Tiger Diary

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According to Chinese horoscopes,
here in this year of the Dragon
the pairing of a tiger and a dragon gives

A highly competitive and explosive pair.

There's not a strong Chinese presence on the field for Richmond once again this year,
but you've gotta believe in something.

I Believe in the Tigers.

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It's Coming

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They come like small soldiers over the horizon, one by one, indiscernible at first. Signs. A single article about the benefits of off season altitude training, Arizona or the Himalayas. It doesn’t amount to anything. Some time later, the next time you turn to look ahead, there are more of them. They are armed. The plea from the club urging you for the thirteenth time this summer to conscript your children to the cause. It’s getting a little more urgent. Something about a pack of Giants coming to do battle, a cup, something of national importance. But you tell yourself it’s only the mirage of a dream; it’s too early to wake yet.

Then, on Monday afternoon, an unsuspecting February afternoon, the Cygnet comes home, kits up, pumps up the footy without a word and streaks out into the back garden. All at once, that mirage has a form. And I know it from memory. It’s come over the crest and into my back yard. ‘But it’s the first week of February,’ I mutter to myself. As I reach the back door the Cygnet has just finished marking out goalposts with two large garden stones and is lining up for a banana from under the frangipani! How many pictures do Getty Images have on file that feature footy players and frangipanis? He snaps and tears up the grass, both fingers pointed sky high.


Perhaps it’s the unusually cool weather in Sydney, or the early Chinese New Year. Perhaps it’s the end of real cricket and the start of pyjama tonking. Perhaps it’s simply the need the new school year brings to fill the hours from 3pm.

Dad gets home on that Monday afternoon. It’s still light. Summertime. A sweaty, red faced Cygnet thunders into the house on his mouldings and pleads to the right parent, ‘We need to put the goal posts up!’
‘The goal– ?’ Dad hasn’t had time to put his bag down. He looks at me blankly.
‘The goal posts,’ shrieks the Cygnet as he pulls damp garden stakes from beside the bins.

Perhaps it’s an overriding sense of urgency brought on by the introduction of an eighteenth team – got to get stuck in early or we’ll never get it all done – or simply the adrenalin of a two team town in the making.

Dad obediently takes hammer and gloves to the garden and I watch amazed through the folded arms of the hills hoist as the stakes go in, wood for goals, reconstituted green plastic for behinds. It’s the sixth of February.


I return to the kitchen bench, to fillets of pink salmon, cucumbers and cherry tomatoes fresh from the garden. As I chop and assemble, an unreal sound scape hangs on the evening breeze.

‘Goodes takes it, Goodes has it. There’s nothing Bartel can do.’
‘Bartel is on Goodes?’ I wonder.
‘Goodes runs, he snaps. This move’s got everything there is to do in footy.’
The first quarter sounds on Dad’s mobile phone. They’ve got til six o’clock. There’s water on the back step.
‘Now Bartel has the bounce.’
‘Bartel is rucking?’ I wonder.
‘Bartel with the ball now, he turns, he’s got nowhere to go, he handballs– oh lovely intercept by Goodes. Goodes runs, Goodes shoots!’ The roar of two meets the goal.
‘Goodes now. He runs the length of the field, he bounces, he bounces again, a third bounce …’
‘Gee, his bouncing has improved,’ I remark.
‘He’s coming, Bartel can’t stop him alone. It looks a certain– but wait!’ comes the cry.

I run to the back steps. Another cat is on the outside wing, belting down the concrete alongside the colorbond fence. Our Christmas kitten likes footy too it seems and she’s as good as her name would suggest. She chases the ball all the way into the lavender. We think she’ll stay on the wing. Like all cats, she likes to be the one standing at the end of the scuffle.


At six they come in. It’s Goodes by a good 30 + points. He scoffs a huge plate of fish and veg and hits the sack by 8 – definitely a bonus of the footy season.

*

That same Monday night, I sat down to my evening’s communion with self. All it takes sometimes is one thing, one trigger. One person announces the cause and suddenly everybody’s on board. An email came in that night: Toyota AFL Dream Team is back for 2012 and it's bigger and better than ever! The domino had been flicked. Half an hour later: Meet the Swans and Kick Start the Auskick Season! Two days later and I’m suddenly aware that it’s the Swans’ thirtieth anniversary in Sydney this year. I’m suddenly aware that it’s the first ever Sydney derby on March 24th. Had you already realised it’s a stand alone Round 1 match? Before long, there will be footy boots permanently on the back verandah. There will be three Sherrins on the lawn and one on the neighbour’s and a row of red and white synthetics on the line. And the weekends will be tent poled by someone else’s fixture.

