A blog that celebrates the virtues of the back pocket and carries proudly on it's title page an evocative snap of a totally empty back pocket prompts me to raise a topic for discussion with your gentle readers.
With our Swans fumbling and tumbling their way into the 8 I think it is time for us all to reflect on the critical issue of the forward line. Horse needs us all to get our heads around this and come up with a winning formula. Currently we are kicking an average of 11.4 goals per game, that is 10 minutes of football for every goal scored. Compared to Collingwood's 17.8. With all deference to the Roos legacy we will not win in September with 18 players in the back pocket.
Post Locket, post Hall it seems our football brains opted to follow the tried and trusted path and buy another one. This time the one we got was broken and in the AFL there is no refund on second hand goods. We saw glimpses of what might have been with Bradshaw's mighty goal from outside 50 on the siren, a kick that has now grown in my imagination to something in excess of 75 metres.
But there was a plan B and that was to grow our own forward line. I recall boastful claims of how Jesse White would be better than Fevola ever dreamed, how hollow is that boast now, or perhaps how ironic! And so the hunt goes on, each week a new 20 year old thrown in with the hopes of 20,000 fans riding on his young shoulders. Each week the miracle fails to materialise. I hear tell that Omar is being groomed for centre half forward and may make his debut before the finals.
Come on tipsters of the Swan's faith, let's get our brains in gear and sort out a forward line that can kick 18 goals a game. Fame on the backpocket page awaits the selection of a match winning forward 6.
Clinging to the top and about to tumble by playing it safe.
Nigel
Tuesday 31 May 2011
Monday 30 May 2011
BULLETIN > Round 10
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A game of football is a lot like a piece of writing. It’s almost the end of term so I need to be thinking of these things.
I was subject to a workshop of my major piece for the term in class a couple of weeks ago – a 4000 word (or thereabouts) short story. I was commended on my writing: exquisite on the sentence level, phrasing, rhythm, imagery.
‘I just don’t have a sense of story or character,’ said my tutor.
Hmm.
To soothe the blow, he added: ‘You learn different things at different times and you don’t always have them working at the same time. You may have the atmosphere and the place and your imagery just right, but your point-of-view is out so your characterisations suffer. You may have your characters and plot going but your phrasing needs sharpening up.’
It struck me that Thursday, that it’s truly hard to get everything going at once and yet it’s the quest every writer is on. And then it struck me, as it often does, that it’s the same in footy as in life. As his players wait for the toss of the coin, oiled up and matched up, a coach in the box must look at his men and wonder which parts are going to work, whether by some magic, it will all fall into place. How many times have we heard coaches mention ‘luck’ with victories?
Take the Cats v Collingwood two weeks ago week. The Cats had all the forward movement, the speed, the pressure, the structure. They just couldn’t kick a goal. Or Buddy in Sydney. He had top class delivery v the Swans, coast to coast footy. But it was 6 behinds before he started kicking goals. Yes, we all know how that story went.
Sometimes, the atmosphere can be a bit second rate, the characters are dimly defined, the setting is far from captivating. But the plot points are so well positioned and the pace so sharp that the rest is entirely forgiven. The Swans do it best, holding off, holding off, holding off for the ending. If the Swans were a genre, they’d be the thriller for sure.
Sometimes, the characters are well positioned, the conflict artfully set up – Gaz versus the old team. And the location is well defined and loaded with meaning – the new Metricon Stadium. And the story begins really well. It promises and promises. By halfway, it’s all set up. But then the pace goes skew and the ending bolts for home. No doubt the Doggies know this particular difficulty too. Capitulation fiction. There, I invented a new genre.
Sometimes the characterisation is so milky that the reader ends up sympathising with the wrong bloke and it throws the moral of the story completely. Think of Jason Blake’s knee collecting Sean Dempster’s head this Saturday night past. The focalisation seemed to be with the unconscious/concussed Dempster, hospitalised and in doubt to fly home to Melbourne. But before the weekend was out, it was the Blake knee which had come off worse for wear and pulled focus completely.
Yes, the quest for that one missing element is the journey. Brisbane seem to be on top of it. It’s name is Jonathan Brown. (Do you think I could get Brownie into my story?)
