BULLETIN - PRE ROUND 22

This week, I was going to write on what it is to create a winning culture. I was going to bring in tanking and resting players (sorry, team management) and list appraisal and succession plans. I was going to quote Gerrard Whateley and Mick Malthouse.

But I think if I were to try a meaningful come-back now, after such a rest (I mean injury), I may pay for flirting with form. It may end up the way it has for the Saints. Loss/es.

I hate the slow, shameful fade out. So, with that in mind, I have no choice but to deliver this offering more in the style of the retirement press conference, flanked by my supporters (where are they?), in the team polo shirt, faced with an array of microphones (well, letters on a keyboard). I’ll keep it short in case I tear up.

How do you know when it’s time to go? You’ve heard those older guys say it – ‘you just know’.

For the last four weeks, I haven’t made it through one whole Friday night with the ABC 630 team. I have swapped Franklin for Foucault, Dangerfield for Derrida, Eagleton (Terry) for Eagleton (Nathan). What has the world come to when I am trading a night at Homebush with the sculpted bodies of the Swannies (not to mention the O’Reilly boys) for a night in Marrickville with Deleuze’s ‘body without organs’?

The retirements have been gathering speed: Bowden, Whateley, Lucas, Barry, Crouch, Burgoyne, Dew, Lade … on and on. What about de Hauteclocque? Is it premature? The body is sound but the mind cannot cope. The mind’s not 25 anymore.

I've thought long and hard about it, talked it over with my family (well actually I haven’t) and it comes as a relief to sit here and tell you that … there will be no more bulletins for 2009. There will be no more metaphors, no more unpicking footy’s great mysteries, no more references, no more footy philosophy.

I'm not sure what the future holds. I may go skiing for a week (dream on), have a holiday (double dream on) and take some real time to consider my options (I’ll be lucky if I have time to wipe my bum this week!) I may do posts that are full of links (get somebody else to do the work for me) or a run on stats for the finals (we’ve been relatively stat-less this year – always a good fall back position) or I may just take the public service approach and do as little as possible until the session is sat. Or I may become a stockbroker.

I will however be attending Saturday night’s great Swansong. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I am leaving James Joyce in Dublin for the night and taking my place in Row U, Seat 136 to wave my tissues in the air for Magic (and the other two … what are their names again?).

But, as the old Swans are being dragged out onto the park for a farewell game this weekend, there are some clubs who do not dare be so sentimental. I play for one of those. There will be no farewell for me. No one will chair me off (God help them!). There will be no one spraying me with Powerade in the rooms. Just a hot shower, all the room in the queen sized bed and Albert Camus … a man who knew a thing or two about a ball and a foot.

Happy tipping!

WHILE YOU WAIT ...

Now that my bulletins never come ... I thought you might need some reading matter. So may I suggest ...


I had a little something to do with this new book. It's out this week. I should be sipping champagne with John Harms this coming Thursday night at the launch in Melbourne, but alas I will be turning the Eaglet's dirty socks in the right way before I stuff them in the washing machine and pouring over empty writing notebooks ...

All contributors have been given pseudonyms but you might find a bit of a clue, as to who (else) I am, here (thanks for the tip, Mark). I haven't seen the fully finished product yet, but from my dealings with Joy and John, I imagine it will make amusing reading.

Also, esteemed tipster and valued (on time) columnist, Richard the Tigerheart, sent me this on the 29th July. It seems appropriate that I post it after the weekend that has just been.

A Family of Collingwood supporters head out one Saturday morning to do their Christmas shoplifting. While in Rebel Sports the son picks up a Richmond footy jumper and says to his 10 year old sister, "I've decided to become a Tiger supporter and I would like this for Christmas". His sister, outraged by this, promptly whacks him round the head with her carton of Winfields and says, 'Go talk to Mum'.

Off goes the little lad with the Richmond footy jumper in hand and finds his mother. 'Mum?' 'Yes son?' 'I've decided I'm going to be a Tiger supporter and I would like this jumper for Christmas'. The mother is outraged at this and throws her moccasins and a full stubbie of VB at him, promptly whacks him around the head and says, 'Lets go talk to your father'.

Off they go to Pentridge during visiting hours with footy jumper in hand and find Bubba, his father. 'Dad?' 'Yes son?' 'I've decided I'm going to be a Richmond supporter and I would like this jumper for Christmas'. The father is outraged and promptly whacks his son around the head with his fists and says, 'No son of mine is ever going to be seen in THAT', and then kicks him from one end of the rec. room to the other for further good measure.

