A Weekly Journey

My red thread starts at home, at the western most tip of Spencer Street. People don’t seem to see the residential houses on Spencer Street, but they’re there, nestled in between a furniture warehouse and mechanics. My threads travel in many directions from the little house on the edge of the city that I share with my love and our cat, but my favourite is to the MCG.

As I open the front door to venture out, having packed my thermos of tea and some chocolate to share, the noise of Spencer Street on a Saturday afternoon sweeps down the hallway. I close the door quickly, before the cat can get out or too much cold can get in, and head towards North Melbourne station.

Every working day I take this route, and a chain of events inevitably takes place. I wave to the man with a Brad Johnson-style smile who recently opened a cafe; I say hello to the men who squat outside the picture frame factory, pausing briefly in their arguments to wish me a good day; and I exchange greetings with the two old Italian men who are always sitting out the front of their mirror image houses but never seem to speak to each other.

At the station, my red thread and I wait on the old platform that always makes me think it could be 1940 – until I catch a glimpse of Docklands to the East. The train arrives and fans from all four footy teams playing in Melbourne on a Saturday afternoon pile on. On days like this it seems the trains run for the sole purpose of getting fans to the footy. At Southern Cross station we make the drop off for the Telstra Dome, and the rest of us head to Flinders Street.

The walk from Flinders to the MCG is the highlight of my journey with my red thread. As we head along the river through Birrarung Mar, adults and children alike enjoy the maze of play equipment; families of all shapes and sizes utilise the open space; and tourists take photos of the city views. There are inevitably a few people circling the two-headed statue known as the Angel, trying to work out what this astonishing mass of colour and beauty signifies.

My red thread and I veer off Birrarung Mar with a bridge that takes us over the mess of train tracks that lie between the CBD and the G. Here the footy fans leave the others behind and march to our ultimate destination. There is a vast array of people that share the footy bond – from the very young to the very old; from those who come from a long line of football fans to those who have not long lived in the country but are enamoured with the game. It makes sense that the William Barak Bridge has speakers singing a medley of sounds from the varieties of people who have walked this path before.

As I arrive at the ground, a text from my Mum tells me where she and her best friend are sitting. I have gone to the football with my Mum and Jenny for as long as I can remember. They usually get there early so they can chat and save seats for Jenny’s son, my brother, sister, cousin and me. When I reach the top of the Ponsford stand, my red thread joins with theirs, which have come from Balwyn, Richmond, Ivanhoe, Templestowe and Endeavour Hills, and we settle in to watch our boys play footy.