It's the size of your balls that counts

by BRETT WOODWARD

I FIRMLY believe that I was sacked from my job as a boundary umpire for being TOO fair.

I had become highly respected for my ability to see both sides in any disputed call and was fully prepared to revise a decision if new evidence came to light rather than be too proud and stubborn. You tell me, what's wrong with that?

OK, to clarify, I was a teenager forced to get up early on a Saturday morning for high school matches.

After I lazily raised an arm or two (I never got the hang of those signals) I would randomly award free kicks, demand that players be sent off, dish out on the spot fines and match suspensions and use the word "whatever" way too much for a supposed umpire of any stripe. I was drunk with power and, possibly, the previous night's consumption of Hannan's Draught.

In addition, whenever I was required to throw the ball back into play I would often be facing the wrong direction, would fall over or just drop it behind me and walk away to roll a smoke. Too often I would be jeered, retreating to the sidelines to calls of, "Didn't you get your Weeties this morning?!"

I never understood that particular insult. Were they honestly concerned that I should enjoy a breakfast cereal rich in niacin, riboflavin, iron and fibre so as to have a firm and regular stool? Shouldn't they have been more concerned with the score than my bowel movements?

A few months of such behaviour and the end result was that my services as a boundary umpire were no longer required.

By today's child psychology reckoning, such a rejection could have scarred me for life. I could have become withdrawn and suffered from any number of emotional problems. I did. I withdrew to the Piccadilly Hotel where frustration and rage took hold every time I had to wait for a refill. I blame underaged drinking on football - oh, and a number of publicans with a soft spot in their hearts and wallets for teen drunks.

This wasn't the first time football had pushed me from its bosom. In primary school my prodigious talents on the field inevitably resulted in me being relegated to playing wing. Given that even the most disciplined young boy has difficulty staying in his allocated position and not simply running blindly after the ball, no one really noticed that I seldom stayed on the wing. In fact I had usually strayed far enough to leave the field altogether, get changed and go home. I blame wagging school on football.

Years passed and my lack of interest in football (the rejections you see, the rejections) drew more than passing stares and whispers. Friends finally convinced me to go with them to watch a game. I stalled for as long as possible, gave in during a weak moment and fronted up. I was not enthralled by the match as there are apparently no close-ups, replays or slow-mo at the actual game, even at a so-called professional level.

Hey, and don't get me started on the catering. It becomes evident that sausage, as has long been rumoured, is chiefly comprised of lips and arseholes once you've tucked into a footy hot dog. When they barred BYO bevies from the grounds there was just no reason for me to keep up the charade. Our nation is weaker for a game that can't supply a decent feed and shuns a fan's god-given right to select, chill and transport his own frosties. I blame football for the decline in great Australian values.

I moved to Melbourne which, from an impartial observer's point of view, is most definitely the football capital of this proud land. A nasty groin rash that is dogging a valuable player will bump economic collapse, fire, flood, earthquake or Papal sex scandal from the front page of the papers. Here I can hide from footy fandom because Melbourne is, in more general terms, the sporting capital of Australia with room for people of every nation and all their ball-games.

When someone at a bus-stop strikes up a conversation about the Pies piss-poor performance, I can point out that I don't follow football and they immediately assume that my passion must be the Slovenian Lacrosse League, the Portuguese Bocce finals or, at a stretch, an imminent international curling showdown. I call it hiding in plain sight.

It took years of contemplation and a long hard look at what other sports had to offer before it hit me like 140-proof grappa: the problem with football is the size of the ball!

Well, maybe the size of the ball and a few other refinements, but let's start with the ball. How about something the size of a golf ball and painted green?

It would be easier on the players and inspire more crowd participation if the game involved a lot more LOOKING FOR THE BALL.

Imagine a packed MCG chanting in unison, "Cold, cold, cold, warm, warm, cold again, cold, warm, hot, hot, HOT!!!" while the players scrabble about on all fours digging into the grass.

I'm prepared to compromise on a reduction in size but if it's to get larger, I want it a LOT larger. How about three metres high with a clown's face painted on it.

Once more, the delight of the crowd is fundamental to this strategy. Watching a few dozen athletes, in peak physical condition, fall about trying to maneuver a ball the size of a truck toward a goal with only centimetres clearance either side is sure as hell going to take your mind off cold hot-dogs and warm beer in plastic cups!

This is only the beginning. In order to retain its vigour modern football must move with the times, keep in tune with what current fans want and consider strategies that will attract new fans. Why no cameras in the change rooms and showers after the match, Big Brother style?

Why not vote players off instead of simply sending them to the bench? How about a Walk of Shame? Keep games going for six or eight weeks in remote locations.

Other amendments could be a return to the very origins of the game. Anything wrong with 150 players a side and play ranging across entire suburbs with passersby joining in if the mood takes them?

Eventually football will have to give the people what they want. If those weak, spineless bean-counters who make up the league bureaucracy don't have the nuts to introduce big cats (the kind that like Rhino sandwiches, not the kind that hail from Geelong) into the game, some young entrepreneur is going to pull the rug from under them!

Aussie Rules has always been a gladiatorial sport that has denied fans a coliseum pay-off. Putting half the team on motorcycles and the other half on roller blades is a nice first step. No penalties, no time limit and a freeing up of rules on striking would help spice up an otherwise dull Saturday afternoon. As would the introduction of firearms.

Football rejected me but I believe I'm still the bigger man. I've devoted considerable time and resources to rethinking the game and offering some helpful suggestions. I'd like to think that football could give them the once over and ponder the possibilities. If not, there's always ice hockey, oooh, and I do like that women's beach volleyball.

What about Foxy Boxing, very underrated.

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