AND THE RUNNER UP IS ...

In his own words, here is the perspective of one half of the J@TS, Tony, on the narrow defeat:

'As for the final round?

Mostly I marvel at how tough it is to win the backpocket. You can't just fall over the line. You gotta actively win it and that's what happened. Our congratulations and respect go to the Snouthlings. I was toey all week and feared all week that J@TS most definitely did not have it in the bag. Mostly I feared Gai &David whose spectacular margin score from the previous week had put them a zephyr behind on 3 margin points and one win. If we faltered we were gone. And with one hand on the backpocket I think I did go conservative (although there were some nasty 50/50 games).

I say "I" went conservative as Joey (the J in J@TS) quite firmly wanted Port over Melbourne (I made us go Melb); just as the previous week (I think) he firmly wanted Swans over Geelong (I made us pick Geelong). This almost makes up for when I said Bombers and he said Swans (and he picked Swans). You may recall Bombers won by a point. All Tipping Duos will understand those vignettes. And interestingly Duos (of various hues) made up at least the top 3 places this year. What does that say?

So roll on 2012. And ponder this over the off season ... what margin will you take the first time GWS front up on the Friday night?'

AND THE WINNER IS ...

What a final round all round!

His team made a statement on Friday night against the Pies ... and so did Lyndon of the Snouthlings, pinning back a one point lead to the J@TS with a splendid round of 7 to take the title for 2011. All that in his first year! He's off to Melbourne on Friday night to get behind the blue and white hoops.

You may have noticed that the Snouthlings are referred to above as a 'he'. There has been some speculation as to how fervently the 'South' (that's Jess) has played alongside the Snelling (that's Lyndon) during the season. Word has it the team broke up as far back as Round 4 when Sydney played Geelong. She wanted Swans, he wanted Cats. He won out. The Cats won. And they parted tipping ways then. But Lyndon went on alone ... whether that makes his achievement more or less likely, I'll leave up to you. Here's what he had planned to submit as his profile way back before the first siren sounded. (I suspect fear and cowardice of said Ms Jess prevented him actually sending it. - Ed.)

'The Snouthlings are effectively a result of the expansion of the AFL into a national competition. Demetriou must surely be satisfied with the intrusion into the inner west of the Snouthlings. Half this duo is a true believer. I believe Gary Ablett Senior is a good man (used to think great). I tipped the Suns first round, dreamt the Cats were not finished this year, and believed that eventually AFL would be beamed live into Sydney on Friday nights. Born and raised in the NSW/VIC border town of Cobram, God's own country, not Gablett Snr, but the maker of the Garden of Eden, I thought I knew this game. Until I joined the backpocket. Now I know I have no idea.

The other half of the Snouthling duo was raised in Sydney. She cares little for the game, hopes that the tipping competition leads to bucket loads of cash and a big piss up somewhere. When tipping, this duo meet on Thursday, check the teams, talk the issues through, examine the ins and outs. Jess then checks the teams' colours and outfits and examines biceps and buttocks. Then, through a collaborative process, we select our teams. Much later, as she snores in front of the footy show, I completely change them. There is a very good chance, if our performances continue to be so mediocre, that this process will be reversed.'

Jess' silent partnership clearly paid off! Well done Snouthlings.

As for our runners up, not sure if the J@TS 'had it in the bag' and got too conservative at the end. Or perhaps one of the team was resting? Hopefully we'll get word from them about the loss, when they recover sufficiently from the disappointment.

My heart, in any case, is warmed by the evidence this season that going against the tide does pay off. In fact, it's the only way, in the end, to the top.

After weeks of bottle necking at the top, our leaders sorted themselves nicely in the end into outright first, second and third: the Snouthlings on 146, J@TS on 145 and Gai and David on 144. Special mention must be made of Melissa's Round 24 performance. Having been inconspicuously steady all year, Melissa finished the season with a flashy 8, climbing a whopping 5 places in the final week to end up in 5th! Fifth! That was my spot. Melissa also showed the best form all year in the 'margin' category, finishing the season with the lowest margin differentiation of 485. With a good pre-season under her belt .. who knows what she might be capable of.

I would also like to tip my hat to my direct opponent, Nigel of Lanternz, who beat me by 1 point in the end. I have very much enjoyed our battle this year and look forward to lining up on him again in 2012. Omar is delighted to have pipped Swivel by 1. And thanks also to Lucinda who was tortured by AFL.com so early in the season, dashing her hopes of a full season, but who nevertheless stayed hooked in all year long. Good luck with those Pies, Lucie. To all whose teams are in finals action, I wish you good viewing.

