BULLETIN > Round 13

As many of you will no doubt have guessed from my not so weekly bulletins, I’m in a bit of a football slump. After last week’s games, I realised that I didn’t know where the Swans were on the ladder. I didn’t know who was in the Top 8! The players I ‘grew up with’ had been freshly inducted into the Hall of Fame. Maybe it’s just a mid season crisis. But somehow I feel emotionally removed. Must be why my tipping’s so good.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m on my team. I’ve been at the SCG for five out of five painfully close and despicably wet home games. I know that the now 20 year old Hanners is already talking about blooding ‘the young kids’. I know Mummy’s knee has been in Arizona for the last two weeks getting ready for the Pies. I know that I love the new number 34, Alex Johnson. I know Reid, S is on the rise.

And I’m on the broad brushstroke of the weekly events of the game. I know Barlow’s leg is back and Roughy’s Achilles is bust. I know Adelaide must be a miserable place to be. I know the small men are kicking goals and the big men are resting forward. I know that Karmichael’s thighs are thinning, as is James Hird’s fairytale hair. I know the Blues are up and the Dogs are down and the Tigers are somewhere between. And I know that Mrs Selwood is not shopping for a frock to wear on Charlie Brownlow night.

But for all I know, it doesn’t feel quite as easy this year.

I’ve come to think that there may be a critical mass of football to which you need to be exposed in order to feel inside a season. It’s like getting a tan. You’ve got to put in a certain number of sessions in the sun until the pigment is finally receptive to the rays. I dare say, in the southern capitals, while some of the solar exposure may be more tricky, the footy exposure happens without thinking. Footy exposure down there is like the tan you get on your driving arm. It just happens. But on the Albury side of life, you have to work for it.

Shortly before 9.30 on Monday night last week, I sat down to watch One Week at a Time, the kind of touch-base that every Sydneysider needs and must settle for. We don’t have the luxury of choice up here. As the opening credits spun, I remembered that there is now a League version of One Week at a Time which has usurped the 9.30 time slot in NSW. Disgusted, I forgot to record the 11.30 AFL version.


On Tuesday I cleaned off all our living room bookshelves. As I assembled my fourteenth ruckman like tower of paperbacks on the living room floor, it occurred to me that channel One replays the show the next day. I flicked it on to find the AFL credits rolling. I was just in time for the League repeat. I sat on the floor pouring over Tony Lockett’s My Life, then tossed it into the garage sale pile.

On Wednesday morning, I walked into the newsagents on King Street, Newtown. I let out an audible yelp when I spotted a single unit of the hologram covered 2011 AFL Game Card Album. A home for the Cygnet’s homeless cards! I bought it involuntarily. A reflex action. (I spent three days last year walking the August streets of Melbourne looking for one remaining folder!)

On Thursday morning I squatted down in a large basement-style homewares shop to look at a book on party cakes for kids. I almost rolled onto my back when I flipped past a red iced Sherrin, lace-up atop a chocolate field nestled in shoots of iced green grass. I read the recipe: ‘This could also be made as a Rugby ball instead of an Australian Rules Football.’ There it was, the old apologetic self deprecation. Published for the Sydney market no doubt.

And as we left for the country on Friday afternoon, we waited on the Princes Highway next to a Bigpond van, painted up with two life-sized, young boys leaping for a mark in junior club colours. I could have cried.

When I finally dived into my electrically warmed bed to catch the eleven o’clock replay of the Saints v Geelong last night, the gale in the Shoalhaven had completely decimated the digital reception and I had to suffer a mute and broken Goddard, executing the same single kick across two pixelated minutes. I finished my book instead.

Working that hard for your exposure can really take it out of you.

When you’re down, in any sphere of life, what you sometimes need is to be carried along for a while as you recalibrate. But if it’s a footy malaise in Sydney, you can’t rely on the sort of constant peripheral drip feed to carry you through. There’s no solid continuum of footy background noise into which you can slow and rest a while, imbibe and rise when you get up to speed again. Up here, you scrap and scrape for every little tit bit. You have to be vigilant. You keep your heel to the pedal or you get run up the ass by Rugby League.

Possibly I simply need my annual winter Melbourne séjour: a few days walking the city streets, eavesdropping on the trams, a bit of banter with the local taxi drivers, a weekend kicking around in Albert Park, the Sunday AGE and a coffee at Baker D. Chirico. Eleven years into this footy love, I am coming to think that it is a very necessary top up, essential foraging before (or even mid) hibernation.