Mostly writing a good story is about writing about what we all know, but doing it a little differently, making us see what we know in a new light. Bertolt Brecht used foreign settings in his plays to help audiences look on them differently, from a distance, not to convince them that they were there, quite the opposite – ‘you ain’t there, but your problems are.’
*
Last Saturday night, I had the downright unexpected pleasure of listening to the Dreamtime at the G on the National Indigenous Radio Service through AFL.com. What a narrative journey that was. None of the premeditated polish of the full-time and finely tuned commentators of the ABC. None of the commercial nonsense of Triple M or 3AW.
On the National Indigenous Radio Service (NIRS), the listeners are still referred to as Ladies and Gentlemen. On the NIRS, the game and the ball are referred to as she: ‘She’s all locked away.’ ‘She’s a tough line ball.’ ‘In she comes just outside forward 50.’ The AFL is always banging on about being inclusive to women. Well I’ve finally found some fellas who truly are. And boy, it’s nice to feel included in the game.
On the NIRS, a hit is a ‘pow’ rather than a bump. A poor handball is ‘a bit fance for him’. A loose ball goes ‘where angels fear to tread’. A fumble is ‘dropping an absolute soda pop.’
Caller Andrew Underwood is ‘Undies.’ and the commentary is handed over on air, out loud. ‘Undies you can have a crack.’ None of this seamless transition from one caller to the other. No it’s self-reflexive meta commentary on the NIRS.
Zaharakis is Zakarakis. (It reminded me of Ruby Hunter (bless her soul), who referred to Paul Grabowsky as Mr Gregowski, when Patrick was working with them both. Paul even preferred the name himself after a while.) Dustin Fletcher is ‘old father time.’
When the update man brings in the scores from the GABBA at half time, ‘He’s all over it like a fat kid on a chocky biscuit.’ Now you don’t hear that on the ABC. And in the thick of play, special comments Rockin’ Ronnie Burns commends a Bomber on his play: ‘Hurley was right up his ginger and that’s where you need to be’.
The callers discussed the loss of Lionel Rose and Bob Davis during the main break. And as the warning siren sounded, they concluded: ‘We’ve all got to go sometime or other and this game’s gotta go either way.’ Was there ever a better segue?
And when news came in that the Lions had romped it home in Brissy for the first win of the season, one of the fellas confessed: ‘My wife will be howling. She loves the Kangaroos. Her three brothers played there, her father played there. But .. tough titties. The Lions have the chocolates.’ And back at the G, they even collectively joined in for the ‘yellow and black’ riff in the Tigers victory song. On air and proud.
I haven’t sat and listened with such intent for a very long time.
*
So it’s back to the Word docs. To the point-of-view and the lifting of the subtext into view. Hopefully you’re beginning to see some narrative threads in this season. And there’s more on offer this week. Pies v Saints: the Sequel (or is it Part 3?); Bulldogs: the Last Stand; Port: the Return. Just be wary of decoys.
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A game of football is a lot like a piece of writing. It’s almost the end of term so I need to be thinking of these things.
I was subject to a workshop of my major piece for the term in class a couple of weeks ago – a 4000 word (or thereabouts) short story. I was commended on my writing: exquisite on the sentence level, phrasing, rhythm, imagery.
‘I just don’t have a sense of story or character,’ said my tutor.
Hmm.
To soothe the blow, he added: ‘You learn different things at different times and you don’t always have them working at the same time. You may have the atmosphere and the place and your imagery just right, but your point-of-view is out so your characterisations suffer. You may have your characters and plot going but your phrasing needs sharpening up.’
It struck me that Thursday, that it’s truly hard to get everything going at once and yet it’s the quest every writer is on. And then it struck me, as it often does, that it’s the same in footy as in life. As his players wait for the toss of the coin, oiled up and matched up, a coach in the box must look at his men and wonder which parts are going to work, whether by some magic, it will all fall into place. How many times have we heard coaches mention ‘luck’ with victories?
Take the Cats v Collingwood two weeks ago week. The Cats had all the forward movement, the speed, the pressure, the structure. They just couldn’t kick a goal. Or Buddy in Sydney. He had top class delivery v the Swans, coast to coast footy. But it was 6 behinds before he started kicking goals. Yes, we all know how that story went.