And to all of you, bravo on a fine season - 24 rounds and 110%.

x tm

TIGER DIARY > 3.9.11

There's nothing quite so pretty as the team in eighth spot finishing up with a 100.00 percentage.

That is of course unless Richmond can finish ninth again - which would make it 7 times in 17 years. That would be pretty(silly) indeed.

It would make the losses against Port and Suns look pretty bloody silly too. But the win over the Swans who then beat the Cats, then makes us Tigers feel just a little pretty.

Tipping Freo over the pies was not pretty, just silly. Especially when it cost me my only perfect eight for the season. So Silly.

Richmond to skewer the Roos in the last gasps of the home and away season 2011, Freo having been flayed by the Wulldogs on Saturday afternoon. Hall shines...

Natural order restored with the Richmond Witches returning to 9th spot, ready to take on GWS et al in 2012.

But what about the Battered Turd of the Year from Geelong to the cheating Pies. Beautiful ! The inaugural AFL round 24 has started well. Looks like it might become THE JUSTICE ROUND. Jungle justice - I hear drums.

TIGER DIARY > 22.8.11

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photo: robert cianflone

There is a statistical chance that Richmond can Finish Ninth Again.
What a funny old world.
Go you Tigers!
That would actually patch up the season that was otherwise a sad rout.

Think off- season needs to be spent planning a pre-match win/loss how's it feel and 'whatawedo' session each week in 2012 to keep it all real.
Winning 4 out of 5 up to round nine was more than the inexperienced cubs could handle. Started to expect stardom. End of season.

Pardon lost Tiger of late.
Lair renovations roaring along.
No plans for downhill skiing next season.

BULLETIN > Round 22

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When my parents first moved out of town to a paddock on the NSW south coast, their builder laid the concrete slab and gave them a lesson on what it took to be considered a local in those parts: three generations in the local cemetery.

Last Friday night, I dipped in and out of the coverage on the National Indigenous Radio Service, coming in close only once the final siren had sounded. ‘Ah Koschitzke,’ a voice lamented. ‘Looks like Tarzan, plays like Jane.’ The regulars back-introduced him – Darryl White. The Cob and I turned to each other. ‘The porn star,’ we said in unison.

White played fullback for Brisbane when I was a girl. He wore his hair out, his socks down and a glove on his left hand, and we always called him 'the porn star.' He marked it cleanly and moved it smoothly. You could imagine a soundtrack by that other White – Barry – accompanying Darryl as he moved it down the wing. He was sexy.

‘I must be getting old,’ I said to the Cob. ‘All the players I loved and watched when I started out – they’re the coaches and commentators now.’ There was something simultaneously unsettling and comforting in this thought.

In footy terms, let’s face it, I found the game against all odds, with some considerable handicaps: a woman, a New South Welshwoman, daughter of a Frenchman, lacking any genetic disposition or environmental exposure to the game. I immigrated unexpectedly to the oval ball a meager eleven years ago – a twenty-first century fan – a novice, I know. And I’ve always felt those schisms.

Without generations of footy blood, I’ve relied on other building blocks to feel like a ‘footy local’. It was a big day the day my 10 year pin arrived on a card in the mail from Swans headquarters. And it’s with deep satisfaction that I stand at the school gate on a Monday morning and effortlessly embark on the weekend wrap with the Victorian born Dad and super centre half back/first ruck change of the local Masters comp. I’ve got the lingo now, and you can hardly hear the accent anymore.

But now, this year, I have the beginnings of a generation of players under my belt. It’s satisfying to see Hird, Voss, the Scott twins and Primus in the box; to see Darcy and Crawf, Richo and Roosey on the other box. I know their strengths and their weaknesses, their heroics and their injuries, their Premierships achieved and those retired without. It's reassuring to hear White and Grant and Tommy Harley on the wireless; to know that the man in charge of conquering the world, tackle by tackle, is none other than Brett Kirk. Even this week’s newest caretaker coach is one of mine – Paul Williams, #10, whose outside run we could use in the Swans midfield right now. More often than not, the face (or voice) of the game now belongs to someone I feel I know.

Esteemed tipster, Sally, fellow mum at the Newtown Swans Under 7s, was keeping me warm on the boundary of another arctic local oval last Saturday morning, with stories of her son’s new found interest in football statistics. He helps himself to them online. He had propped and asked her the other day, ‘Why were there so few teams in 1915?’ It got her thinking about the longer throw of history, beyond this season or the last, beyond the premierships of the last seven years.

