turnovers, Madam Lack of Work Rate, Mrs Loss of Composure, and (oh the inhumanity) old Mr Wind. All reports are that Mr Wind has not had that much unadulterated fun since the glory days of VFL Park and full strength beer.
Yes Richmond. My mate Ben called in with all the sordid details, and judging by the crowd reactions coming down the line, someone was having a good time, but the howling despair I could also hear, well that was you. (Incidentally, Ben is a former lover of yours who left you in 1989 when Gary Ablett Snr kicked more goals in one grand final than it seemed you had kicked in a decade).
For my sins, so far away from you, I went to watch you on the huge screen at the Ainslie Footy Club. There I was in a forest of poker machines like a too loyal lovesick puppy, full of expectation and confidence that you’d at last return my longing looks and give me reasons to believe again. And in that first quarter, you were on top with Mr Wind and the joy was all ours. Then. Then you produced what felt like the worst quarter of football I have had to endure during this entire crazy love affair. Yes, I know Mr Wind had you at Hello in that quarter. But at least four of the goals you conceded were a direct result of Miss Turnovers. I needed counselling at half time and, short of options, called the problem gambler helpline. When I mentioned I barracked for Richmond, the young lass on the end of line felt my case was almost hopeless and recommended immediate referral to a psychiatrist.
The rest of the match was a blur as I felt myself fighting back outbursts of anger, conscious of what I’d said about you so recently. I just managed to stop myself from sending my membership card to the club kitchen to be battered, deep fried and served to me with lashings of vinegar.
Richmond, dear Richmond, please try to understand that of all the mistresses you’ve consorted with of late, it’s your dalliances with Miss Turnovers that break my heart the most. It is these liaisons that are the most dangerous. These that have me questioning your depth, your talent and all the promises you keep making to me about the future.
So, as you head nervously to the dance with the Cats this weekend, I want you to promise me just one thing for now: you’ll end your affair with Miss Turnovers. I will forgive you for consorting with Madam Lack of Work rate if it’s just because your tired. I will excuse your amorous exchanges with Mrs Loss of Composure given your really no match for the Cats.
And boy am I grateful that there’ll be no Mr Wind as you’ll be playing indoors this weekend. But if you embrace Miss Turnovers, this time we are over and done with, at an end, washed up, broken. I’m sorry, but it will be for my own good.
For now, think yourself lucky that I haven’t already kicked you out. Many of your other lovers have and will deplore me because I haven’t. But (and I know I’ve said this so many times before) this is your last chance Richmond, your very last chance.
Yours faithfully
The Absentee Fan
