tut tut

Freo may be on the second rung of the ladder ... but they're pinching the Son of God!

Fremantle's Hayden Ballantyne has been charged with pinching Geelong's Gary Ablett and can accept a $900 sanction with an early plea

The Saints/Magpies conflict is a farce.

Collingwood coach Mick Malthouse and St Kilda forward Stephen Milne have both been fined by the AFL for their part in a verbal clash at Etihad Stadium on Friday night. Malthouse was fined $7500 for calling Milne a "f...ing rapist", while Milne was fined $3000 for making derogatory comments about the Magpies coach's age. Milne also questioned the sexuality of Collingwood assistant Paul Licuria. Licuria was fined $3000 for using threatening language towards Milne.

And as for those Tigers ...

To the naughty chair, the lot of them!

season 2010 begins

a new year

juju n. A charm, amulet, fetish or idol of some W. African peoples; the supernatural or magical power believed to be associated with such an object

On Friday morning, as the coffee was newly steaming in the glasses and an unfamiliar, but somehow welcome autumn chill wafted in the back door, the Cygnet (yes, finally, he’s relented – but that’s another bulletin) and I were fiddling with our dream team in the office. Yes, in the absence of spreadsheets and inspired by Coach Ian, we are coaching our own dream team this year (but that’s another bulletin).

As we began the long teetering that is the process of selecting our weekly captain (the captain doubles his points!), we heard a significantly louder than usual ‘chirp’. ‘That’s a happy birdie,’ I said. A second cheep had us turning inward towards the dining room until we saw fluttering on the light fitting. ‘It’s inside,’ we all called, in unison.

The three of us approached it, our faces tuned upwards towards the light. How extraordinary to see three humans activated so thoroughly by a small bird inside. It flew into the living room and round and round and round and round. Patrick followed its progress, towel in hand, flapping - a hopeless spectator to its ineffectiveness at getting itself out of such a predicament. Omar watched from the hallway. I returned to my coffee. What could I do? Having dealt with a bull-bull in the back verandah only a month or two ago, the Willy Wagtail belonged to the boys.

After some more swirling and flapping and the odd shower of fine, black down, Patrick had the bright idea to release the living room fly screens and the bird had the sense to flee.

We closed the open doors around the house, mildly titillated by the event. Until I remembered the story. A story. It was hazy. An Aboriginal woman telling me of the foretold death of a kinswoman thanks to a Willy Wagtail. Had it been the blessed Ruby? The woman and her sister had each seen a Willy Wagtail, separately, on the same day and that night their other sister died. It was a story I’m sure I had heard somewhere. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me?’ I asked Patrick who looked pale and sculled his coffee. I’m sure it was a wagtail.

The house resumed its rhythm and once more took up the silence of the daily start-up. Cereal was poured, toast buttered, fruit diced, goldfish fed.

‘Are you still online?’ Patrick asked, after a while. ‘Can you just check the Willy Wagtail thing? Stick in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. I stuck in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. From Wikipedia:

The Willie Wagtail was a feature in Australian aboriginal folklore. Aboriginal tribes in parts of south eastern Australia, such as the Ngarrindjeri of the Lower Murray River (Ruby was Ngarrindjeri) and the Narrunga People of the Yorke Peninsula (Mick O’Loughlin is from the Yorke Peninsula), regard the Willie Wagtail as the bearer of bad news. It was thought that the Willie Wagtail could steal a person’s secrets while lingering around camps eavesdropping, so women would be tight-lipped in the presence of the Willie Wagtail …

Patrick, I should add, is deeply superstitious, and was still recovering from news he received from an apparently good friend after his 44th birthday on Tuesday. Said friend had accompanied his ‘Happy Birthday’ message with the news that 44 was very bad luck in China, 44 being linguistically close to ‘death death’. He didn’t say much after I read him the above. It was simply a steady progression towards a shower and dressing and a peak hour bike trip to work.

The Cygnet and I resumed our work. Riewoldt, O’Keefe or Goddard for captain?
‘Goddard is reliable,’ I suggested.
‘But we’ve already had him,’ chirped the Cygnet, always one for change.
‘What about O’Keefe then? He’s got a 127.50 average?’
‘So does Riewoldt,’ added the Cygnet. He’s right. Of course. And he loves Riewoldt.
‘Ok, so Riewoldt or Ryan?’
And we decided on Nick.

* * *

That night Patrick got home late. He walked into the dining room, socks pulled up over his jeans, perspiring, still strapped into his bike helmet, a white light flashing on the crown of his head.

‘Oh, you got a new light?’ the Cygnet admired.
‘Well I figured that with daylight savings … and the dark … and I’ll be riding in the dark … so I thought … ‘ He removed his helmet and held it before us. ‘It’s got three functions … front and back both flashing, front flashing and back still, back flashing and front steady … it’s just, with the dark … riding in the dark now … I thought …’
The Willy Wagtail.

Portent weaves its way through all of our lives. Anything could be a sign. Any trivial something that floats its way across our days could end up being the arrow that we missed. Or the arrow that we recognise as it is launches from the bow. Or the arrow that we remember, in hindsight, and wish we’d paid some attention to.

The siren blew on Friday night football and I listened sporadically for our captain’s feats and the steady accumulation of our most reliable players’ stats – we have Goddard and Gram in our dream team too.

There was alarm as Riewoldt left the field in the first quarter to have a hip flexor/groin looked at. There was concern as he limped down into the rooms to have a rolled ankle strapped, but relief as he returned. And resumed. By half time, Riewoldt had suffered a possible ‘ham from the bone’. There was plain disconsolation. All our bonus points would add up to precious nothing!

