my boy!

From-
THE HERALDSUN
AFL GRAND FINAL DAY 2008

Hudson Hawka Knights the Hawthorn Mascot Steals the Show

BY Mikey Cahill

September 27, 2008 12:00am



WHILE Buddy Franklin is the superstar of the AFL, yesterday the Hawthorn mascot stole the show, leading the Grand Final parade in front of thousands of fans.

How do I know? Because I am Hudson Hawka Knights - Hawka for short.

Being the Hawthorn mascot for the 2008 AFL season has been stupendous . . . and sweaty. And yesterday was undoubtedly the highpoint.

I danced from the Arts Centre right up to Treasury Place.

I stopped for about 80 photos, signed dozens of jumpers and high-fived hundreds of fans. Hell, I even managed to thwack the Geelong mascot (HalfCat -- what a lame name), much to the chagrin of the guy inside . . . and incensed Cat supporters. Pussies.

As Hawka, I am expected to be there 90 minutes before each home game, navigating my way into the bowels of the MCG using my Player and Official pass. Am I player? No. An official? Not really.

Instead, I am an event.

Just getting the mascot suit on and establishing vision is an ordeal. The word "vision" is used loosely here, as I can see a few metres to my left and right but not directly in front.

This is particularly dangerous when timid youngsters approach in stealth mode, right in my blind spot, but to date I have not injured any fans.

As for the season's clashes, the best moment was slapping Eddie McGuire's behind.

While that was a personal highlight, it doesn't compare to running out on to the MCG today and representing the mighty, flying Hawks.

Watch out for my special "goalpost routine" that is sure to ruffle conservative feathers.

Mikey Cahill is a writer for extra hit magazine and has been a Hawthorn supporter for 31 years (including nine months in the womb)

daisy buddha..

apricotblossom....

watching soccer..

At the soccer on Sunday I was there on my own. I stood by the rail amongst the opposition parents. They spoke fast and passionately. Someone told me it was a Croatian club and I listened hard to try and pick out a few words as I can still remember a little Ukrainian courtesy of Uncle Jack. Dan was on the sidelines. The woman beside me had a load of silver rings on her hands and was smoking a cigarette. Why did I notice these details and not other things about her? Maybe because it just seemed very European: she looked glamorous and sounded openly confident. Another thing that struck me was that several men came and talked to her and the woman beside her quite naturally. Nothing to do with gender- it was as if they were all equals standing there watching the game. This free conversation amongst parents doesn’t happen with our team. Most of the men just talk to other men. Women are somehow a bit off limits at the soccer. We're the invisible supporters.

Anyway not long afterwards the two women began circling the pitch -it reminded me of a velodrome the way it sloped away to the field- and they walked around that dry loop again and again while the game was going on. After half time I took up a new spot. By now, the women had stopped walking –their goals were down this end- and they sat on the ground a little way in front of me. The younger of the two squatted next to her companion. Within a minute or so, after being nil-all a goal was scored. The woman who was crouching jumped up and began to shout. She put her hand over her mouth and wooollaa-woooollaadd just like an Indian in an old western. She did this for about 20 seconds. Everyone around us was laughing. The game went on and a while later she turned around and apologized to me for the outburst. I said not to worry. With that she came over and told me her son wasn't playing but was sitting in the car watching his team. The goal was God’s gift to him. I wasn’t sure what she meant but then she told me that her son had fatigue -"the chronic fatigue thing" and we clicked. I started telling her about Anthony and she listened so intently that it felt as if I was feeding her a meal and she was eating everything I put out. She’d spent $30,000 trying to find a cure. "Now I try acupuncture. Tell me what you do for your son. I try anything to help." Her son is 15 and has just gone back to school but is unable to do much at all. My son is 27 and I think after four years is finally on the way to being well again. I don’t have a cure for her though, only empathy. She is dabbing her eyes and crying at the same time. She tells me she's Bosnian and that she’s given up her work as an interpreter/counsellor because now she has no energy to listen to the stories of cruelty and torture that have come out of the Yugoslavian war. "I cannot do this work anymore. I have to help my son."

I do not see her son waiting by himself in the car. She points out her daughter on the playground and her husband in the blue and white shirt standing by the race. She tells me he is a beautiful man. We talk about how hard it is to see your children suffer and then the conversation turns to religion. She was raised Catholic by her Christian mum but now, married to a Muslim man says she has the best of both religions. "One god" she says. "I tell my children everyday to treat everybody the same. Same god for all of us."
She also tells me that the parents at this club have terrible stories before coming to Australia. "I don’t like politics" she says.

I leave this game remembering Bob Dylan’s grandmother. Everyone’s got their own trouble she tells him. Be kind.

The Hungarian Uprising..

A chest of drawers in the lounge room where we keep good tablecloths and cutlery is also the place where a Time-Life magazine is stored. It contains photographs taken after the Russians invaded Hungary in 1956. Dad has brought the magazine home from the Office and told us we’re not to look at it. Only Mum can see it. He turns the pages over for her as though she were a child needing supervision. I hear him say "Eileen, this is what Communism is." Her face changes colour and she looks as if she’s going to cry.

A week later I open the drawer, find the magazine and take it to my room. In Hungary there are streets full of tanks, broken buildings and rubble. Soldiers with guns. Dead people lying on doorsteps. Bodies with arms and legs missing. Children wandering by themselves. Some pictures show mothers trying to climb into graves and fathers wiping their eyes. The men are in coarse jackets and the women are wrapped in shawls.

In Hungary the sun doesn’t shine.

These pictures show me what will happen if the Chinese or the Russians take over Australia. The Commos are the shadowy enemies looking for the opportunity to invade the country somewhere up North. Dad and the others in the Movement work hard each day to keep them out.

I put the magazine back under the white tablecloths and shut the drawer as tightly as I can.

politics when i was 12..

When I was about 12. Dad took me along when he went to lunch with a man called Frank James. He was a supporter, tall and fat and we went to the RACV club in the city. We sat up at the counter and ate. Just nearby two men started arguing loudly and it seemed as if they were about to have a fight. Dad and Mr Double Barrel were oblivious to what was happening so close. They kept on talking. This was the moment when I realized that as far as my father was concerned, nothing was more important than the work he did with the Movement. Nothing.