I shall relate to you all the extraordinary happenings that occurred last night, when I made an unexpected appearance for the Brisbane Lions Football club.
As with most dreams, I found myself gaining awareness of my situation whilst the match was in the middle of taking place. Whilst I was cognizant of the probable mood of onlookers, who would both suggest that I, playing in my first Australian Rules, let alone AFL, game, had no business being anywhere near the field. Others made the snide remark that I was just about on the level of the Brisbane Lions anyway. Desiring to prove myself, yet reluctant to prove my detractors right, I settled myself on the outskirts of the action, trying to put pressure on my Bulldogs opponents; without the risk of getting too much of the ball with which I could do more damage to my own side with my ineffective disposals.
I found myself on the wing as a rushed clearance rebounded outside the defensive fifty for Brisbane. I found myself one on one with no one in close for a quick handball, and incredibly, I managed to win the footrace. Filled with exhilaration, I saw the open spaces that were ahead of me, and prepared myself to bound forward, notwithstanding the fact that I had little idea how to bounce the ball.
Suddenly, a great obstacle loomed, in the form of a grey, foreboding tower of hewn stone, that stretched from the forward flank deep into the fifty. My opponent was nearly able to reach me, so I had to kick around the corner to a mass of players.
The ball traveled about sixty metres; incredible for the likes of myself, who struggles to put the ball further than 20 metres. Despite the riskiness of the kick, it came off very well as Zorko took a step into a tiny pocket of space and took a solid mark.
I was vaguely aware of Supercoach during this time; but I had little time to worry about how my players were going in the game; I'm not sure what position or price I was; bargain basement, I assume.
The massive tower must've been cleared at some point, because later I found myself crumbing a ground ball on a reasonable angle about 30 metres out from goal. Encouraged by my earlier kick, I quickly snapped on the boot and I was pleased as the kick seemed destined to result in a goal.
Alas! Such is the nature of dreams, that it was not to be. Instead the ball struck a white t-shirt hanging on a steel clothesline hovering five metres above the turf. I pounced on the contested ball; seeing a couple of lions around the goalsquare, including Beams, I tried to handball over the top for an easy goal; unfortunately, the ball had transformed into a white t-shirt. I desperately tried to send 'the ball' forward, but being a white t-shirt, trying to handball or kick it was a fruitless endeavor. I heard the rebukes of my teammates as I squandered the easy opportunity, but still I toiled; the t-shirt wafted and waved in the wind, and I won the contested t-shirt time after time. Eventually I gave up on trying to pass it off, and forced myself to the goalsquare.
I smothered my own kick on the line as the breeze blew part of the t-shirt back into me.
I think that I eventually managed to convince Dayne Beams that I wasn't entirely at fault for the kerfuffle.