Sometimes, the atmosphere can be a bit second rate, the characters are dimly defined, the setting is far from captivating. But the plot points are so well positioned and the pace so sharp that the rest is entirely forgiven. The Swans do it best, holding off, holding off, holding off for the ending. If the Swans were a genre, they’d be the thriller for sure.
Sometimes, the characters are well positioned, the conflict artfully set up – Gaz versus the old team. And the location is well defined and loaded with meaning – the new Metricon Stadium. And the story begins really well. It promises and promises. By halfway, it’s all set up. But then the pace goes skew and the ending bolts for home. No doubt the Doggies know this particular difficulty too. Capitulation fiction. There, I invented a new genre.
Sometimes the characterisation is so milky that the reader ends up sympathising with the wrong bloke and it throws the moral of the story completely. Think of Jason Blake’s knee collecting Sean Dempster’s head this Saturday night past. The focalisation seemed to be with the unconscious/concussed Dempster, hospitalised and in doubt to fly home to Melbourne. But before the weekend was out, it was the Blake knee which had come off worse for wear and pulled focus completely.
Yes, the quest for that one missing element is the journey. Brisbane seem to be on top of it. It’s name is Jonathan Brown. (Do you think I could get Brownie into my story?)
Mostly writing a good story is about writing about what we all know, but doing it a little differently, making us see what we know in a new light. Bertolt Brecht used foreign settings in his plays to help audiences look on them differently, from a distance, not to convince them that they were there, quite the opposite – ‘you ain’t there, but your problems are.’
*
Last Saturday night, I had the downright unexpected pleasure of listening to the Dreamtime at the G on the National Indigenous Radio Service through AFL.com. What a narrative journey that was. None of the premeditated polish of the full-time and finely tuned commentators of the ABC. None of the commercial nonsense of Triple M or 3AW.
On the National Indigenous Radio Service (NIRS), the listeners are still referred to as Ladies and Gentlemen. On the NIRS, the game and the ball are referred to as she: ‘She’s all locked away.’ ‘She’s a tough line ball.’ ‘In she comes just outside forward 50.’ The AFL is always banging on about being inclusive to women. Well I’ve finally found some fellas who truly are. And boy, it’s nice to feel included in the game.
On the NIRS, a hit is a ‘pow’ rather than a bump. A poor handball is ‘a bit fance for him’. A loose ball goes ‘where angels fear to tread’. A fumble is ‘dropping an absolute soda pop.’
Caller Andrew Underwood is ‘Undies.’ and the commentary is handed over on air, out loud. ‘Undies you can have a crack.’ None of this seamless transition from one caller to the other. No it’s self-reflexive meta commentary on the NIRS.
Zaharakis is Zakarakis. (It reminded me of Ruby Hunter (bless her soul), who referred to Paul Grabowsky as Mr Gregowski, when Patrick was working with them both. Paul even preferred the name himself after a while.) Dustin Fletcher is ‘old father time.’
When the update man brings in the scores from the GABBA at half time, ‘He’s all over it like a fat kid on a chocky biscuit.’ Now you don’t hear that on the ABC. And in the thick of play, special comments Rockin’ Ronnie Burns commends a Bomber on his play: ‘Hurley was right up his ginger and that’s where you need to be’.
The callers discussed the loss of Lionel Rose and Bob Davis during the main break. And as the warning siren sounded, they concluded: ‘We’ve all got to go sometime or other and this game’s gotta go either way.’ Was there ever a better segue?
And when news came in that the Lions had romped it home in Brissy for the first win of the season, one of the fellas confessed: ‘My wife will be howling. She loves the Kangaroos. Her three brothers played there, her father played there. But .. tough titties. The Lions have the chocolates.’ And back at the G, they even collectively joined in for the ‘yellow and black’ riff in the Tigers victory song. On air and proud.
I haven’t sat and listened with such intent for a very long time.
*
So it’s back to the Word docs. To the point-of-view and the lifting of the subtext into view. Hopefully you’re beginning to see some narrative threads in this season. And there’s more on offer this week. Pies v Saints: the Sequel (or is it Part 3?); Bulldogs: the Last Stand; Port: the Return. Just be wary of decoys.
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Friday 27 May 2011
TIGER DIARY 27.5.2011
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Timmy the Tiger seems to be the self appointed social secretary of the Camellia Grove Tigerland outpost.
Busy selling raffle tickets at quarter time - prizes nicely displayed. The six pack, the bottle-o-wine and a box-a-chockies. All styles served here!
