Dawain87
Kennel Enthusiast
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It was 2am on 27 July 2004 when the sound of my father wailing began reverberating around the walls of my family home in Greenacre, western Sydney. I had never heard my father cry properly before.
In the past, as the household joker, he would pretend to cry to make me and my four siblings laugh, so it was hard to understand why he would be doing it in the middle of the night.
I was only six, but the dread soon set in when I realised what was happening was no joke.
He and my mother passed my bedroom door almost in turns, wailing and shrieking. My mother repeated the same line over and over: “Raid’s dizzy, he’s dizzy. He’s dizzy, Raid’s dizzy”.
The paramedics arrived and asked me and my sisters our brother’s date of birth, but that same night my older brother would wake up to hear Raid’s last breath.
My father sobbed to his son:"ya baba, ya baba, waan rehet?" ("oh Dad, oh Dad, where did you go?"). In Arabic, it is a form of endearment to refer to your child by your own parent title.
Raid was only 14 when he died.
He passed away in his sleep with no real cause of death. Our doctors, family and community were left reeling with little answers.
In the weeks that followed, I took on my mother’s grief, my sisters’ shattered friendships with their fun big brother, and my brother and father’s silence, and I tried to grow up in a family that was fundamentally broken.
*
Later that year, on 3 October, I found myself putting on a brand-new navy Lowes jumper and matching track pants. Navy meant blue, and blue meant the Canterbury-Bankstown Bulldogs. It was the NRL Grand Final and the Bulldogs were facing rivals the Sydney Roosters.
While admittedly I didn’t understand the game’s rules, I knew it was important to be loyal to the club my late brother had supported. My whole family was huddled around the television as we were declared the 2004 premiers, and suddenly, something changed.
Bulldogs fans are a loud and proud bunch, and the celebrations spilled out on to the street. I’ll never forget seeing the sea of blue and white and I became overwhelmed with a feeling that I had forgotten all about: happiness.
In the years that followed, my father became obsessed with the Bulldogs, or "el-Bulldog", as he calls them. We bonded over who was joining the club, who we loved and who we loathed.
When my father left northern Lebanon in 1975, in the wake of the Lebanese Civil War, he had less than half of one functioning ear and no English knowledge.
But despite his hearing and language challenges, we managed to create our own unique language through the sport. It’s Arabic mixed with English and numbers: “number 13, hoowi [he is] good one!".
He has a particular way of identifying clubs and players. The Roosters are “Sydney City”, Josh Addo-Carr is “Fast One” and Des Hasler is “Abu Sha’ar”, meaning ‘father of hair’. There are many, many more.
*
It has been 16 years since Raid’s death, and my family fumbles through life, trying to be as functional as possible. Over those same years though, we have celebrated El-Magic’s final game, cried over times the Dogs have been robbed (it was definitely a try from Idris in ’09) and marvelled over three consecutive golden point wins. I've also kept “proud to be a Bulldog” as my MSN personal message status for as long as I can remember.
Being a Bulldog meant I had two families; one that was grieving a loss that we still struggle with, and another that bled blue and filled a void I can only pay my thanks to today.
Often people are surprised I would hold so much value in watching sweaty men pass a ball around a field. I respond simply by saying I grew up watching the sport with my family.
I’ve never dared to explain I discovered rugby league after struggling to share the reality of coping with a heart that was no longer whole, until now.
But this game, the love language I now share with my father, and that magical October 2004 night after weeks of pain all help me breathe a little easier every night.
EDIT: Thought i would share, its not my story FYI. Please see link for original.
https://www.sbs.com.au/news/how-watching-rugby-league-brought-my-broken-family-back-together
In the past, as the household joker, he would pretend to cry to make me and my four siblings laugh, so it was hard to understand why he would be doing it in the middle of the night.
I was only six, but the dread soon set in when I realised what was happening was no joke.
He and my mother passed my bedroom door almost in turns, wailing and shrieking. My mother repeated the same line over and over: “Raid’s dizzy, he’s dizzy. He’s dizzy, Raid’s dizzy”.
The paramedics arrived and asked me and my sisters our brother’s date of birth, but that same night my older brother would wake up to hear Raid’s last breath.
My father sobbed to his son:"ya baba, ya baba, waan rehet?" ("oh Dad, oh Dad, where did you go?"). In Arabic, it is a form of endearment to refer to your child by your own parent title.
Raid was only 14 when he died.
He passed away in his sleep with no real cause of death. Our doctors, family and community were left reeling with little answers.
In the weeks that followed, I took on my mother’s grief, my sisters’ shattered friendships with their fun big brother, and my brother and father’s silence, and I tried to grow up in a family that was fundamentally broken.
*
Later that year, on 3 October, I found myself putting on a brand-new navy Lowes jumper and matching track pants. Navy meant blue, and blue meant the Canterbury-Bankstown Bulldogs. It was the NRL Grand Final and the Bulldogs were facing rivals the Sydney Roosters.
While admittedly I didn’t understand the game’s rules, I knew it was important to be loyal to the club my late brother had supported. My whole family was huddled around the television as we were declared the 2004 premiers, and suddenly, something changed.
Bulldogs fans are a loud and proud bunch, and the celebrations spilled out on to the street. I’ll never forget seeing the sea of blue and white and I became overwhelmed with a feeling that I had forgotten all about: happiness.
In the years that followed, my father became obsessed with the Bulldogs, or "el-Bulldog", as he calls them. We bonded over who was joining the club, who we loved and who we loathed.
When my father left northern Lebanon in 1975, in the wake of the Lebanese Civil War, he had less than half of one functioning ear and no English knowledge.
But despite his hearing and language challenges, we managed to create our own unique language through the sport. It’s Arabic mixed with English and numbers: “number 13, hoowi [he is] good one!".
He has a particular way of identifying clubs and players. The Roosters are “Sydney City”, Josh Addo-Carr is “Fast One” and Des Hasler is “Abu Sha’ar”, meaning ‘father of hair’. There are many, many more.
*
It has been 16 years since Raid’s death, and my family fumbles through life, trying to be as functional as possible. Over those same years though, we have celebrated El-Magic’s final game, cried over times the Dogs have been robbed (it was definitely a try from Idris in ’09) and marvelled over three consecutive golden point wins. I've also kept “proud to be a Bulldog” as my MSN personal message status for as long as I can remember.
Being a Bulldog meant I had two families; one that was grieving a loss that we still struggle with, and another that bled blue and filled a void I can only pay my thanks to today.
Often people are surprised I would hold so much value in watching sweaty men pass a ball around a field. I respond simply by saying I grew up watching the sport with my family.
I’ve never dared to explain I discovered rugby league after struggling to share the reality of coping with a heart that was no longer whole, until now.
But this game, the love language I now share with my father, and that magical October 2004 night after weeks of pain all help me breathe a little easier every night.
EDIT: Thought i would share, its not my story FYI. Please see link for original.
https://www.sbs.com.au/news/how-watching-rugby-league-brought-my-broken-family-back-together
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