‘It was the best of football times, it was the worst of football times, it was the age of football wisdom, it was the age of football foolishness, it was the epoch of football belief, it was the epoch of football incredulity, it was the football season of light, it was the football season of darkness, it was the football spring of hope, it was the football winter of despair’ …
At opposite ends of the poor little island of Vandemania, there lived two celebrated brothers of Irish descent. The elder brother, a poetic sage and Gaelic Football scribe, had retired from the mainland city of Metropolis to the humble Northern Capital of his birthplace. Physically shorter, but of greater literary stature, the younger brother had devoted his adult life to writing acclaimed novels set in and around the island’s Southern Capital. And it was there, amidst the convict sandstone rows of his tales, he launched a protest movement against the Metropolis Football League’s cajoling of the island’s Governor to gift a precious waterfront precinct in exchange for the inclusion of a Vandemanian team in the hallowed mainland MFL.
A football journalist and fanatic having always dreamt of a homeland team and not wanting to see the opportunity pass, the elder brother distanced himself physically and literally from the controversy. Like all Vandemanians, both brothers knew the island’s Northern Capital stadium to be among the finest of sporting fields in the country and – with some MFL help – could easily be upgraded to meet the code’s mainland standards.
His parliamentary attendance aside, the Governor, a potato farmer, cared little for the colonial vestiges of the Southern Capital, sharing a developer’s high-rise view of the city’s future. Prompted by a whisper that Metropolis was looking to expand its football empire, the Governor wasted no time in calling the ‘Lord’ of the MFL to promote the Northern stadium as a base to establish a Vandemanian team. Over lunch with his Metropolis gaming buddies, the Lord laughed into his smartphone.
“No, no, my little mate, if you want a team, we’ll need more than that! Much more! Come across when you get a chance, and we’ll talk.”
And so, the Devil’s snare was set. Seeking no counsel, but certain of his place in Vandemanian history, the ambitious Governor boarded the next flight to Metropolis.
Ushered through the gilded doors of the MFL lounge, the Governor was greeted by the towering Lord. Having previously discussed the benefits of a Vandemanian team with the MFL directors – and now buoyed by his pending promotion to head an associated gambling empire – the 4-million-dollar Lord, pitched a wild opening gambit.
“You must realise, my little mate, admission to our MFL can never come cheap. This is the bigtime league, so Vandemania will have to pay a bigtime entry fee.
“The MFL could be persuaded by that Southern City patch of wasteland you’ve been sitting on all these years, and that’s where you’d need to build your Metropolis stadium. It’s up to you, but this could be your big moment my little mate. Grant us that riverfront wasteland and we’d have a deal.”
Wide-eyed, in dumbstruck disbelief, the Governor scanned the palatial interior as if searching for a fitting response. Yes, this was his big moment. He couldn’t let it slip, but he knew he was expected to exhibit a Governor’s degree of prudence.
“You mean the harbourside land in front of the cenotaph? Hmm, that could be a bit controversial,” he asserted, stroking his chin in feigned consideration.
“But hey, you’re probably right, it is a bit of a wasteland . . . let’s do it!”
Although well versed in the art of the deal, the MFL overlord could not believe how easily his demands were met. The dangling of a donkey’s carrot in front of a blinkered, glory-seeking Governor was all it took. Reaching across to place a reassuring hand on his client’s shoulder, the Lord of the Metropolis Football League tightened the noose.
“Build it my little mate! Build it, and they will come!”
More than anyone, the little mate knew his minuscule populace could never afford nor justify the billion-plus outlay to build the MFL’s theme park, but, with stars in his hoodwinked eyes – and in shaking excitement of a deal he couldn’t refuse – the Vandemanian Governor took a deep breath and signed away his island’s pound of flesh.
From north to south, the government’s Murdocratic tabloids headlined the news with glowing editorials, ethereal CGI renderings and spirited comment. On talkback radio, social priorities and poor literacy standards resurfaced as hot topics while Vandemanians googled the meaning of ‘regenerative renaissance’.
The MFL and its gaming affiliates had reason to celebrate. A single sporting body in a city of well over five million residents had lured an entire state of fewer than six hundred thousand to finance a multi-billion-dollar site for the expansion of its own empire in exchange for a licence to play just one of the many nationwide games it already played.
Vandemanians were stunned, and the brothers shared the outrage. The retired football poet was torn. He could see no reason why his established Northern stadium could not meet and surpass the MFL’s expectations but was more focused on securing his dream team. The Southern Capital brother – among thousands of strident protesters – could not believe nor comprehend the reasoning as to why Vandemania was not only gifting the public land but also expected to absorb most of the costs for a Metropolis shrine to punting – both football and otherwise.
Of sound but differing viewpoints – each in his own creative way – the brothers penned powerful letters to their respective capital city newspapers.
But alas, along with a legion of critics, the monopolous tentacles of the Murdocracy silenced their Vandemanian voices.
It was the age of football dreams, it was the age of football regret, it was the promise of endless glory, it was the burden of endless debt.
Mark Pooley is a retired architect living in Hobart.
