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!
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