I know I’ll keep soldiering on. Tomorrow I’ll come in from work, get the Cygnet to bed and stream Grandstand’s Sunday Inquisition. On Monday.

Keep On Truckin' (or Busin')

Okay, so I have four half bulletins finished. The weeks fly by too quickly and old news is … old news. I will attempt a fully finished version this weekend. I have been out of form, I know. Not pulling my weight, playing my role. I should be dropped, I know. I can hear the coaches whispering.

In the meantime, let us think on the use of buses in the modern day game. The Tigers returned to Melbourne on the bus last week and just this morning, the Gold Coasters had to get to Launceston by bus. The Tigers played cards. The Coasters sang tunes. It could become a trend.

You might like to read this lovely interview with Robert Murphy’s parents. Murphy is playing his 200th game this weekend and, as one of the idols of the backpocket, I salute him.

You might also enjoy John Harms’ meditation on the link between beer and football and the modern bloke's identity crisis.

And the quote of the week goes to Collingwood's Heath Shaw:

‘You aim for perfection and if you don’t strive for it, you fall short.’

TIGER DIARY > 17.6.2011

sapcer

With a Lose, Bye, Lose streak I'm looking out for omens.
Reading about the Tiger Rag being played in Ondatje's "Coming Through Slaughter" the other night is a tough one to interpret positively?!!
Round 13 - unlucky for some?
Beat'em once already this season?
No other clues.

Despite the 9 goals apiece loss to the Swannnies last week (taking the term coming from behind into a whole new dimension), it was delightful to watch these Tigers in action.
Shane Edwards caught my eye.
Jack scorched - but twice wasn't nearly enough.
Houli is tough as nails and exciting with the ball.
Cotchin sure does the perpetual motion thing - I'd like to see Deledio link closer with him as
Dustin Martin has the Magic department well sorted at the moment- so long as the Royce Hart #4 jersey can keep him honest. I hope he never buys a pair of too flashy boots!
Ty Vickery has nearly got it through his head that he's made the big time.

Richmond has such a pattern over the last 30 years of promising stuff and not delivering - trying to depend on wonderful Richo for so long. This team just seems a bit different. There are several real potential match winners in the side. Rance, Connors, Foley, King, Nahas....and no rank passengers.

With a head-screwed-on coach and a respected captain they might just remember that they are not stars. they are just footballers who play to win. Never mind the omens.

But it is nice that despite Lions being King of the Animals, 'Tiger' backwards is Regit, Latin for 'He Rules'.

NEWS from ON PIE

Lucie sent word from Melbourne last week.

Ok I am the Pie around here so have permission to get a bit gooey about this but even dyed-in-the-wool Pie-haters will feel the love in the room when Harry O met His Holiness this week in Melbourne.

I did, L. Although am a little miffed that he (the Dalai Lama, that is) in on your side now. Brett used to ensure he was on our side. First they send their players to Arizona to ready them for us and now this? Can Collingwood leave Sydney NOTHING??

TIGER DIARY > 9.6.2011

You'll recall where you were
When the feathers and fur
Flew wild at the SCG
Near-skinned and near-plucked as they skilled and they lucked
Every muscle and gristle and knee.

A bristling coach with a vivid reproach
An interchange circus for free
Nausea surging at home and away
In the clash of the sash and the vee.

A shuddering post intervenes in a ballet of nothing so coarse as a poem
As blood trickles up it unconsciously flexes, recalling its xylem and phloem
Erupt at the bounce, every pound, every ounce
Gasping for oxygen Sherrin.
Grasping at truth, elusive forsooth. I've eaten another red herring.

TIGER DIARY > 2.5.2011

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Any loss is a bit of a bummer, especially before a bye.

But Tigerlanders couldn't bloody stand a bloody fairytale season. Ya gotta go down to come back up. Thanks Port. Thanks Darwin.

Snakes and ladders is the only way it's ever gonna work.
Coach Damo's off to the hardware store for some big drums of antivenin and a sponsorship deal from Bailey (not Dean, you idiot, the ladder co.)

Tiger licks his lips
Rested, alert and hungry
Swan on the menu

(nb. Photo selected by Tip Mistress. Anyone remember that tackle?)

Another Leader Speaks

photo: Quinn Rooney/Getty Images

Dean Bailey may be under the pump with Melbourne's inconsistent season no doubt stalling signatures on a new contract for him down at the Dees.

But he's still this Tip Mistress' favourite 'journeyman'.
I salute the Melbourne football club for recognising that some things are more important than work and, dare I say it, footy.

Our Leader Speaks

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

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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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.