God knows where the money goes.
But numbers are up each week. Timmy might be on to something.
On the back of the Dreamtime win against the Dons, off we go to Darwin for another deep immersion in indigenous realms, still without a yellow and black-fella on the team. Daniel Motlop and Danyle Pearce will ensure a home ground advantage for Port.
What I'm really worried about though is the 30 minute time difference. Port don't have to deal with it. SA and NT share with India, Burma, Iran, Afghanistan, Labrador, Venezuela and Lord Howe Island the distinction of being the only places in the World operating on a Half-hour time difference. It's a rare space to share. We must remember not to think the 3 quarter siren marks the end of the game. (Nepal and Chatham Islands are the only places with a quarter hour diff. Tragically they will never play against each other).
My calm only returns when I recall how much tigers love the tropics.
Timmy the Tiger seems to be the self appointed social secretary of the Camellia Grove Tigerland outpost.
Busy selling raffle tickets at quarter time - prizes nicely displayed. The six pack, the bottle-o-wine and a box-a-chockies. All styles served here!
God knows where the money goes.
But numbers are up each week. Timmy might be on to something.
On the back of the Dreamtime win against the Dons, off we go to Darwin for another deep immersion in indigenous realms, still without a yellow and black-fella on the team. Daniel Motlop and Danyle Pearce will ensure a home ground advantage for Port.
What I'm really worried about though is the 30 minute time difference. Port don't have to deal with it. SA and NT share with India, Burma, Iran, Afghanistan, Labrador, Venezuela and Lord Howe Island the distinction of being the only places in the World operating on a Half-hour time difference. It's a rare space to share. We must remember not to think the 3 quarter siren marks the end of the game. (Nepal and Chatham Islands are the only places with a quarter hour diff. Tragically they will never play against each other).
My calm only returns when I recall how much tigers love the tropics.
Friday 20 May 2011
TIGER DIARY 20.5.2011
Greetings Dreamtime Tiger Lovers et al.
We are making a very huge contribution to the AFL Indigenous Round this weekend.
We're fielding no black fellas, but we HAVE given Young Matty White the day off.
Very sensitive and respectful don't you think? And Jack Riewoldt will be appearing as a flying spirit from the Tasmanian Tiger Dreaming.
Oh yeah - we are also carrying an indigenous design on our guernseys for the game which you can buy, buy, buy from Tigerland.
There's a great Richo interview with the designer of the strip, Jirra Lulla Harvey, at Tigerland. MCG as traditional meeting place is one of my favourite concepts.
So what will happen this time around?
For the first time in so very many years, selections are being made on a who's not quite up to it this week basis, rather than the is anyone up to it this week basis. Seems we have choices this year, which is maybe gonna make players really value their spot in the team.
Coach Damo is forging some steel methinks.
The Coburg VFL Forge.
Young Ben Nason is on the sidelines just 2 weeks after having his golden dreads very publicly lopped for a good cause.
Those locks should have been a sacrifice to the Gods Benny!
Self image and personality-making takes your eye off the ball Benny.
Damo knows hubris when he sees it Benny.
Onya Damo.
QUOTES of the Week
'Hawkins went on Tuesday for a mark on Friday night.'
Gerard Whateley, ABC Friday night footy coverage, Cats v Pies
'Those six day breaks, they don't get any longer these days.'
Brad Ottens after Friday night footy v the Pies.
'You've got to want the desire to work hard.'
Luke Darcy on One Week at a Time.
Gerard Whateley, ABC Friday night footy coverage, Cats v Pies
'Those six day breaks, they don't get any longer these days.'
Brad Ottens after Friday night footy v the Pies.
'You've got to want the desire to work hard.'
Luke Darcy on One Week at a Time.
Thursday 12 May 2011
TIGER DIARY 11.5.2011
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This article by Paul Daffey, posted about six hours after the Tige's win over Freo embodies the hubris v. delight of victory thing beautifully.
Of course there are no Gods in AFL to offend - not since GA snr retired and his son took up active retirement on the Gold Coast.
But The Gods are in our brains - such sensitive organs, and not exactly a focus in the gym or on the whiteboard.
They must be looked after - The Poseidon Lobe, The Ares lobe, the Aphrodite and Eros Lobes, the Lobes of Apollo and Hades, Hermes and Artemis.....
