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Sporting Australia Perspective:

__**Australia 2018/2022 World Cup Bid Video**__ media type="youtube" key="9obunaoJvOo" width="425" height="350"


 * __Introduction:__**

Our visual perspective is the Australia 2018/2022 World Cup Bid Video. This video is about sporting in Australia and how it is a huge part of the country. The video goes on to explain how sport is part of the Australian culture and is one of the things that Australia is known for. Australia has hosted numerous sporting events including the Olympics and Commonwealth Games. They also have hosted many annual events such as the Formula One Grand Prix and the Australian Open. This shows their passion and commitment towards sporting and they want it to be a big part of the country. We chose this video because it gives us a good insight into ‘Sporting Australia’.

__**'Life Cycle' by Bruce Dawe (Poem)**__ __**[]**__

When children are born in Victoria They are wrapped in the club-colours, laid in beribboned cots, Having already begun a lifetime’s barracking. Carn, they cry, Carn… feebly at first While parents playfully tussle with them For possession of a rusk: Ah, he’s a little Tiger! (And they are…) Hoisted shoulder-high at their first League game They are like innocent monsters who have been years swimming Towards the daylight’s roaring empyrean Until, now, hearts shrapnelled with rapture, they break surface and are forever lost, Their minds rippling out like streamers In the pure flood of sound, they are scarfed with light, a voice Like the voice of God booms from the stands Ooohh you bludger and the covenant is sealed. Hot pies and potato-crisps they will eat, They will forswear the Demons, cling to the saints and behold their team going up the ladder into Heaven, And the tides of life will be the tides of the home-teams’ fortunes -the reckless proposal after the one-point win, the wedding and the honeymoon after the grand-final… They will not grow old as those from more northern States grow old, For them it will always be three-quarter-time With the scores level and the wind advantage in the final term, That passion persisting, like a race-memory, through the welter of seasons, Enabling old-timers by boundary-fences to dream of resurgent lions And centaur-figures from the past to replenish continually the present, So that mythology may be perpetually renewed And Chicken Smallhorn return like the maize-god In a thousand shapes, the dancers changing But the dance forever the same - the elderly still Loyally crying Carn… Carn… (if feebly) unto the very end, Having seen in the six-foot recruit from Eaglehawk their hope of salvation.


 * __'From the Bounce' by Michael Viljoen__**

From that first cherry plucked when Adam was small To when suburban clan rivalries divided us all Words mêlée and fight as our poets recite The deeds and the lore of football Though others assume this most sacred name As rugby, and gridiron, even soccer may claim Of feats gazed upon in sport’s pantheon From the pack large emerges one game The Irish brought hurling from their isle green and lush To England for their invention of cricket we owe much But once locals displayed their fleet-footed games God allowed royal blood lines to touch As convicts we worked bound by chains cold and cruel Now we drink to our freedom, our cup ever full A continent, a nation; no borders, no hesitation Our game will have no off-side rule We’ll engage on a generous wide open plain Echoes of Australia’s ample, unfilled terrain Though oblong yet pure, this shapes to ensure In the end the ball bounces your way Now heroes seek glory in mud thick or thin Their memory of Anzac they dare not rescind Lay team motif first, that unquenchable thirst To move the ball swift as the wind A man has no wings, cannot fly, ‘twas once said But to know where that dictum is turned on its head Where gravity’s defied mere men reach to the sky Reclaiming paths angels once tread Speed, skill, endurance, strength, camaraderie Courage, that’s football, is what we've come to see As in the beginning As when the fat lady’s singing So shall it always be


 * __Commentary__**

From the Bounce was written by a poet named Michael Viljoen. It's a realistic poem which is based on the invention and rise of the sport that all Australians love, Aussie Rules. It was posted on a website in 2009, on September 4. This poem has no intended audience, however some people who have never heard of the sport or know how it's play would understand what it is about. The purpose of this poem is to inform people that this sport is very important to Australia.

The majority of the poem discusses the rules and the usual gameplay of an AFL game. This poem cancels out anyone who has never heard of the sport since there is no direct reference to the name. People who have never seen a game of AFL will most likely not know what this poem is about but since this is a poem about the creation of a new sport I guess it would remain unnamed until the end. Even then, the name isn't mentioned. The poem states that rugby is called football, this is not true. Nobody calls rugby, football. //"A continent, a nation; no borders, no hesitation"// - this line in the poem means that the game (AFL) will have be played throughout Australia, however, when the game was invented there were no other teams in other states besides Victoria and the game was called VFL. //"Speed, skill, endurance, strength, camaraderie, courage, that’s football, is what we’ve come to see"// - having fun, which is all that matters in a sport, is what the game is about.

Descriptive language is used many of the lines. An example of descriptive language is //"speed, skill, endurance, strength, camaraderie, courage, that’s football, is what we've come to see."// It's used to make the poem more interesting and have lots of detail. A metaphor is used in the line //"To move the ball swift as the wind"// and it simply means to move the ball in a quick and clean motion. In the line //"Of feats gazed upon in sport’s pantheon",// personification is used for the words gazed and pantheon. This means that the sporting world has recognized the accomplishments of Australian Football.

