One

 

 Charles Blackman. The Barracker. (1965) Oil on canvas.

That that swirling and bifurcating surge from the centre determined at every duck and swerve and flick and roost to move the oval object inexorably forward for a timely goal, whichever goal face at the time; that same dashing attack that is the best form of stalwart defence; (the proposition in the minds of all participants here today, passive or active) will avert a loss by just one point. That these tidal teenage minds speaking throaty cockatoo to those trained-up twenty-something minds, hot chilli peppers and cool cucumbers the lot of them, and those thirtyish traditional minds too, spent every second (observers are keen to believe) of their speaking careers and handballing panache intent on getting beyond at all cost an end by one point. That it is on point to remember the better team does not always win, a truism of three-quarter time orange munching, as the world watches on with scant regard while dodgy umpiring, unscrupulous behind-play maulings, unsavoury sledges and other misdemeanours too minor in themselves to deserve more than cries of shame and ball it up, leave in their wake the better team within cooee of victory but for one point. That this titanic twenty bursting their boilers for four solid quarters, come hell or high water could avoid or overcome that immovable object on their close horizons, and closing fast, iceberg side of twenty capable of freezing the blood and sinking hopes by so much as one seismic collision (so the thinking goes), just a single hit and disappearance at one very direct point, for only one point. That legendary walkovers are recalled, massive margins leaving the impression only one team was playing, bloodbaths of bone-crunching consequence, and even results that left no margin of error or element of wrong-foot or doubt in players and spectators alike, goading each other on with goal scores galore, leaves still the existential end (turning reluctantly towards the scoreboard) that that is not 100 or 50 points difference, but one point. That that fervent belief in one colour of guernsey not another, that mascot not another, that obscure working class suburb not another, leads into still greater fervour, a mindset of partisan memory, a fountain of continuous star statistics, a retelling of their most balletic ballistics, their most hardened hard-earned heart-warming teamwork, that leads towards the almost splendour, the nearly total glory, the so near and yet so far summed up by the hyper commentator at the last bell near the last post his avid laconicism, a blast from the past, now present again very very loudly: one point.