Do you think brains require sacrifices?
Maybe that's where most of Kevin Bartlett's hair went?
Maybe that was why Graham Polak threw himself at that tram a couple of years back?
Jack Captain Blood Dyer maybe thrived with a sanguine pay as you go approach, game by game?
And Cuz !??
Weekly we read of the punishments handed out to those who stray.
Greed, Sloth, Gluttony, Envy, Pride, Lust, Wrath.........
We must "Stay the Course Brave Tigers".
But what really scares me is that 4 weeks ago the Pies took a 71 point bite out of the Tigers' hide.
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This article by Paul Daffey, posted about six hours after the Tige's win over Freo embodies the hubris v. delight of victory thing beautifully.
Of course there are no Gods in AFL to offend - not since GA snr retired and his son took up active retirement on the Gold Coast.
But The Gods are in our brains - such sensitive organs, and not exactly a focus in the gym or on the whiteboard.
They must be looked after - The Poseidon Lobe, The Ares lobe, the Aphrodite and Eros Lobes, the Lobes of Apollo and Hades, Hermes and Artemis.....
Do you think brains require sacrifices?
Maybe that's where most of Kevin Bartlett's hair went?
Maybe that was why Graham Polak threw himself at that tram a couple of years back?
Jack Captain Blood Dyer maybe thrived with a sanguine pay as you go approach, game by game?
And Cuz !??
Weekly we read of the punishments handed out to those who stray.
Greed, Sloth, Gluttony, Envy, Pride, Lust, Wrath.........
We must "Stay the Course Brave Tigers".
But what really scares me is that 4 weeks ago the Pies took a 71 point bite out of the Tigers' hide.
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Saturday 7 May 2011
TIGER DIARY 7.5.2011
Pardon to the Tiger. The mistress has been late posting.
An email came through tonight from an eager reader ...
'Where is the Tiger Diary?'
So, in the words of Paul Roos, 'Here it is.'
The Henderson Rd sub branch of Tigerland at the Camellia Grrrrove Hotel is revving up.
Twenty of "us" watched the battle of the big cats last week and I'm tipping something bigger this week.
I'm tipping a big win over Freemantle. Hubris-aware, but still confident, in front of a record crowd, at the Grrrrrove at least.
Zeus Riewoldt to kick 3 as the goal scoring gets more evenly shared around. Watch out for (Jake) King of the Underworld.
All Richmond's points this year have been against teams below them on the ladder. A win against Freo would be something different........ for now.
An email came through tonight from an eager reader ...
'Where is the Tiger Diary?'
So, in the words of Paul Roos, 'Here it is.'
The Henderson Rd sub branch of Tigerland at the Camellia Grrrrove Hotel is revving up.
Twenty of "us" watched the battle of the big cats last week and I'm tipping something bigger this week.
I'm tipping a big win over Freemantle. Hubris-aware, but still confident, in front of a record crowd, at the Grrrrrove at least.
Zeus Riewoldt to kick 3 as the goal scoring gets more evenly shared around. Watch out for (Jake) King of the Underworld.
All Richmond's points this year have been against teams below them on the ladder. A win against Freo would be something different........ for now.
Wednesday 4 May 2011
BULLETIN > Round 7
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A couple of weeks ago, Friday night football hosted Collingwood and Richmond. As the first half drew to a close, the Pies up by some 8 goals, the ABC’s David Parkin lamented the unevenness of the match. He wasn’t having fun anymore: ‘The joy of any contest surely comes from the uncertainty.’
*
On the last day of the school holidays, the Cygnet and I headed to the park for a game. It’s a miss-match: the loose kick of Mum vs the contested style of the Cygnet. It was close to midday by the time we arrived.
We kicked out in the expanses. A nearby student wore the red sash of a Bomber’s guernsey – remarkable up here, north of the border. The first quarter was played in sweltering conditions. We retreated to the shade of an enormous fig tree. The Cygnet worked the tree into our match, running quick step between the buttress roots, dodging and evading the aerial roots, slotting his drop punts over some of the low hanging branches. The Bomber looked up at intervals. With an almighty roost for goal, the Cygnet sent the ball flying high, high … too high. Our Sherrin was stuck up a tree.
