From the desk of Roland Rocchiccioli – 9 May

The photograph of an Essendon supporter booing Collingwood captain, Scott Pendlebury, after the Anzac Day MCG match was cause for concern; however, my concern turned to despair when I noticed the supporter was wearing a wedding ring!

I STARED, long-and-hard, struggling to make some intelligent sense of the picture. My thoughts were myriad. For the purposes of argument, let us remove the specific character from the equation and focus on a generic supporter possessed of the same specific traits and personal circumstances.

Let us assume, given his apparent age, he has children. With him as the role model what chance do they have? After all, it’s said the apple never falls far from the tree. Supposing they are of an age to comprehend, what would they make of their father’s photograph? What explanation would he offer? How would his partner react? Would he be ashamed, or chuffed, to see himself as front-page news? Would he claim pub bragging-rights and see this as his 15 minutes of fame? Would he reflect on Nathan Buckley’s comment, “Shame on anyone that booed a champion?” After some minutes of serious contemplation, my thoughts turned inward and I began pondering my reactions. Why was I was so offended? Why was I so willing to condemn his behaviour and all that he epitomises? I would have been equally condemnatory of anyone who booed Jobe Watson during Essendon’s time of dark vicissitude; however, I did wonder: Could it be that I’m the one who is out-of-step; perhaps I’m marching to the beat of an out-dated drum?

I am a baby-boomer: born two-years after the end of the Second World War. My memories of ‘being’ start from 1953. The Queen’s Coronation remains vivid. Our National Anthem, God Save The Queen, was played, every night, at the close of radio, and later, television, broadcasting. Cinema audiences stood silently to attention. Men doffed their hats, and not only for The Queen, but for any woman whom they recognised in the street. Men and boys stood-up for women and girls. Children never addressed adults by their Christian names. Our ethos was washed with gratitude for those men who’d been away and fought the War. It was a world of respect for your elders, and your betters; of good manners; of knowing your place; of behaving well; and of corporal punishment at school. The more I pondered the conventions of my childhood and their lasting ramifications, the more baffled I became.

I telephoned a Generation ‘Y’ colleague. An avid Richmond supporter and regular attendee, he admitted, without embarrassment, that he boos the umpires and those players who breach the rules and get-away with a freebie. To dispel any awkwardness, I suggested that perhaps my reaction is a generational thing. He agreed, readily.

As it happens, a friend, Margaret, was visiting from Perth and attended the ANZAC eve game. She and her daughter had separate seats. Margaret was seated next to a couple of young men. Aged 82, and a former secondary school teacher, she engaged them in conversation. Behind her were two callow youths, shouting at every opportunity. Frustrated at a decision, he bellowed, “You’re just a f**** c***!” Shocked, Margaret reacted, audibly. The young man chastised him, “That’ll be enough. There’s a lady here!” The offender remained silent for the remainder of the game.

Having taught adolescent lads for 45-years, Margaret commented, later, “He didn’t mean to offend me. He doesn’t know any better. I’m afraid we have to learn to accept it.” On reflection, and however unpalatable, Margaret’s correct. Times have changed; mores have drifted; obscenity prevails as freedom of speech; civility is old fashioned; and too often bad behaviour is ignored for fear of reprisal. I concluded: Not everything we discarded in the 1970s social revolution was worthless. I fear, now it is too late!

Roland can be heard every Monday morning – 10.30 – on radio 3BA or contacted via [email protected], just don’t bother booing him.