If Bevan is being honest with himself, he approached the Eagles v Pies final cockier than a drug mule in a shelving competition. There was no need to call the local ranger, these magpies posed no threat.
If he’s being even more honest with himself, he probably had a few too many pints before entering the stadium. See, Bevan is a bonafide booing machine and beer is the Castrol that helps him run smoothly from the start.
As the last quarter unravels, Bevan’s West Coast aplomb detonates violently and boos turn to passionate swearing and everyone is hit by the spittle shrapnel from the blast. A grandmother with her kid copped it right to the eye. There is always going to be collateral damage in war.
As the siren goes, Bevan enters the first stage of grief and stares at the scoreboard in denial. His friends know that this is merely the calm before the storm. They enjoy this shell shocked serenity while it lasts.
Between the stadium and the Camfield line, Bevan quickly enters the next stage of his mourning process – anger. He can’t handle the festive spirit of a couple of pie fans in front of him, so he vents, “glad the umpires handed you that win, you tell me that wasn’t a fucking throw?”
Bevan is turning redder than a pegged baboon’s arse as they argue about umpiring decisions, “what about that weak free against McGovern? You lot have the umpires on the payroll? What kind of weak dog goes for a Victorian team and lives in WA???” His friends remind Bevan that it’s only a game and to pipe down before they get barred from entering.
Bevan manages to get in but is quickly kicked out after pushing a young bloke into the urinal wall after overhearing him say Crisp definitely got a fist to the ball. Yeah, this kinda act lacked dignity but Bevan justifies all his anti-social bullshit by hiding behind the shield of “passion”.
Having socially castrated himself once again, Bevan finds himself wandering towards the city while entering the bargaining stage of his grief process. He finds a kind ear in another rabid fan, “if only we didn’t have to travel to Queensland so much, this premiership would’ve been ours”. They enable each other’s self-pity and quickly advance into the depressed stage.
He arrives home steaming drunk and mumbling about how the season doesn’t even matter. AFL doesn’t even matter. His long-suffering wife embraces her passionate man, “that’s right sweetie, no one will ever care about the 2020 season, it’d be more embarrassing to actually win it”. God, she knows how to satisfy him.
It’s not long until Bevan claims to have entered the final stage of his process – acceptance. Although his actions tell a different story. He does his best to dress up like an umpire – sports shorts, polo tucked in and socks up. He then calls for his wife to come in, “I want you to hit me, call me a piece of shit, baby, spit on me”.
Maybe Bevan’s healing process isn’t quite done.