spray Illustration by Christopher Neilsen

“You’re a pack of dogs! You’re gutless! You’re a disgrace to that Bali singlet you’re wearing! I’d rather have some stinking, illiterate sports-haters out there than have to watch you flick through the pages any more! You think this is what the bloke next to you on the train bought a ticket for; to watch you spill coffee on the cover? Look ashamed! Look more bloody ashamed!

“You call that reading? Johnno, you skipped straight over that World Cup feature on page 38! Straight over it! Bluey, you were holding ‘Freeze frame’ upside down! Mate, they’re photos; how hard is it to work out which way’s up and which way’s bloody down?

“And don’t get me started about how many times you mongrels checked your phones. Blokes in my day never checked their phones. They didn’t have phones! Didn’t need ‘em. Some didn’t even bother with ears. They’d just read! Read, read, read! Call them on the phone and they’d tell you to piss off ‘cos they’re reading. They knew the game.

“Look, this page is your last chance. This is it! You stuff up this page, there’s nothing. We all just pack it in. Yeah, sure, there’s next month’s mag, but who cares about then? I want your best now. Now! This is what we trained for, learning those A-B-Cs at school and the stuff about taking a breath when you see a full stop. How many blokes took a breath when they saw full stops? What about semi-colons? What about­ ... ”

Whoops! Apologies, I was channelling my inner footy coach. And like all such leaders of men at this time of year, I never miss the opportunity to deliver a good spray. For if there is one thing that moves, that motivates, that puts a bloody rocket up them, it’s a spit-soaked, expletive-intensive, roof-raising half-time spray.

You know the drill. Team A is way behind and playing miserably as they head to the sheds. The grim-faced coach follows them in. The TV cameras pick up the tension as the door closes. The commentator, almost overcome with excitement, sets the scene: “I wouldn’t want to be a player in that change-room right now ... ”

In the second half, something amazing happens. A comeback! Team A wins! And when asked what led to the change of fortune, the captain reports that the coach really let them have it during the break. The spray scores again!

There have been many a celebrated Aussie sprayer/coach through the years and codes, from Ron Barassi to Roy Masters to Mick Malthouse. While giving a respectful nod to international masters such as Bobby Knight and Sir Alex Ferguson, our own many sultans of spray have ensured we remain world leaders in this sporting field. Our ears should all be ringing with pride.

We live, however, in days of sporting science, psychology and analysis. So much has changed. The spray alone survives from an age when coaches could recommend a diet of steak and beers to build up strength over the off-season. The spray is, for better and worse, footy culture’s pet dinosaur.

Because, really, what faith can one still have in the miraculous powers of the spray? If a coach turns a game by delivering a brilliant spray, isn’t it surely counter-balanced by the failure of the other coach to continue to have his team perform well? Imagine: “Right, lads, we’ve got this one in the bag. Take it easy, foot right off the gas; they’re way behind. Teams never come back from here. Anyone want to catch The Lego Movie with me and the kids later?”

And why didn’t the sprayer think to rev up the team before the game? Has his own foolhardiness cost them an early lead? And what about all those times when a team was behind at the half, copped a spray, and was still behind at the final whistle? Why didn’t the magic work?

If studied, the spray-to-win ratio would likely reveal only that coaches may as well save their breath, hand out the orange quarters and cross their fingers for better luck in the second half. It’s the hard truth: it might be time that the spray cops a spray. So, everyone, gather around ...