The tree mulch didn’t cut it. We couldn’t find a stick. And I couldn’t shake this tree. Nothing would dislodge that ball. I took off my shoe. Repeatedly I hurled the shoe. I noticed the opposition giggling. We squealed as it wobbled, anticipating its fall. And when it did fall, it landed right in the Cygnet’s hands. Great mark!
On we went. My skills were improving, the Cygnet was working up quite a sweat. He kicked, I chased. He dished off the look-away handpass. I chased. It was just our regular game. Until the Cygnet kicked another one high into the branches. Much higher this time. I wasn’t sure if I could get my shoe that high. With a couple of full-bodied pitches, the shoe ended up in the tree too. I had a vision of myself hobbling home, sans Sherrin, sans sandshoe.
The Cygnet’s face was blank. He didn’t know whether it was funny or a problem.
We found a stick. Shoe came first (we have at least 5 more footies). Each wobble brought a sniff. The anticipation built. A shift in the wrong direction and the laces could snag that sneaker even further. Over and over I re-launched the stick; Mum versus the tree. The Cygnet provided commentary. I was gaining momentum. The Bomber sat up to attention. And then … the footy fell. I hadn’t aimed a single throw at the footy. The Cygnet ran laps of glee while I continued on the shoe. And when the shoe finally came down, the Cygnet pounced on it. ‘Loose ball,’ he yelled and I screamed at him not to kick it. We rolled in the grass with relief. I half expected the Bomber to applaud. All three of us were smiling.
‘Well the moral of that story is, don’t play footy under a tree.’ That’s what I told the Cygnet anyway. But the fact was, that we hadn’t played such a joyous game all holidays. And we both knew it.
*
By last Friday, I didn’t know what day it was.
With the previous weekend stretching from Friday to Tuesday, a school week that started on Thursday and ended a day later, we were now heading out to the SCG for … Friday night footy?
We settled into our seats, our jean cuffs wet from the treacherous rain, our Records tucked under our coats. I felt disoriented. Where were Parkin, Whateley and Schwab? He may not have been on the airwaves, but Parko was on my mind: ‘Surely the joy of any contest is in the uncertainty.’ I wriggled in my seat.
Pyke was in the side. Who was out? Mumford? No, he was there. White? No, he’d been kicking behinds in the warm-up. Kennelly? Was Kennelly actually back? Yep. That was him, bald and taped, readjusting his knee. At least four sets of binoculars were trained on the field until the call came from Row T 54 seconds into the first term. ‘Grundy. It’s Grundy.’
Uncertainty in footy works both ways. Swans supporters of the past half-decade have been spoiled by the team’s capacity to re-write an apparently disastrous foregone conclusion with only minutes on the clock. But the uncertainty that is the essence of that joy can be the same uncertainty that frays nerves and ends badly.
It was a night for that edge.
Conditions were bad; the pill was slippery. But the Bloods handled it well. Running was hard. Tackling was fierce. The shortest man on the field took a hanger. Moore to McGlynn. It was a night for the small men, that was certain. Jetta, Goodes, McVeigh and Jack all had their soccer skills on show, off the ground, into goal, on the full – the Maradonas of footy. The dual Brownlow medallist – the one in the red and white – was everywhere in the second quarter. We were calling him ‘Wormhole’ for a while there.
By half time, White had dropped a sitter in the square and missed the second effort. Goodes missed from directly in front. Jack limped off with an ankle and the margin was only 15. The fortress didn’t feel so certain. The flags were still flying over the Members stand, but they were starting to look drenched and weary.
Any seasoned footy lover knows it well: uncertainty is a given in footy. A game is a cardiograph. That Friday night two weeks ago, Richmond answered David Parkin’s disappointment with six straight goals and cut a whopping margin to just 26 points. We sat through half time on the edge of our seats.
Siren. O’Keefe ran to Judd and the dual Brownlow medallist – the one in the navy blue – ran rampant. Nothing was more certain than his feet on the ground and his hands on the ball. I wanted to throw my shoe at him. Betts scored. The marks stuck in the baskets of the Blues. Betts scored. The Sydney tackles slipped. Betts scored. And then, a free kick and 50 metre penalty for (we can now put it in quotations) ‘an interchange infringement’ put the Blues in front of goal. Were they sure? Surely not? O’hAilpin scored. He wasn’t even supposed to be playing. And what was wrong with Grundy anyway? Certainty unravelled to a one point deficit by the end of the third quarter.
