Hope

My mother’s middle name is Hope. It was my Nan’s doing. She told me many times that she gave it to Mum because, ‘If nothing else, she’ll always have hope.’

hope

As The Beatles never sang: All you need is hope.

I’m currently doing a major clean out of endless boxes of memorabilia and sometimes junk at my office and on Friday I found a Tattslotto ticket. Well, actually, it was the master ticket, that you hand over each week so you can play the same numbers. I don’t know what the technical name for it is; I gave up on Tattslotto long ago, working on my old maths teacher’s theory that lotto is just a gambling tax for people who don’t understand probability factors.

But here, in a box of old newspaper articles I’d written, souvenirs from overseas trips, photos, letters from when people wrote letters, and other stuff, was a ticket, for two ‘games’ of numbers.

And it got into my head: imagine if I played those numbers this week AND THEY WON. This would be a story of fate and coincidence for the ages.

And then, of course, it also got into my head: imagine if, having thought that, I now DON’T play those numbers AND THEY WON. What if I had to spend the rest of my miserable life knowing that I had turned my back on this random, glorious, romantic chance to be a multi-millionaire and Fate had, therefore, duly and rightfully shat on my face while my back was turned, which isn’t physically possible but symbolically might be.

After work, I went to the lotto counter, like one of those clueless non-gamblers at the TAB on Melbourne Cup Day, trying to work out how to lay a two-dollar bet.

Michael 'Disco' Roach (#8) taking his greatest mark ever, with Kevin 'Hungry' Bartlett (#29) roving the pack. Once Tiger champions, now Lotto numbers.

Michael ‘Disco’ Roach (#8) taking his greatest mark ever, with Kevin ‘Hungry’ Bartlett (#29) roving the pack. Once Tiger champions, now Lotto numbers.

It took a while before I even worked out the tickets I had weren’t a couple of crazy-expensive System Nines, but cheaper System Eights. I looked at the numbers, trying to remember when I’d come up with them and why. One is definitely a collection of my favourite guernsey numbers at Richmond: Jack Dyer/Maurice Rioli’s 17, Richo’s 12, Disco Roach/Jack Riewoldt’s number 8. The other game looks like it’s birthdays …

I shrugged and handed over money. I bought the tickets for Saturday night’s draw and dreamed of millions.

And my long-passed Nan smiled in my imagination, eyes twinkling. America appears to be Trump-screwed, Australia’s politicians continue to be heartless bastards without a plan. People around me are struggling with illness and despair. But Nan’s ghost lingers. If nothing else, you always have hope.

Unfortunately, as far as IHV competition, summer season Div 3, is concerned for me, hope is snuffed. My team, the Cherokees, are winding down to a sad end this season, having somehow tumbled down the standings as the finals loom. The Detroit Red Wings, likewise, have staggered and will finally lose their quarter-century play-off streak. The Wings’ unofficial anthem is ‘Don’t Stop Believin’‘ but already they’ve sold off a young player I always liked so much that I purchased what is probably the only Tomas Jurco Wings jersey in the Southern Hemisphere. He’s now a Blackhawk and will have skipped out of town, after sketchy playing time and bad usage in Motorcity, with a lot of hope in his heart, that in Chicago he can finally bloom.

So long, Jurco. Have a great career (but not too great: you are now a Blackhawk)

So long, Jurco. Have a great career (but not too great: you are now a Blackhawk)

All that’s left is for the mighty Tigers to march into the 2017 AFL season, their coach saying nothing less than finals will do, and the players talking endlessly of the new spirit and purpose to be found at Punt Road. What could possibly, possibly go wrong? Last season, it took about three weeks for any hope to die, as the team stalled at the gate. This season? Of course I live in hope, endless hope. Richmond supporters are the Hall of Fame Fans of irrationally and against all evidence never letting go of hope.

The NHL trade deadline is in a couple of days and I expect several other favourite Wings to ship out of town as Detroit becomes a seller. The Cherokees have one more game, next weekend, before we go our separate ways until Spring, and I know from every year I’ve played that players will head for winter comp, or retire, or go back to footy, or not be there next year for whatever reason. I’ve really loved this year’s Cherokee line-up, started out with lots of hope, which was gradually dashed, and still wish we’d had more success.

But hey, I got an email from Richmond FC last week, saying my membership pack was on its way. Then the Tigers won on Friday night and looked decent. February pre-season form: it’s the best.

On Sunday, after the ‘Kees had lost 6-0 to a really slick and even Wolverines line-up, after my best shot at goal had hit a few legs, beaten the goalie five-hole but then stopped before crossing the line, after I trudged out of Icy O’Briens, I suddenly remembered I had to check my Tattslotto ticket.

In one game, I had exactly one number, not the required six. The other game was worse: a lone supplementary number.

No miracle. No magic. No millions.

Thanks for nothing, Fate, you unromantic bastard.

And in two days’ time, it’s March. Go Tiges.

 

 

 

 

 

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