This poem contributes good to our understanding of Australian sport. It explains the love and fun of AFL and how it affects the sport community. When the poet, Michael Viljoen, acknowledges the Irish sport of hurling and England's invention of cricket, it makes the game seem like the next big thing and a huge contribution to the world. It made the poem effective when Viljoen started with the invention of AFL and describing the rules in poetic form. That helped us understand how the game is played. Although it is based on an Australian sport it doesn't really emphasize why sport is so important to Australia it's basically explaining the game of AFL, however it is still a good example for the topic of Australian sport.


 * __'Up There Cazaly' by Mike Brady__**

Well you work to earn a living But on weekends comes the time You can do what ever turns you on Get out and clear your mind Me, I like football And there's a lot of things around But when you line 'em up together The footy wins hands down

Up there Cazaly, in there and fight Out there and at 'em, show 'em your might Up there Cazaly, don't let 'em in Fly like an angel, you're out there to win

Now there's a lot more things to football That really meets the eye There are days when you could give it up There are days when you could fly You either love or hate it Depending on the score But when your team run out or they kick a goal How's the mighty roar (hooray, hooray)

Up there Cazaly, in there and fight Out there and at 'em, show 'em your might Up there Cazaly, don't let 'em in Fly like an angel, you're out there to win

Up there Cazaly, you're out there to win In there and at 'em, don't let 'em in Up there Cazaly, show 'em you're high Fight like the devil, the crowds on your side

Ahhh... Up there Cazaly, in there and fight Out there and at 'em, show 'em you're might Up there Cazaly, show 'em you're high Fight like the devil, the crowd's on your side The - crowd's - on - your - side…

__**Clean Hands**__

By Phil Dimitriadis

Thirty-five touches. The cleanest hands at the club. Flawless disposal and three goals capped off a great afternoon. Hubris has been sitting on the bench all day, invisible, but determined to get a run when it counts…after the game.

Backslappers are aplenty. Pre-pubescent girls hang on his every expression. Desperate housewives hope for a glance, a smile, a slim possibility that their fantasies may come true.

The media sticks their microphones into his face waiting for their instruments to be pleasured by the mouth of a demi-god. He praises the coach, his teammates and the club culture. Three more votes, another new plasma and the party has only just begun.

After showering and dressing, a mate slips him a pill to celebrate. He pops it like an M&M and smiles impishly. He is in for a big night.

First he goes home for tea with mum, dad and his kid sister. He is a different lad at home. He can be himself for a couple of hours. Sis hugs him proudly, dad warns him about the hype, while mum tells him that it is his turn to do the dishes and clean up the dog poo. He smiles at sis, nods to dad and does the chores for mum.

Now he is ready, the amphetamine is about to peak and the nightclub waits. He meets three teammates and they brush past the fifty or so people in the queue, most of whom are taking photos of the four famous footy stars. No one protests at the favourable treatment, for they are gods in this town.

While Kanye West, Ludacris and Lady Ga Ga pulsate through patrons ears, he is on his fifth free Crownie. Obligatory photo poses, autographs and idle chit chat with brown-nosing management is done. It is time to get his hands dirty.

A girl approaches and gives him a smile and her phone number. He looks and hesitates. She has a pretty face but is a little too plump for this Adonis. “Not really Brownlow red carpet material,” he thinks to himself. He thanks her and then lies, telling her that he already has a girlfriend. She reluctantly disappears into the crowd.

A bouncer buddy gives him an E to wash down with the Crownie’s…on the house. Life is beautiful.

Another girl captures his attention. She is stunning. A face like Delta and a body like Beyonce. Our hero can’t resist. He introduces himself with confidence. “I know who you are,” she replies with a giggle. He has visions of her on his arm at the Brownlow. The E is kicking in and the 35 touches rapidly stimulate his manhood. He wants her; he must have her, for he is a god in this town.

They adjourn to a penthouse at the neighbouring casino. The drugs and sex provide hours of multi-sensory pleasure.

They rest, cuddle, kiss and share a joint, but the star is insatiable.

It is three o’clock and she wants to go home. Her parents have left numerous messages on her mobile phone. They tend to wait up for her. She looks twenty-one, but is only seventeen. He didn’t think about asking her for ID. He begins to fume. The drugs and the grog have sent his brain into a tailspin, like a plane in unforeseen turbulence. “Do you know who the fuck I am?” he screams, his nose an inch from hers. Damn that demon Hubris.

She screams and he slaps her twice, backhand and forehand. She calls him a “fucken fraud” and he punches her in the face like he punches the ball from an opponent…with aggression and intent. She sprays him in the eyes with her perfume and somehow escapes to call the police.

The star is apprehended at four back at the nightclub. He proclaims his innocence, but the cops are about to charge him with assault and rape of a minor. His mind begins to clear, not so his hands.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At ten the next morning club officials bail him out and assure him that they have found the girl. She has decided not to press charges for an undisclosed fee. Her parents are furious, but the cash is handy. They relent and the surly star agrees to honour the terms and conditions.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At a club function later that afternoon he is king of the kids and darling of the parents. The adult males marvel at his skills. Mums can’t believe how nice and down to earth he is and dozens of kids are kicking the footy wearing his number on their backs.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our hero looks as if he has just come out of church. On the other side of town a 17 year old girl is on the phone to Lifeline. Her new found riches will at least pay for some of the therapy she has to endure for the rest of her life.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She will have nightmares and relive the trauma of a night with this man. Yet, as long as nobody else knows, no one will care. The Monday papers will praise him for his skills, his grace and his clean hands.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For he is a god in this town.

__**Supporting/Subverting Texts**__




 * __Powerpoint__**