Footy types always seems to talk about hunger. Hunger to win. Hunger for the ball. Hunger to succeed. Hunger for a flag. And in this increasingly level playing field, where game plans and fitness regimes are so similar, hunger can often be the difference between a win and a loss.
But there’s another special kind of football hunger. That’s the hunger you get when you smell hot jam donuts rolling around in day old oil. The sweet tinge of cinnamon floating just out of reach. Now, I never eat hot jam donuts. Except at the footy. When I always eat hot jam donuts.
I’m much the same with pies. Mid-week, they’re just those things in the corner of the servo, next to the beef jerky and that fridge with the month-old sandwiches. But get me in a footy jumper and bounce a Sherrin within 100 metres of me, and I can’t keep my hands off them. Not a gourmet one, either. Just your regular pie. Hot enough to warm your hands, cold enough to scoff. With sauce. Please. Actually, you better make that two, mate. Cheers.
I’ve never been big on the packed lunch, though. It just doesn’t feel right eating one of mum’s salad rolls while someone is yelling about hot pies and cold drinks just metres away. Almost disrespectful. Although I love spying on particularly organised supporters. You know the type. Tartan blanket spread over their legs, 70’s era Carlton thermos full of tea, or chicken noodle soup, or in one case, hot dogs ready to be inserted in a pre-buttered roll. That’s organisation. They’re also the kind that might bring a snack for three quarter time. Like a hard boiled egg, ready-peeled and stored in a handy plastic container. Oh yes, I’ve seen it happen people. I envy them their laptop picnic, but I’m just not committed enough to the cause.
But while I’ve never packed a hard boiled egg, I understand the compulsion to eat something small at the footy. Sometimes supporters, like their teams, just aren’t hungry. And for a footy snack, you couldn’t beat the Peanut Man.
The Peanut Man was a staple at Princes Park, walking the boundary with a huge sack of...well, peanuts. You’d toss your money down to him and he’d pinpoint pass the nuts to you, still warm. I’m not sure if the Peanut Man that I remember seeing in the early 90’s was the original Peanut Man, Johnny Boyd. A die-hard Carlton man, he walked the boundary at Princes Park for 50 years before passing away in 1992. I might remember his understudy. But whoever it was, I’d like to see him walking the boundary at the Dome, or the G on Friday night.
And I hope the Blues are as hungry as I will be.
How do you crush your footy hunger?
Ben Birchall is a writer, musician and co-hosts The Breakfasters on 3RRR in Melbourne.
