THE BULLETIN
Long after Patrick had headed off to the theatre and the Eaglet was tucked in his nest, I watched Ten HD’s post grand final coverage in full, right to its final montage. At a quarter to nine on Saturday night, save for the days of newspaper skimmings ahead, season 2009 came to an end. It’s mostly relief I feel. I think.
I endured the Grand Final badly. I endured St Kilda’s loss far worse than I had anticipated. I expected it to be softened by the fact of Geelong’s win. But it wasn’t … much. Everyone had been selling this year’s grand final as a win/win. No matter which team won, you’d be happy. In theory, I agreed. But what I felt was the loss, not the win.
I didn’t expect to feel so deflated. I wasn’t sure whether perhaps it was all the slow motion replays to Coldplay or the sight of my teenage ‘objet du désir’, Mark Seymour, sharing a stage with Barnesy and Farnsey. Or whether it was the visible pressure on Nick Riewoldt’s shoulders or Kosi’s arm around his waist at the end, or the sight of all those bald heads and Gary Ablett constantly pumping his fists in the air or the fact that everyone kept talking about ‘deserving’. It may have been all those things. But mostly I think it is because I deal with built expectations and dashed hopes with particular sensitivity. It’s my emotional Achilles heel.
At the end of one hundred and twenty minutes of football, I didn’t have any of the ‘chin up’ or ‘it’ll be their turn next year’ in me. I had none of the cool and comfortable distance of a non-supporter. I couldn’t muster an even-minded ‘well, I’m happy for Geelong.’ I couldn’t even dig out a little ‘footy was the winner on the day.’ All I could see was the disappointment of those Saints, the captain in particular. I could hear their minds’ voices starting a chant, a building chorus of ‘if onlys’ that would crescendo in the small hours of the morning. I can’t bear to see people gravely disappointed and if the cup had ended up on the other side of the bay, I probably would have felt the same for the blue and white hoops. As Peter put it to me on Sunday, it was in fact a lose/lose situation.
Feeling it in this way, could it be a character flaw? Sign of a pessimistic disposition? Evidence of unhealthy empathy? No. Just another glance into the looking glass that is football.
And now, it’s time to turn away from the mirror and run outdoors for summer.
It’s been a fine year in football. It’s been a long year. Well, in truth, it’s been a year with the same number of matches and rounds than any other year. But it has seemed long. Perhaps, as a Swan, the end-of-an-era business has played a part. It’s been a long time since the Swans were free in September and forever since the Tip Mistress faced a pre-season without Magic. There was also an element of ‘four seasons in one year’ about 2009: the dominance of the Saints and the Cats – the two horse race; followed by the encroachment of the field and the emergence of at least three other true contenders; followed by a largely competitive finals series and a return to the two horse race. It had a nice symmetry about it. And the Grand Final, with its repetitive grind, its relentless stoppages, its all contested ball, its war of attrition was a fitting full stop.
End of final chapter. Close the book. A good read. Recommend to others. Sequel likely.
It was suggested to me by one esteemed tipster that I might do a final bulletin – ‘a summary of the year and thoughts on 2010’. Well there’s my ‘I’ve already forgotten all the details’ summary of 2009. And as for 2010 …
Without the divets of the hallowed MCG turf having even been filled, the decibels on the whispering about salary caps and trades and drafts and the season ahead start to increase. They’ve even posted the odds for the Round 22 ladder for next year!? I simply can’t go there. Perhaps it’s age. My newly acquired three dozen years have slowed me. Or perhaps it’s the realisation that thinking ahead to next year feels to me a bit like riding the clutch. Sometimes it’s better just to apply the handbrake, let things idle for a while and be patient. Alert but patient.
Tipping too is a long, hard game. You have all played superbly this year, with commitment, stamina and grace. The Eaglet asked me in the car the other day:
‘So, how did you do mum?’
‘Not so great.’ I recalled. ‘But you did well.’
‘What did I come again?’
‘Oh, you came about 10th I think.’
‘Did you come last?’
‘No, not quite. I think I came 19th or 20th. Something like that.’
‘Out of how many?’
’25.’
‘Hmm. Not so good. Almost last.’
It’s good to be reminded by the next generation of your failures.
In the last couple of weeks, I have also come to the realisation that tipping largely confirms all the things which rile me about daily societal life more generally. It confirms that the underdog only rarely gets up; that fairytales rarely come true and mostly end up with everyone turning into pumpkins; that conservatism pays and standing out is unprofitable; that consistency will methodically thwart flair; that the unexpected is unexpected for a reason; and that, when it comes to quantifiable success, the head must dominate the heart. It confirms that lone heroes rarely triumph against consensus. Football is a little different. There’s more margin for nuance. That’s why I’m sticking with football. But tipping is another game, one I have found increasingly difficult to forebear. Hell, I’ve never been a numbers girl!!
Yes, most esteemed tipsters, I’m hanging up the spreadsheet. I’m retiring.