The rain came again. The whiskey came out. And we rationalised. The footy Gods would look after things. Jetta hit the post. We had the hoodoo on side - 18 years! Garlett scored. The Swans weren’t natural front runners. Now comfortably 7 points behind, a win looked far more likely. White - the navy blue one - scored. A non-regular beside me urged, ‘They can still do it. Chins up, Swannies.’ Garlett scored. But the Bloods are the champions of delivering the unexpected victory, the one much longed for but by no means certain. Walker scored. Parko probably wasn’t enjoying it anymore either.
By the time McGlynn kicked his fourth, it became clear to me that they couldn’t do it, those Bloods. The margin went too high and a win wouldn’t drop from this tree. The lead at the half was the deficit at the end.
*
Parkin’s right. Nothing is more joyous than watching a close contest. And it’s a season for it. But it’s an awful lot easier when it’s someone else’s team. And if it’s your own team, it’s easier (at least retrospectively) when it ends in a win. If I’d been limping home from Mum vs The Cygnet without a ball or a shoe, I doubt the joy of that sunny day would have lasted for the rest of the week.
As it is, we pick ourselves up and head off to Canberra. I wouldn’t mind riding the coat-tails of a team which thrashed an opposition by 50. Just for a week or two. I wouldn’t mind a win of 100+ points. When do we play the Suns at home? And even then …
The only thing I’m certain of this weekend is that a Coach Scott will get a win and a Coach Scott will suffer a loss. But I’m not sure which will be which.
Happy tipping!
spacer
A couple of weeks ago, Friday night football hosted Collingwood and Richmond. As the first half drew to a close, the Pies up by some 8 goals, the ABC’s David Parkin lamented the unevenness of the match. He wasn’t having fun anymore: ‘The joy of any contest surely comes from the uncertainty.’
*
On the last day of the school holidays, the Cygnet and I headed to the park for a game. It’s a miss-match: the loose kick of Mum vs the contested style of the Cygnet. It was close to midday by the time we arrived.
We kicked out in the expanses. A nearby student wore the red sash of a Bomber’s guernsey – remarkable up here, north of the border. The first quarter was played in sweltering conditions. We retreated to the shade of an enormous fig tree. The Cygnet worked the tree into our match, running quick step between the buttress roots, dodging and evading the aerial roots, slotting his drop punts over some of the low hanging branches. The Bomber looked up at intervals. With an almighty roost for goal, the Cygnet sent the ball flying high, high … too high. Our Sherrin was stuck up a tree.
The tree mulch didn’t cut it. We couldn’t find a stick. And I couldn’t shake this tree. Nothing would dislodge that ball. I took off my shoe. Repeatedly I hurled the shoe. I noticed the opposition giggling. We squealed as it wobbled, anticipating its fall. And when it did fall, it landed right in the Cygnet’s hands. Great mark!
On we went. My skills were improving, the Cygnet was working up quite a sweat. He kicked, I chased. He dished off the look-away handpass. I chased. It was just our regular game. Until the Cygnet kicked another one high into the branches. Much higher this time. I wasn’t sure if I could get my shoe that high. With a couple of full-bodied pitches, the shoe ended up in the tree too. I had a vision of myself hobbling home, sans Sherrin, sans sandshoe.
The Cygnet’s face was blank. He didn’t know whether it was funny or a problem.
We found a stick. Shoe came first (we have at least 5 more footies). Each wobble brought a sniff. The anticipation built. A shift in the wrong direction and the laces could snag that sneaker even further. Over and over I re-launched the stick; Mum versus the tree. The Cygnet provided commentary. I was gaining momentum. The Bomber sat up to attention. And then … the footy fell. I hadn’t aimed a single throw at the footy. The Cygnet ran laps of glee while I continued on the shoe. And when the shoe finally came down, the Cygnet pounced on it. ‘Loose ball,’ he yelled and I screamed at him not to kick it. We rolled in the grass with relief. I half expected the Bomber to applaud. All three of us were smiling.
‘Well the moral of that story is, don’t play footy under a tree.’ That’s what I told the Cygnet anyway. But the fact was, that we hadn’t played such a joyous game all holidays. And we both knew it.
