Frolicking with the footy gods

I don't believe in God, the one who loves me and has a personal plan for my salvation, but is quite happy to send me to eternal damnation if my reason (given by Him) leads me to conclude that He doesn't exist.

I'll believe in the footy gods though; they love no-one but the game, they are as capricious as the bounce of the Sherrin. They love the great spectacle, but understand that it must be given sparingly. I give praise that they bestowed a spectacle yesterday, and wore a red & black scarf whilst they did so!

They slew Hille in the opening minutes then steeled Ryder with the spirit that the day is about, to step in for a fallen comrade. They slighted Rocca, then took the dream of a boy called Zakaharis and made it true.

All to the good, but a small god took the time to play a little trick on Boarking, who thought himself 5 out of 5, after tipping all yesterday's upsets, who thought himself on for 8, a collection of the work comps' $250 jackpot, and the kudos of tipping 8 when few can. But the little god has messed with his tips, or else he forgot to save his changes, and finds he hadn't tipped the tiggers after all. Amid much gnashing of teeth, there was a powerfull whiff of deja vu.
Oh well...

Some bemoan the mixing of footy with the ANZAC sacrifice, and the depiction of players antics with the terminolgy applicable to real soldiers in real wars. I don't mind. Football and other team sports were founded in the English public school system as a preparation for war. I, for one, am quite happy when sport becomes a replacement for war.