Sunday, the 18th of November, 2012 started as any
other Sunday in Fremantle. Hipsters gathered at Cafes, each claiming they’d put
their woollen cardigans on that morning, before they were cool. They were joined
by old Italian gentlemen trying to outdo each other with gesticulations as they
sipped coffee you could stand spoons in.
Parents herded their children into cars headed for the nearest
sportsground, revellers from the night before did the barefooted walk of shame
from strangers houses, and the latest bunch of nutters to board a sheep ship
rattled tins at the Markets to raise bail money.
But something was different. Something was in the air,
something electric, like the moment before the lightning hits and the thunder
rolls, when your hair stands up on end and your arm raises goose bumps with
corrugations a trainee Shire grader driver would be proud of. You could smell
it, rain on the horizon, or far off smoke from a distant fire. Or the dust of a
thousand country cars as they weaved their way through the unfamiliar
bituminised roads of Perth. If you build it, they will come, and come they did,
in a display of pride that made more than one old cockie’s eyes moisten and
voice falter before the day was out.