*
By last Friday, I didn’t know what day it was.
With the previous weekend stretching from Friday to Tuesday, a school week that started on Thursday and ended a day later, we were now heading out to the SCG for … Friday night footy?
We settled into our seats, our jean cuffs wet from the treacherous rain, our Records tucked under our coats. I felt disoriented. Where were Parkin, Whateley and Schwab? He may not have been on the airwaves, but Parko was on my mind: ‘Surely the joy of any contest is in the uncertainty.’ I wriggled in my seat.
Pyke was in the side. Who was out? Mumford? No, he was there. White? No, he’d been kicking behinds in the warm-up. Kennelly? Was Kennelly actually back? Yep. That was him, bald and taped, readjusting his knee. At least four sets of binoculars were trained on the field until the call came from Row T 54 seconds into the first term. ‘Grundy. It’s Grundy.’
Uncertainty in footy works both ways. Swans supporters of the past half-decade have been spoiled by the team’s capacity to re-write an apparently disastrous foregone conclusion with only minutes on the clock. But the uncertainty that is the essence of that joy can be the same uncertainty that frays nerves and ends badly.
It was a night for that edge.
Conditions were bad; the pill was slippery. But the Bloods handled it well. Running was hard. Tackling was fierce. The shortest man on the field took a hanger. Moore to McGlynn. It was a night for the small men, that was certain. Jetta, Goodes, McVeigh and Jack all had their soccer skills on show, off the ground, into goal, on the full – the Maradonas of footy. The dual Brownlow medallist – the one in the red and white – was everywhere in the second quarter. We were calling him ‘Wormhole’ for a while there.
By half time, White had dropped a sitter in the square and missed the second effort. Goodes missed from directly in front. Jack limped off with an ankle and the margin was only 15. The fortress didn’t feel so certain. The flags were still flying over the Members stand, but they were starting to look drenched and weary.
Any seasoned footy lover knows it well: uncertainty is a given in footy. A game is a cardiograph. That Friday night two weeks ago, Richmond answered David Parkin’s disappointment with six straight goals and cut a whopping margin to just 26 points. We sat through half time on the edge of our seats.
Siren. O’Keefe ran to Judd and the dual Brownlow medallist – the one in the navy blue – ran rampant. Nothing was more certain than his feet on the ground and his hands on the ball. I wanted to throw my shoe at him. Betts scored. The marks stuck in the baskets of the Blues. Betts scored. The Sydney tackles slipped. Betts scored. And then, a free kick and 50 metre penalty for (we can now put it in quotations) ‘an interchange infringement’ put the Blues in front of goal. Were they sure? Surely not? O’hAilpin scored. He wasn’t even supposed to be playing. And what was wrong with Grundy anyway? Certainty unravelled to a one point deficit by the end of the third quarter.
The rain came again. The whiskey came out. And we rationalised. The footy Gods would look after things. Jetta hit the post. We had the hoodoo on side - 18 years! Garlett scored. The Swans weren’t natural front runners. Now comfortably 7 points behind, a win looked far more likely. White - the navy blue one - scored. A non-regular beside me urged, ‘They can still do it. Chins up, Swannies.’ Garlett scored. But the Bloods are the champions of delivering the unexpected victory, the one much longed for but by no means certain. Walker scored. Parko probably wasn’t enjoying it anymore either.
By the time McGlynn kicked his fourth, it became clear to me that they couldn’t do it, those Bloods. The margin went too high and a win wouldn’t drop from this tree. The lead at the half was the deficit at the end.
*
Parkin’s right. Nothing is more joyous than watching a close contest. And it’s a season for it. But it’s an awful lot easier when it’s someone else’s team. And if it’s your own team, it’s easier (at least retrospectively) when it ends in a win. If I’d been limping home from Mum vs The Cygnet without a ball or a shoe, I doubt the joy of that sunny day would have lasted for the rest of the week.
As it is, we pick ourselves up and head off to Canberra. I wouldn’t mind riding the coat-tails of a team which thrashed an opposition by 50. Just for a week or two. I wouldn’t mind a win of 100+ points. When do we play the Suns at home? And even then …
The only thing I’m certain of this weekend is that a Coach Scott will get a win and a Coach Scott will suffer a loss. But I’m not sure which will be which.
Happy tipping!
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