Whiti Te Rā v. Randwick Kingfishers

Dad, I need to go

Really? Now? We’re on the highway can you hang on?

Okay.

Really okay, or just pretend okay?

Just pretend okay.

and so began a slightly faster than usual dash down Highway 2, a late turn across lanes into the Petone turn off, and an almost eyes shut veer across traffic into the forecourt of a BP.

I was pissed off with her, and I was pissed off her with her again ten minutes later when we were down another dead end. Pissed off in the way you can only be with a child of yours, when the anger is more a problem with your behaviour, not theirs. Why were we there? What use was being at the last twenty minutes of a game we had driven an hour to see?

But you set yourself challenges and goals, and the possibility of missing something by not being there won out over the irrationality of a  mad dash down the highway to photograph a game I don’t fully understand.

I can’t pretend to know for sure, but my mania for shooting is perhaps similar to the players desire to play. Each week I attend games where teams find it hard to put out a full team, let alone fill a bench. Each passing season this seems more apparent. It’s a dying game, more than one fan has said on the sidelines. These 80 minute battles then, are an end unto themselves. Particpation can’t be understood in terms of progressing to higher levels, or through financial gain. There is no logic, only love of the thing itself.

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