The person who asks you who you follow overseas, and doesn't believe you when you say 'no one'.
The person who looks surprised when you tell them South Melbourne Hellas are still around.
The channels that keep needing to be changed during every summer sports report.
The sports reporter now with a different view on things, because of the dancing mostly.
The soccer reporters who hedged their bets until seeing who would butter their bread.
History split and spun and wound and reconstructed not to inform, but to appease.
The interminable waiting for a chance, the one they tell you that you already blew, while others get several attempts at failure.
The voice of the game's local history telling you to assimilate or be left behind.
The long dead being spoken for, by anyone.
The constant name-calling and blaming and scapegoating and shaming, because it's you who held the game back singlehandedly, and who would do so again at a moment's notice.
The way self-interest begins and ends here, but apparently has no presence in that higher plane.
The express train to the future which skips your station.
The constant probing, pushing, digging and questioning, as they seek a different answer to the one already given.
Like a finger being shoved into your chest every single day.
Is it any wonder hearts have hardened.