Cro-man and I have been to 2 water polo matches; one in Zadar between two local teams and one in Dubrovnik between 2 regional teams in the Grand Final. By ‘have been’, I mean we rocked up to the pier where a square of the Adriatic had been roped off and 2 floating goals had been put down both ends. These goals periodically escaped and started the crossing to Italy – but there were plenty of little Cro boys willing to fling themselves into the water to swim after them.

The one in Zadar was very leisurely; families eating icecream, while chaps with little hats and even littler bikinis threw a ball around in 50 foot of water that, every so often, was caught in the 30 foot wake of passing car ferries.

The ‘court’ was smaller than usual, but the umpie came under the same vitriolic screeching as one of those skinny things in orange or green that flitter around at the ‘G’. This yelling was HUGELY disproportionate to the status of the game (I mean, it’s not like it was St Kilda versus Melbourne……).

And there was at least one coach. This was a man possessed; in his bikinis he stalked the edge of the pier waving his arms and swearing at the umpie. A sheep station was up for grabs and came under threat at one moment when someone slapped the ball into the big square head of one of his players. He ripped off his t-shirt and went to dive in to smack the opposition player. The umpie went to stop him and they had a chest-to-chest showdown on the quay. The game just went on. The blokes in the water seemed to know what was needed. When they decided it must be full-time, they just got out of the water. I can only assume the coach and umpie are still at it.

The second game in Dubrovnik was an entirely different affair. This was between the orange caps and the green caps. Two things stood out: there were no supporters for the green caps and the abundant orange supporters didn’t have very much clothing on – I’m not talking abut being in the nuddy, but pretty close.

Typical were the glamazons – Cro-mazons, or to be regionally accurate, Dumazons. They wore orange bikinis of various sizes ranging from extra-small to atomic particle. They waved flags and shook anything that rattled, including their rib cages. There were the usual blokes full of wishful thinking in their bikini bottoms stretched to transparency. From the sidelines they gave the kind of coaching advice that ear-marked them as lads who had mastered dog paddle and not much else.

The real players with their caps on – that look too much like Princess Leia’s bathcap without the placcy flowers – went about the business of chucking a ball around while ferociously treading water. How can this be fun? Why is this a sport? Ducks have to do the treading water thing to survive – they would go arse-up if those little webbed tootsies stopped doing their thing. These blokes have turned it into a game. I reckon they chuck the ball around only because it would look even stranger if 10 blokes just hung around in a square of water violently pumping their feet to keep their heads bobbing up.

The ball throwing also has the happy consequence of allowing the supporters something to see above water. I wasn’t sure whether all of the supporters were actually there to watch the water high-jinks or to watch the other (female) supporters. There seemed to be much turning of hairy backs towards the bare-bottoms of the Cro-mazons.

To add to the mix there are blokes on drums who must also have been auditioning for the B-grade schlock movie Croatian Drummers in the Avocado Jungle of Death. No rhythm required – just a frenzy of arms movements and hip thrusting with an occasional pound of a clapped-out drum once used by the Croatian Mountain Men Drum and Kazoo Orchestra.

The crowd also had a thing for flares: lots of flares, most of which ended up fizzing on top of the ‘court’. The players just swim around them. None of these chaps seem to be in any fear that a spark could melt their headpiece or set their underarm alight. There is also music; loud and of the doof-doof disco variety which is hugely popular over here. The Cro-mazons wobble their tiny bottoms and shake their little nipples in time to the doofs. The blokes shake their tummies making sure the women can see the way they shimmy.

The players seem to hop in and out when they feel like it and most, when they sit out for a while, have a ciggie and hop back in when some secret signal is given. When the game ends, everyone dives into the water.

The game? I have no idea who won, or even if anyone does win. There was lots of dunking each other; lots of trying to pull down each others bathers; lots of biting and jumping on each other. Seemed like just the average day in the average Australian backyard swimming pool when the kids have invited all their mates over. The backyard game is probably more controlled – after all, mum is the umpie and the closest thing to a G-string is the cord on your mate Jack’s boardies.

Until next time…….