It reminded her that our kids – the new generation of footy fans – think that the Saints and the Cats have always been great – they were hardly a year old when Nick Davis ended Premiership dreams down at the cattery and prompted the review that gave Bomber Thomson one more chance. Our kids hum the Collingwood theme song subconsciously on Sunday nights. Our kids believe that Port have always been basket cases. After all, the Cygnet was only two days old when his father wheeled him into the tea room of the maternity ward and settled him in front of the Power’s Grand Final victory over the waning Lions.

Kids are better at the here and now. They don’t feel the pull of eternal space which makes an adult reach for the gravitational certainty of roots.

The other morning, the Cygnet rejected some over-cooked toast. ‘You cannot be serious?’ I whined in my best New York accent. He looked bemused. I explained that there was this great tennis champ, John McEnroe, who used to play when I was a kid, who wore a sweatband and liked to complain a lot. But that he was always entertaining and a very good player. ‘He had a great rivalry,’ I added, ‘with a Swedish guy called Bjorg. He was the best player of his time, like Federer.’ It’s not easy mapping history over peanut butter toast. I was doing a pretty good job, I thought, until the Cygnet piped up, ‘But Federer’s not the best player in the world anymore. It’s Nadal.’ (It’s Djokavic actually but I didn’t want to get too technical.)

Perhaps more than any player now confined to a box, more than any jargon I can employ, more than all the membership cards in the bottom drawer, the most honest sign of my growing ownership of the game, is the fact that I have to tell the next generation how it all came to this. We all come in and go out at some point in history and sometimes, especially when the immediate week to week is hard to bear, it’s nice to feel the slightly longer throw of that continuum, and even nicer to be the one who knows enough to fill in the gaps.

So, I am the pioneer. I have laid the slab for what could be a long lineage. At almost seven, the Cygnet is one generation ahead of where I started. He wants to run like Rohan and mark like Reid. Hannerbury may well be his Captain oh Captain, and Judd will be special comments.

in memorandum

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For those of you who joined the backpocket after 2009, you will not have had the joy of Lucie's extraordinary and all-too-brief column: 'What Dog is that Coach?' Throughout 2009 Lucinda provided our esteemed tipsters with some of the great footy moments, as she tirelessly sought and delivered canine doppelgangers for the AFL's head coaches.

Today, as we hear that Rocket will bark no more down at the kennel, I felt inclined to share some of Lucie's finest with you - a small ode to the departing coaches of 2011.





Just this year, Lucie confessed to me that she wasn't sure what possessed her that year, but that the canine coaches had fulfilled some kind of inner searching. Unfortunately (for us) she has re-directed said searching, but who knows? Perhaps the glut of incoming coaches in 2012 will spark a renaissance. All in favour, comment here.

BULLETIN > Round 21

photo: mark dadswell

Much has been made of the benefits of the bye. Clubs have welcomed them as an opportunity to freshen up sore players; players have welcomed them as a chance to switch off mentally. They have been lauded for increasing the tension around numbers of games played and ladder positions. Some clubs have even used them for overseas ‘holidays’. But perhaps not enough has been made of the importance of the bye to another vital stakeholder – the supporter.

The weekend before last, I was in bye bliss. I woke feeling optimistic and untroubled. Despite a weekend set aside for the emptying and sorting of the most despised ‘storage’ spaces in the house, I felt light and jovial. I sipped my coffee with abandon – none of those hard-to-define weekend morning jitters obstructing my digestion. No scarves to gather or baking to do. No thermos to fill or tickets to find. No submission to the powerlessness of television spectatorship (passionate allegiance and television are bad partners).

That weekend in the footy landscape felt like setting off on a trail, without any daunting climbs, leaving one simply free to enjoy the scenery.

As I pottered in boxes of sports equipment, endless plastic crates of children’s books and drawings, old clothes and shoes and beach towels and hardware and tax returns and Christmas decorations, I tuned in and out of the battle at Etihad between the Dogs and the Coast. And it was simple to watch. It faded obediently into the background and re-emerged again when required. It did not ask too much of me.

The Dogs kicked it coast to coast. Cox marked everything in sight. Reports came in of a slaughter down at Kardinia Park. The architect Murphy was back for the Dogs – lovely to watch – while Priddis’ curls bobbed up everywhere. The slaughter went on down the highway. There was talk of ramifications. Thank God it wasn’t my men. As the Dogs surged from 50 points down to take the lead, it wasn’t my four points on the line. And as the Eagles held on with the kind of Cox mark that could have cost us the 2005 Grand Final … well, it wasn’t my team’s come-back that was thwarted. It was just the love of the game I experienced. I didn’t get out of my pyjamas until almost quarter to five.

