A quadri-lanceolate oval employed by a quarantine of
wills upon a cornerless field. Its indented heads serve unpredictability, point
being to bounce opposite to the course of play. Stitched tight by fearsome
egos, laced for loss, it upends the April Premiers’ arrogant marks, rolls clear
of princely pretensions, floats mysteriously to a passing rover, watched on
high by thousands near a goalpost. The bladder is no possum intestine but
imperial rubber: intestinal fortitude combines imported British optimism,
purple emotions, and a load of pressurized hot air. Placed, dropped, torpedoed,
punted, or stabbed, it’s the game’s one element no-one argues with.
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