About half an hour later they're all back in the car and heading towards home. The mother turns to her son and says 'Son, I hope you've learned something today?' The son says, 'Yes, Knackers, I have.' 'Good son, what is it?'

The son replies, 'I've only been a Richmond supporter for an hour and already I hate you Collingwood bastards.'

BULLETIN - POST ROUND 18

I finally learnt my lesson on Friday night. Emotion doesn’t get you up for everything. There are things, many of them, that emotion alone just cannot shift. Lord knows, I try. But, last week, at least in the footy arena, I finally went without my heart and scored from the realisation.

My Friday night tipping record is not good. The boys in the house have come to a position where they now wait to see which team I am picking for the Friday night chocolates … and they pick the opposite. It was touch and go last Friday night.

I passed the open fixture many times during the afternoon as I brought in washing, buttered fruit toast, read the latest article on the evolution of the Kindle and rewired the house after days of ongoing short circuits. Each time I passed it, waiting patiently on the bench top, raising its black and white eyebrows at me in anticipation, I seed and sawed. Blues or Roos? There was an irresistible emotional tip sitting under my nose – the noble ex-captain, loved by all, farewelling footy on a Friday night. So I went, breath held, fingers crossed, eyes covered … Carlton.

It unfolded Friday night – the perfectly tragic tale of Adam Simpson’s last hurrah (or last boo hoo as the case ended up): the mid week announcement, the accident in the final drill of the last training session which tore the calf in two, the medical team propping him with every anti-inflammatory and painkiller legal on ASADA’s lists, the hero on the bench and then off again, his soldiers unable to win the battle for him with nine last quarter shots!! Those Roos had all the emotional charge in the world but it wasn’t enough. Ironic that not even Shinboner spirit could compensate for Simpson’s calf.
‘No fairytale, no,’ he said post-match.
No. But a point for the heartless mistress.

* * *

It is a generally accepted fact that each generation is smarter, taller and better looking than the one that goes before. In our house, it is certainly the case on all fronts. The small one has inherited not an ounce of my sentimentality, not an ounce of his father’s slow and private deliberations. He is not beholden to emotion in decision making.

I announced the final match of the round 18 fixture, a big one for him – Eagles v Bombers. He was clinical. Eagles. He did not contemplate, waver or sway. He does not feel equivocalness, or if he does, he does not reveal it. Is this truly my flesh? I asked myself, as I watched him scribble his O above the eagle, I was half proud and admiring, half dismayed.

* * *

Ian was back in the fold on Saturday night, serving a healthy slice of nostalgia. Ten years a member and his first live game of the season. Welcome back. The SCG was shiny bright, a perfect chilly wind reminding us there was still time til September. Peter was along for Riewoldt, but at least he was along. Tucked in between 4 of the finest O’Reilly men you could muster (but missing you, of course, Toby!) I felt sure our collective energy could a fairytale make.

Boy we came close.

But even bringing in the boys, pounding a roll of record into the hand, yelling and screaming and calling for frees that weren’t there, shifting forward in the seats and willing and pleading and standing for each unlikely goal – none of it could get them over the line. As a Swans victory or draw seemed likely, it occurred to me that I was alone with a tip for the red and white. An old habit. The exception that proves the theory?

We live in a world where 93 can be a win by two points (Cats v Crows), or a loss by one. And the pounding and willing, the wishing and hoping, the crowd and the sound counts for nought.

Standing with Patrick on the concourse, Adam Simpson came into my mind. ‘I just want one of them to end in the fairytale,’ I bemoaned.
‘They don’t exist. That’s why they’re fairytales.’

* * *

On Sunday, the Eagles dodged a tank and won. The Eaglet was resolute. On Sunday, the Tigers rolled the Demons with a must-kick goal after the siren. 'Every kid's dream,' said McMahon. 'Fairytale,' cried the AGE online. 'Tank,' cried Michael Voss.

And for the rest of us?

Once the lifting balloon of September is exploded, emotion gives way to preparation – glimpses of the future replace the quest: good signs for the future; good game time into the youngsters; good growth for the kids. Retirements will be slated, lists will be trimmed and recruitment officers will take centre stage. All of it without emotion. Whatever’s best for the club.

And what of the Mistress?

As successful as my Friday night was, I don’t think I’ll fall in line too easily. I will have a forest of tissues on hand as Mickey kicks out his last few games. I will be willing and tipping the Hawks into the eight and a chance at collateral damage. I will be wishing the Woods the wobbles (sorry Lucie!). As the blossoms bud on the boulevards, I will be gripped with the emotion of the final weeks, the denouement of the Home and Away, the segue into finals and probably beyond. I’m trying to take it one week at a time. But old habits die hard.

Happy tipping!