The Roosters Jersey

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Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth.
What became of it?

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The item I was most attached to as a boy was a rugby league jersey: the Eastern Suburbs Roosters (now the Sydney Roosters).

These days, the Roosters are one of the glamour clubs. They’ve been successful for a long time, and plenty of people are happy to wear their colours. But when I was eight years old, it was a different story. That year they finished last in the competition. They weren’t fashionable. They weren’t the team you chose if you wanted to blend in at school.

And at my school, just about everyone went for someone else—teams that were winning, teams that had stars, teams that gave you bragging rights on Monday morning.

I’ve always loved sport. I loved playing it and watching it—especially the different football codes. Sport made sense to me early. It was one of the ways I learned joy, competition, friendship, and the slow virtues you only get by turning up week after week.

But the real reason I supported the Roosters had nothing to do with ladders or premierships. I supported them because of my grandfather.

He had grown up in the Eastern Suburbs, and as a young man he’d played for their junior teams. And I loved my grandfather. So if that was who he played for, then that was who I supported. It felt as simple as that. Not a calculated decision—more like inheritance.

Looking back, that’s probably why the jersey mattered so much. It wasn’t just “my team.” It was a way of staying close to him. A way of honouring him. A way of wearing a connection.

A few years later, when I was twelve, I did something that feels wonderfully earnest in hindsight: I wrote to Kevin Junee, one of the Roosters’ senior players. He owned a well-known sports store, and I asked if he could send autographs from the players.

I didn’t expect to hear anything back. That sort of request felt like sending a message in a bottle. You do it because you want to, not because you assume it will work. But a few weeks later, a package arrived in the mail. Inside were the autographs of the whole team.

I still remember the shock of it—the sense that the world had suddenly opened a little wider than I expected. That a famous footballer had taken the time to be kind to a boy he didn’t know. No fanfare. Just a parcel in the post, and the quiet delight of being noticed.

That package became part of the story the jersey carried. It wasn’t only about loyalty anymore. It was about kindness—unexpected, unearned, simple generosity.

The jersey itself took longer.

It took me years to save up for it. Saving in small amounts, waiting, wanting, delaying the purchase until it was finally possible. When I eventually bought it, it felt like a treasure.

And once I had it, I wore it everywhere.

Not just to footy. Not just on game day. I wore it around the house, on weekends, out with friends. I wore it the way boys wear the things that help them feel a little more themselves. Eventually, it became so worn and threadbare that it had to be retired. It was loved too hard. Worn too often. Used beyond repair.

But it represented more than a team. It represented my love for my grandfather, and my love for sport, and the kindness of a famous footballer toward an unknown boy. It was a small, wearable archive of attachment—family, identity, loyalty, grace.

And here’s the honest truth: I don’t really know what became of that jersey. I suspect I wore it until it couldn’t do its work anymore, and then I threw it out. Which is, in its own way, the truest tribute. It was never meant to survive as an artefact, folded neatly in a drawer. It was meant to be used—carrying a boy’s loyalty, and holding close the love of a grandfather. The cloth went, as cloth does. The story stayed.