Sunday Blog 252 – 27th September 2026
I had thought collective effervescence was a term coined by Brene Brown, mais non. It was the French sociologist Émile Durkheim who created the expression to articulate the shared experience of religious worshop. Brene has enlarged its use to encompass the feeling we get in a crowd, say at a music or sporting event, for example.
My city of Fremantle turned purple for the Australian Rules Football grand final this weekend. After three decades, the Fremantle Dockers had ended the season top of the ladder and our very first championship was just two hours of play away from becoming a reality.
Ignoring my wise child’s warnings that I would not be able to get a seat or a meal or a drink in Fremantle, I nonetheless ventured in to the choked city centre to immerse in the collective effervescence.
“Call me when you’re off the ferris wheel,” she said. I’d wanted to witness the purple crowd from on high in my ferris wheel carriage just before half-time. There was no queue, and I was delighted in the slow revolutions up among the pine trees, looking at all that purple below.
“Meet me at La Sosta”, was the gist of my wise child’s second call, and she shepherded me into the only Fremantle restaurant offering walk-ins. Weaving through the throng reminded me of my days commuting in London in the 1990s, battling against the oncoming foot traffic like a salmon attempting to get upstream.
We were ushered in to a table; we ordered lunch and shifted positions until we had a good view of the television; the wait staff accommodated our every change with grace and still delivered our food to the right table.
It just so happened that there was a slight audio delay between La Sosta’s television and the giant screen that had been erected in the cappucino strip below us. We would watch our players line up for a goal, hear the cheer and relax, knowing he’d nailed it, then celebrate when we actually saw the slightly delayed footage.
I wasn’t just experiencing collective effervescence, I was contributing to it; shrieking at the television and high-fiving strangers. I surged in the elation all the way to the last heartbreaking four minutes when the opposition came from behind, scored two goals and ripped the trophy from our grasp. Their third flag, when we have none. So selfish.
I watched a ten-year-old sobbing into her mother’s chest. Her mother bent over, kisses dropped onto the top of her head. I thought I saw her mouth the words “it’s only a game”.
Most restaurant patrons, including the by-now sniffling little girl left. We lingered in the restaurant; stayed up above the sombre sorrow that gripped the street below. Lunch turned into dinner as we were invited to joined tables with another group who rushed in to help us absorb our sorrow.
The collective effervescence, the excoriating disappointment combined with excellent wines then cocktails contributed to us sharing real issues that we were dealing with in our lives. Grief, parental worry, the big problems that are not only a game and are not going necessarily going to be OK.
And for that, I will have to be grateful. Goddammit though Fremantle. Next year, surely.