‘Jesus,’ I called to Patrick, ‘It’s the Willy Wagtail. Black and white, bird and all.’

I remembered the story now. It was a friend’s neighbour. A remarkable 91 year old Aboriginal woman who had brought up and schooled 6 children as a single mother in Laperouse. The day she died, both her sisters had seen Willy Wagtails and had known she would die that night.
‘It was for the Saints,’ I cried as Fisher was stretchered off with a facial blow and Hayes had a busted nose strapped up. Patrick put his head over the sink. I could see the relief wash over him. It had been meant for someone else.

It was bad news for the Saints. With one on the bench to rotate, a midfield dragging the job of two absent tall forwards and the lingering loss of the captain (and second premiership chance), the Saints looked beyond hope. Noble warriors or not, surely the Pies would put them away. The black and white bird had come to sing for a black and white victory.

But sometimes you don’t know which side of the portentous fence you’re on. The Saints piled on four last quarter goals. The black and white had their chance to reply. 7 minutes and 58 seconds into the last quarter, Cloke sprayed a kick out of bounds on the full. With 10 minutes 28 gone, John McCarthy missed a set shot on goal out to the left. They flapped and flapped, round and round but couldn’t get out of their predicament and were without the luxury of fleeing. The bird was playing for the other team. The Pies ended the match having kicked 4.17. That must be Collingwood for ‘death death’.

Collywobbles. Collytails. Willywood. 2 and 20 black and white birds were baked in a Pie. I’m just glad there’s no red and white juju birds round here.

But … that’s right. Oh no. It’s the Year of the Tiger.

WHAT DOG IS THAT COACH?

Greater (or is it Western?) Sydney has a lot to look forward to. Meet their coach, Kevin Sheepy.


Thanks Lucie, for a superb year of doggie coaches. Looking forward to the 2010 Desk Calendar.

PS. QUOTES OF THE (TRADE)WEEK

'I want to express my deep sorriness again.' - Brendan Fevola, Brisbane Lion.

'If he had of been carrying on like that in our day, Norm Johnson (a notorious Fitzroy hardman) would have punched his lights out to make him wake up to himself.' - Lions legend Kevin "Bulldog" Murray, with a clue as to how the Lions may change the Fev's ways.

TRADING

PHOTO: PAT SCALA

Just when you thought it was the end of season and time to put your mind up for a while …

Trade week.

Here are my thoughts from the week, written on the run:

I find trade week deeply unsettling. Never mind the world’s domino chain of natural disasters … every morning this week brings a new trade shock. It’s like losing members of your family. Or gaining new ones for that matter.

Consider being a Saints fan and learning that Luke Ball had rejected a three year deal and wants to go to the Pies. It’s like losing your kid brother to the school bully’s family, so that he ends up staring at you over the fence.

Consider being a Blues fan and losing Fev. I mean, some might argue that it’s a relief to lose the old uncle who can’t handle his grog, but you’ve got to admit that you know Christmas will be a lot more dull.

Consider being a Swan and learning that your ruck-man has gone to … Collingwood. It’s like having the tall capable brother-in-law of the family, the one you welcomed in a few years ago from the other side of the tracks, the one whose got a lot of trades and knows how to fix everything around the house, go off and marry into another family.

Baz failed his final year at the Sydney Swans Wellness Clinic. Tami and Paul Roos must accept that not everyone can be fixed with meditation and Bloody oaths. But imagine being a Bulldogs supporter and looking down at the next forward line, stacked with Aker and Bazza. Hard core Bulldogs must really feel satisfied that the club, by all appearances, is going back to its ‘westy’ roots.

How would Hawks fans feel about their big tough defender being ‘allegedly’ offered up as a carrot to the Power in order to get a Burgoyne? It’d be like losing your big brother, just as you were about to embark on a school yard brawl.

And what about Bombers fans? How would you feel losing speedster Lovett to the Saints. It’d be like robbing a bank with your cousins and getting outside to find that the getaway car driver has been born again a Christian.

At least you get Williams in return. One spunky blackfella with X factor for one spunky blackfella with X factor. A good deal. That’d do nicely in Sydney.

And finally spare a thought for the Lions supporters: with Buchanan, Staker, Raines and Clarke X brought in, then Fev at the final hour … it’d be like living with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. You’d never know where the next one was coming from.

In the aftermath of trade week, club supporters have numerous little emotional adjustments to make. There is a realignment of loyalties and interests to be undertaken before they sign off on the pink slip for the new season. There’s no easy week for a supporter of the oval ball.

Happy draft!

Others have suffered too. Nigel sent this to the backpocket on Thursday:

The Burial of the Dead

October is the cruelest month, breeding
Rucks out of the west land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Jolly roots with magpie rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful Mickey O, feeding
A little life with Barry Hall.

Summer surprised us, coming over the trades
With a shower of drafts; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into draft week,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Feel free to add your own sufferings below in COMMENTS.

SEASON OVER

THE BULLETIN

I watched every minute of the Grand Final. Every excruciating minute, with a couple of panadols and some sorely tested cuticles.

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.
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.

* * *

grand final - the build up

first things first.
brownlow schmownlow. ablett schmablett.


our very own 'miro' of the anna/miro team last week won the best and fairest for the newtown swans U11s. he has taken home 'the golden boot' which I am told now has pride of place on the entrance table. it is also miro's birthday in five days so we wish the soon-to-be-11 year old champ a big thumbs up for a seriously solid year in the centre.

grand final is only days away.
here are the teams.
gerard whateley's thoughts on the teams are here.
the almanac's finals chat is here.
the AGE's grand final week news is here.
AGE tipsters are here.

good luck.
happy tipping.
have a great sat arvo.
x tm

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!