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We walk into the foyer and find a group of elderly tourists waiting by aTOUR STARTS HEREsign. The tour guide is an old, frail man with a plummy British accent, who regales us with tales of the cricketers who graced the grounds when the MCG was established in 1853—just eighteen years after the establishment of the city of Melbourne.
The guide shows us through the halls and to the famous Long Room: an enormous private members’ club that looks down onto the ground and smells like wood polish and musky cologne. We walk by dozens of portraits of past presidents and secretaries, and the guide points out those of note—white men who did things that pleased other white men enough that they were immortalised in oils and put on display. Maybe it’s because I don’t like sports that much, but it all seems insular. Privileged. Exclusionary. I know enough to know that AFL was originally a game played by First Nations people, and I can’t help but wonder—who are the faces missing on these walls?
We leave the private members’ club and make our way down to the ground. Sure, it’s just an oval of lawn with a hundred thousand seats surrounding it, but the other tourists in our group gasp. Even Gabriel seems rather mesmerised by it and before I realise it, he’s toed off his shoes and is stepping onto the lawn.
‘I want tofeelit,’ he says enthusiastically as he stuffs his socks into his Adidas Originals. ‘Come on.’
Barefoot and feeling stupid, we step onto the lawn of the MCG and it’s strangely . . . squishy?
‘Ugh,’ I groan as mud squelches between my toes. ‘This is gross.’
‘I know, I regret it,’ Gabriel mutters. Grimacing, we return to the grandstand and put our now-damp feet back into our shoes. Behind us, the oldies laugh.
The tour wraps up and we wave goodbye to our new octogenarian friends. As we walk through the parkland towards Rod Laver Arena, the next stop on our tourist experience, we pass posters of various players both current and past, much like the ones that decorate Richmond Station. I see the blond Lukas Froebel, somehow still incredibly handsome despite being wrapped around a rubbish bin; Pejo Auer, world men’s number one; Lorena Rodríguez, world women’s number one.
Then there’s Serena, Roger, Rafa. Names so big even I know them.
Gabriel presses his phone to the turnstile and pushes through. I follow and step into a world of saturated colour, bright lights and loud music. Above me, a screen displays the timing of the next match; Lukas Froebel plays Douglas Rhodes in just under an hour.
I catch up to Gabriel. ‘Lukas Froebel plays soon. You reckon we could bunk off to Rod Laver Arena to watch?’
Gabriel slips his sunglasses over his face, though the sun’s going down. ‘I thought you didn’t like tennis.’
I make a face, feigning offence. ‘Excuse me, Lukas is my favourite player.’
Gabriel guides us through a barrier and around the side of Rod Laver Arena. ‘You have a favourite player now? What country is he from?’
I scramble.Froebel . . . Froebel . . .With the fair features, I thinkhe could be Scandinavian. Or maybe he’s from the US. He’s not Australian . . . but then again, with all the fuss the Australian Open’s made about him, hecouldbe. I take a pot shot. ‘Denmark.’
‘Soclose,’ Gabriel says as he opens a door for me. ‘He’s from Sweden.’
A security guard approaches us and Gabriel pulls a pass from his pocket, and we’re allowed to continue. I frown. I didn’t get a pass. Should I have got a pass? Looking around, I realise most people are wearing AO merchandise and lanyards.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘No one’s asked to see the tickets.’
Gabriel replies, ‘The back way.’
Just as I’m about to ask him how he knowsthe back way, Gabriel presses the button for an elevator. It opens, and he ushers me ahead of him.
‘Are you sure we’re supposed to be here?’ I pester. ‘Shouldn’t someone be with us?’
‘Trust me,’ Gabriel replies. The elevator doors open onto a hallway, but as we step out, I realise it’s not actually a hallway at all: it’s a ring that circles the entire arena. Every few metres, there’s a brand name emblazoned on a door: Adidas, Nike, Rolex. Gabriel opens the Mysa Whiskey door and I realise we’re stepping into a corporate box.
Is this Gabriel’s company? Is the Open the reason he’s here?
The corporate box offers a wide, unobstructed view of the court below with two rows of plush cinema-style seating. Towards the back wall, there’s a full bar and I notice it’s stocked with top-shelf liquor and expensive craft beers. Clearly, this isn’t a cheap way to go to the tennis. And definitelynota part of the tour. I’m about to grab Gabriel and demand to know what’s going on when we’re approached by a bartender wearing coat-tails.Coat-tails. What in the business-class bullshit is this?
‘Welcome again, Mr Madani,’ he says warmly. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’
‘A Coke for me, please.’ Gabriel turns to me. ‘Noah?’
Well, when in Rome. I look over the liquor on the shelf, the choice too much. ‘Whiskey and dry?’
‘Good choice, sir,’ the bartender replies. ‘Mysa Whiskey is the finest whiskey from Sweden. Please take a seat. Our menu is on the table in front of you; let me know if you wish to order refreshments before the match.’
I follow Gabriel to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the court, feeling utterly flabbergasted.
‘Yougottaexplain, Gabriel,’ I say as we sit in the plush chairs. ‘Is this who you work for?’What happened to the tour?I want to add.And what the shit is happening right now?
