Snap Shot #8: Losing My Religion

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It has been two years since our last pilgrimage to Melbourne. On that day, the faith my son and I had placed in our marvellous men to triumph against the odds was rewarded in glorious fashion. That faith is now even stronger. Those whom we worship seem more dominant than ever. Even though they meet the same mighty foe as before, this time it is our men who are expected to be victorious. We are upbeat as we once again enter the monumental temple, pleased that our view has improved considerably. We are seated amongst a large group of our own flock but only a set of steps away from our foe’s followers. Our voices contribute to a thunderous roar as the contest begins. My son and I are filled with enthusiasm – like a couple of tightly packed sand bags. And then it starts. A quick stab. Then another. And another. Soon, in very little time at all, our sand bags are riddled with holes. Our enthusiasm seeps out and gathers in little piles by our feet. What the hell is happening? What’s going on with our marvellous men? They look more like beatable boys. As the tsunami of pain continues, the mockery of our foe’s followers becomes unbearable. I can’t take it anymore. I want to leave. But in a role reversal from two years ago, it is my son who is adamant that we should see this out to the end. And even though I feel like shit, I’m proud of him. So I suck it up, endure the taunts and see the massacre out to its grim conclusion. By the end, my faith in those once marvellous men has evaporated. I feel stupid for caring so much.

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