When I say retirement, there’s always the slim chance that I’ll end up just like Plugger or Fraser Gerhrig (or John Farnham for that matter) – on the comeback trail before the boots have stopped stinking, in a guernsey that’s a little too tight, looking for a gig in the goal square. I’ll probably find myself, come March, building a new website and begging for customers.
But until then, despite the fact that tipping in the backpocket has also been immeasurably pleasurable, I don’t have Saint Leigh Montagna’s determination to ‘butter up and come back for another crack’. Now that I’m over 35, I’m following the veteran on this one. I’m taking the Matthew Lloyd approach: ‘It’s better to go out a year too soon, than a year too late.’ So I’m looking forward to a year of football, in 2010, uncomplicated by tipping. (Well I may have the odd Friday night dabble on page 38 of the Herald, just me, the pen and the kitchen bench ... and, of course, the contrary voice of the Eagle in one ear.)
I thank you all for your participation across four years. You have deepened my inbox, charmed my footy brain and brightened all my weekends. You have made me think differently about winter days and nights. I hope you will continue to chat footy (or life) with me anyways.
Special thanks to Tony – the Statswally – for all his statistical genius and generous ‘help centre’ hours. If the Tip Mistress is the public face of the backpocket – the Gary Ablett, let’s say? – Tony is the football department and there’s no way we would ever have been on the field without him. And special mention to Richard, the Tigerheart, for his morsels which have delighted my soul no end and generally operated in reversal of the aforementioned tipping trends. I will be maintaining my domain name if only to host the ‘Tiger Diary’ during 2010's Chinese year of the Tiger.
To our champions – Mark, Anna/Miro, Peter and Sharolyn – you are great ambassadors for the backpocket. I heartily salute you and hope you will carry the memories of your titles for all of your days and perhaps even hold a little reunion in the years ahead and invite me for a beer.
If anyone would like to take the baton, it is only a handball away.
And, if you are looking to extend the season just a teensy bit … can’t let go yet, you might like to try these: this lovely piece on 'the decisive moment' over at the Almanac. And a solid season review from Tim Lane, with a little bit of bite. Just the way I like it.
Otherwise, happy summer!
THE FINAL QUESTIONS
1. Are the footy Gods the same for all codes or are there code specific deities?2. Does the AFL realise that it is very confusing having two Roos in the comp – 1. The coach of the Sydney Swans, Paul Roos. 2. The North Melbourne team. Have they considered demanding that one of them develop an AFL name in the spirit of the clash strips imposed on all teams (except Collingwood) these days?
3. Is there an ante-natal test to predict the likelihood of the foetus having a ‘footy brain’?
4. Could the AFL and NRL come to an arrangement whereby they swap Israel Folau for Barry Hall?
5. Is this question now obsolete given the G17’s signing of Karmichael Hunt?
6. What sport could the Swans trade Barry to?
7. What about horse racing? The Swans could do with a nippy small forward. We’d have to restrict use of the whip though.
8. Is Matthew Lloyd considering a career in boxing?
9. With the number of guys talking about 4 quarters these days, is there any actual alternative?
10. Why is a ‘behind’ called a ‘behind’ and not a ‘beside’?
11. And why is a strawberry called a strawberry?
12. What will Etihad Stadium be called next year?
13. Will a coffee table book of ‘What Dog is that Coach?’ be available for Christmas? Greeting cards?
14. Can 2009 Swans Club Champion, Ryan O’Keefe, win best and fairest on Celebrity Master Chef?
15. Is there any point continuing past Question 14 – the number of the great Swans Skilton, Kelly …? (I can't find the 'strikethrough' font option at blogspot, otherwise this one would have been struck through ...)
16. One more thing ... does Kosi know something about some kind of pressure point just under Nick Riewoldt's right breast? See photo above and just below too! Oppositions may like to look into this. It seems to bring a pained expression and even tears. Could be useful.
THE TIGER DIARY - THE LAST PAGE 2009
Monday, 28th September 2009 BC
Deep in the back of the lair there is something stinking.Monday, 28th September 2009 BC
The stench wont let you think.
It's more than a losers' locker room kind of smell.
It's more than the dynamic lifter that some idiot keeps digging into the pebbles around the base of the plastic palms.
It's deeper than the wretched carpet and its mouldy unholy underlay.
Is it just rotting yum cha?
Is it perchance a little too much Proust?
Has anyone seen Lazy Susan lately?
And why wont Sheeds collect his 1979 sports bag from lost property?
What IS that smell?
One man has the job to find out before the Year of the Tiger can begin.
He’s The Head Exorcist,
Damien Omen Hardwick.
QUOTE OF THE WEEK/YEAR
'The only constant in AFL football is change.' - Ross Lyon, post Grand Final.I noticed that Max Hudghton blurted it out in the carpark before the Grand Final too. I think it could be Ross Lyons' scary brainwashing tool. Spooky! Can we expect to hear it on the podium on the last Saturday in September 2010? Keep an ear out.
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