Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 31, 2017

I’m facing another State of Origin in New South Wales, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

I don’t have my father’s selection of Maroons supporter jerseys from various decades to steal from this year, so I’m going to have to make do with the lint-covered XXXX Gold promotional t-shirt I snagged from the uni bar a couple of a years ago. I wear it while jogging in Sydney because I like to think it will attract other Queenslanders for me to be friends with, like a sweat-soaked flame for all the tastefully bogan moths out there who have found themselves far from the motherland. So far I’ve yet to have anyone stop to invite me around to sink a few tinnies with them; but maintain hope.*

* We don’t have to smash the beers – I’d settle for a post-jog smashed avo or even a nice cob loaf which, by the way, is apparently something people in Sydney have never experienced. I’m basing this huge generalisation on the fact that a handful of people at work didn’t know what a cob loaf was when I brought it up in conversation. As someone who once brought themselves a personal full-sized cob loaf to work for her birthday lunch, this was hard to stomach. I pity you, Sydney. I really do.

I usually relish the idea of being the unruly obnoxious Queenslander in a bunch of sore loser southerners, but my experience over the weekend has given me qualms.

I went to watch the Queensland Firebirds play the NSW Swifts, which was it’s own State of Origin clash with less obscenities hurled from the crowd.

Being in New South Wales, I found myself surrounded by far more Swifts fans than Firebirds fanatics. And by this I mean, there were about five other people who weren’t part of the Firebirds support team in the stadium backing the birdies.

I was outnumbered.

The last netball match I went to was in Brisbane, where people were a step below painting their entire bodies in team colours. There’s a lot of Queensland spirit at those games, and it’s intoxicating. You cheered as one, making you feel that you aren’t totally alone in this cold, cruel world.

But in enemy territory, I didn’t get the same vibe.

Wearing the conveniently correct shade of maroonish purple in a sea of blue and red, it was clear I was not going to use the hashtag #letsgoswifts in any of my social media posts that night.

My solitary applause when the Queenslanders sunk goals (a cheeky 19 more than the home team, might I smugly add) practically echoed.

And while I wasn’t likely to be punched as a result of obnoxious banter, I kept a lid on it to avoid piercing glare from a netball mum – something tells me I don’t want to get on the wrong side of a netball mum.*

* They take no shit. They have strong limbs. And they often have whistles. 

It was kind of intimidating.

My questionably loud choices of bold, high-waisted pants from op shops would suggest I have an unquenchable thirst for attention – partly true – but there’s a difference between being an insufferable show pony and sticking out like a sore thumb. Because no one likes a sore thumb; they make grabbing things painful and arduous.

And in this case, I wasn’t just a sore thumb, but a thumb with crusty scabs where the nail used to be. I really stuck out. Because, for a while there, either side of me was an empty seat.

It would have looked as if the people to my left and right could smell the Queensland on me, and moved away to get away from the dank, meaty scent* emitting from my pores.

* That’s the smell of success, sunshine and wet sorghum.

Again, usually I would love this – especially because I really value my personal space. Yet I found it uncomfortable. I felt exposed. I was in the wrong state, but I was also in the wrong headspace.

But tonight I’m not going to be intimidated.

I’m going to yell about how “togs” is a much better term for swimwear than “cozzies”. I’m going to scream about the stupidity of Daylight Savings. And you better believe I’m going to rant about how much better it is to live in a state where you don’t have to pay for an ambulance in an emergency.*

Because I would gladly cop the half-rate chimes from a bunch of drongos in sky blue jerseys and cobalt wigs over the icy glare of a netball mum any day.

* Yeah, I ended up having a head banger (which is a slang term for “headache” I made up today which I think it really going to catch on) and was asleep in bed with a wheat pack by 8pm. There’s always next game, right?