It struck me that night as I sat atop a pile of boxes filled with a good five years of my life with the Cob and the Cygnet, that for all the gifts it brings, let’s face it, genuine allegiance can be painful. The longer you do it, the longer the investment accumulates, and soon you run out of places to store it. And you can’t bear how full up everything feels. But you can’t throw anything out either, because you’re bound in a closeness which prevents objectivity or neglect. So you just keep packing it away week after week, shoving it on a shelf somewhere and hoping that one day you’ll have the clear mindedness and distance to sort through all the feelings.

Weekly allegiance to a footy team is no different. I am known as an emotional footy supporter. It’s not a casual fling between me and my team. It’s a commitment slated in Membership; I’ve got the ten year pin to prove it. And I wear the wins and losses on my sleeve. Sometimes a girl needs a bit of relief, to sit back, exhale and re-view the object of desire, as it is, unencumbered by the heady swirl of caring. Many a year such reckless caring has stood in the way of my tipping. And the evidence of the bye weekend only confirmed just how well I could do without the burden of allegiance: I tipped a perfect 7, with a margin of 0.

But like most breaks, it was too short.

On Saturday night, we got back on the Horse. Jostling for a good barrier position in the 8. Fresh as daisies. Everything to play for. I fronted up to the tele, with the Cob and the Cygnet, a half intact set of fingernails and a full glass of red.

The boys looked awake. The contest was good. The kids were all over it, Reid and Johnson, and the stallion Goodes was up from the start. The scoreboard was ticking nicely. But the Bombers pressed and levelled.

The Cygnet called for the bed rule, and I tucked him in to ‘Cheer cheer the red and the white …’ Fragile hope wavering on the notes. ‘ … while our loyal sons go marching onwards to …’ Don’t jinx it.

The second quarter see-sawed. The experts were calling it the game of the round. Time on in the second, Sammy Reid marked against the boundary and slotted a slim chance. And another within minutes. Kennelly (who we’ve been bagging for weeks) managed a good-old-days smother to save a certain goal. But the Dons snuck one in against the play, and the half time siren couldn’t come soon enough.

‘You don’t want this half to stop’ called Dwayne Russell. ‘The footy Gods have pulled this script off the top shelf.’ But was happy to feel the heat in some serious Pakistani take away instead.

The Bloods eschewed their routine third quarter slouch, matching the Bombers’ speed and intensity. I was proud of them. I could feel the love rising in the cheeks with the red. Hanners was doing ‘courage’; Benny was doing bananas; Goodes was doing everything. The commentators kept banging on about the superb spectacle. And it was true. The game was played with everything you love to watch – stunning, dramatic scenery, but this time I couldn’t enjoy it. Not with my men on the track. All I could think of was that submerged rock down the way that might trip them up.

With 5 minutes to go, the Swans had a two goal lead, but you knew from this game, that it was not enough. You knew this one was going down to the wire, or beyond. Word came through of a slaughter at AAMI stadium, a lead of a hundred and something, checked only by the rain. Wish it had been my men. And as the Goodes post-siren kick floated impossibly right of screen, I looked down at my raw fingertips and my empty glass, and couldn’t help wondering whether this particular relationship is good for me.

The Cob rang a Swan-loving mate in the first ad break. I could hear his shock down the line: ‘Fucking hell. I feel like I’ve been in a fucking fight.’ He reckons his nose bled from the stress.

The commentators hailed the pressure, the outstanding pressure. But what about the pressure on that other important stakeholder? I taped my fingertips, rolled into bed, buried my head in the pillow and imagined the kind of breeze you can’t get under the roof at Etihad, something, anything to have shifted that kick onto course.

*

This week, the players and coaches and club have assured me that Saturday night has been packed away. Dragged out, aired and sorted, yes. Learnt from, absolutely. But packed away. Because it’s a new week in football, a new challenge, a new commitment. It’s an eight point game, an August final.

I'm not sure if I've found a spot for it yet. So I’ll inhale again and front up to the tele on Sunday afternoon with the Cob and the Cygnet, the one point loss and a cup of tea. I might even bake. And I'll hang on as best I can, hoping that the scenery is vast and open, and that the track is sure underfoot. It’s not long til September after all … and summer.

TIGER DIARY > 15.7.11

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Attention everyone - this Your Tiger speaking.

We're off the slopes now, so when will this sickening sense of sliding out of control towards the bottom leave me?

The decision to go downhill skiing the same week our builder and architect and removalist and bank all lined up together has caused a powdery, atomised, invisible ink kind of diary these last couple of weeks.

It is the season that WAS already and it ain't even August yet.

Drafts anyone? Bring on the picking season.