'Twas the Night Before the Granny ...

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I just watched the Rioli v Jetta video that’s up on AFL.com, and nerves finally gave way to excitement. So on Grand Final eve, I’m breaking my silence. Somehow I thought an uncharacteristic reserve would keep all things at bay, the expectation and the doubt in equal measure. But watching those two – Rioli and Jetta – at work, I suspect that this one last sleep might be easier to bear if some burst of steam is let off. 

I got a text from fellow Blood James this morning: ‘Has this week been the longest in living memory?’ Pathologically equanimous, he was the least likely candidate among us for such sentiment. But it’s how we’ve all been feeling. 2005, we were innocent. 2006, we were lulled into thinking that Grand Finals come around every year – no big deal. But 2012? This week has been interminable and unbearable. No matter what I have tried this week to combat the nerves, I haven’t found the right state to rest in. Confidence feels presumptuous but underdog’s not right. Media doesn’t assuage but silence doesn’t sate.

It’s a kind of madness when your team’s in the Grand Final. A week of internal distractions and surreptitious footy shamanism. Was it just a messy change room that had Goodesy wearing the # 13 at training on Tuesday? Since last Friday night, I’ve been quietly wearing my Swans earrings, pegging out the washing in rigorous red and white, curating meals in the same hues. The menu for the GF breakfast so far: sausages with tomato sauce on white rolls; bocconcini and tomato; strawberries and cream; croissants with ricotta and raspberry jam. I go to bed thinking of Kennedy. Has he got two more hours of battering ram in him? I dream at night of an empty forward 50 and Jetta running into it. I wake up thinking of Burgoyne.

 

 

The O’Reilly boys are experiencing similar difficulties. Max has the misfortune (or fortune) of being tied into a Saturday afternoon birthday party for his daughter, a screening of Madagascar 3 with a posse of 9 year old girls! He’s imposed a full media embargo until after dark. James is in far northern NSW, sweating about the Swans getting too much press, trying to decide whether Morton or Parker should be the sub, imagining worst case scenarios – a goalless first term, a first clearance concussion to Kennedy – relying on the fact that because life is invariably unpredictable, these things are unlikely to happen. Under the same rule, he refuses to conjure the great. Toby is glad that his line of work means he has a 46 inch screen to watch it on. The Cygnet’s choosing red and white roses for his mum and red and white straws for his smoothies. Even Lyndon, the one-eyed Cats supporter, sent word this morning: ‘I feel more tense that I did last year – I’m on the band wagon!’

 

I’d love to embody the philosophical position that as long as it’s a good game, footy will be the winner on the day, no matter which shoulders are wearing the medals. I’d love to live with the spirit that as long as the boys do the jumper proud, we’ll all have no regrets. I don’t want to believe in the sports science talk that we can only control the things we can control. Profound partiality means that I hope like hell we win.

The altar of Swans is assembled. For Burgoyne I prescribe Bird. For Kennedy’s concussion I advise the Kirk/Bolton helmet and a strong mint. I’ve asked the Cygnet and Dad to vote Jetta on facebook. The Moët is in the fridge.

GF Preview

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Now here's a lovely assessment of the match ahead of us. Robert Murphy, the Backpocket salutes you.

Grand Final Build Up

Down at the Swans Open Training session this afternoon, and I have to say, preparations look really good for the big day on Saturday.

 

It took spectators a while to adjust to the new look team which took to the park. Sydneysiders aren't necessary familiar with the pointy end of the season and the lengths grand final contenders must go to in order to throw open the gates but still train effectively 'unwatched'. The duplication of Jude Bolton was a display of the deftest anti spy manoeuvring.

And Goodes' disguise - look at Johnny Longmire; even he was trying to work out why Andrejs Everitt was with the main group ... and why he was dangling a miniature Craig Bird from his fingertips.

However, once he'd taken control of the session, it was particularly reassuring for fans to see that Horse has the complete trust, confidence and command of his players.

 

And as for the avalanche of concern for our All Australian defender - completely misplaced. Teddy is so confident in his ankle, his place in the team and any role he may be given on Saturday that his only preoccupation was standing aside in space and kicking the ball to our other All Australian Josh Kennedy. They seemed happy to take themselves aside for a game of elite kick to kick. Don't tell me this game has to be all about 'team'.

Coaches then decided that the genetically Hawthorn Kennedy would be best confined to publicity in an effort to keep him away from any group secrets ...

Back at South Street, the anticipation is building. The altar is in place, the poppies are blooming red in the garden, the song is being repeatedly hummed around the house.

The Backpocket Champion's Honour Roll

Our 2012 Champion Peter has requested that we revisit the past Champions who have found themselves on top in the Backpocket at season's end. The Mistress has therefore put together a list of all past winners and runners up, from the competition's inaugural year in 2006 to the present season.

From 2006 to 2009, we explored various forms of tipping and winning, usually incorporating the four weeks of finals. Tipping was entered and calculated within the extraordinary Excel spreadsheets of Tony from J@TS, known back then as the Statswally. Some years we had Minor Premier, Runner Up and a Finals Prize; some years we crowned the winner at the end of the finals with a small token for the Minor Premiers.

2006
WINNER Mark Swivel
RUNNERS UP Miro and Anna (Mum was in the team back then) tied with Gai and David

2007
WINNER Miro and Anna
RUNNER UP Gai and David

2008
WINNER Peter
RUNNER UP Miro and Anna
MINOR PREMIERS Gai and David

2009
WINNER Sharolyn (on percentage only!)
RUNNER UP Catherine Taylor (not a footy fan, never before a tipster and very much a one year wonder)

From 2010, we moved to the AFL.com site, crowning only Minor Premiers and Runners Up.

2010
WINNERS Mark Swivel and Paul Lum (tied on points and margin!!)
RUNNER UP Omar (by 1 point, he'd like it to be known)

2011
WINNER Lyndon
RUNNER UP Tony and Joseph J@TS

2012
WINNER Peter
RUNNER UP Shaar

ROUND 22 - Boiling Point

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In recent weeks I’ve become shyly aware that I’ve taken my eye off the footy. Haven’t talked about it much; haven’t reflected on it publicly; haven’t offered any excuses. Just slunk off into the shade really. But internally, I’ve been musing, struggling with the idea of how to whip myself up into some kind of return form.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, en route to a morning train, it finally occurred to me why I may have been  staying away. You know the old saying about the watched pot never boiling? Well I suspect my averted footy gaze has been a similar case of subconscious protective ignoring; pay scant attention to the Swannies’ weekly wins and they should continue to simmer up to a full boil. Funny how the footy lover imagines herself to be so pivotal.

Armed with my new self knowledge, I couldn’t think of a better incentive to return than the chance to witness the end of the Pie hoodoo, my Swans versus Swanless Pies, a night out at the concrete bowl with hopeful men and a fighting chance. But my subconscious protective instinct must be strong; I was floored by illness on the eve of the game. Instead of making the trek, I lay on the couch mildly febrile, dosing on hot toddies, hoping those last four black and white goals were tired hallucinations. One of the O’Reilly boys sent me a message early the following week: ‘Hope you are recovering. We obviously need you fully fit – do you imagine you might have been the difference?’

Last Sunday afternoon, still coughing but right to play, I decided it was time to stare the pot down, time to put my head back over the ball. The 3.15 start warranted an orange afternoon tea cake, iced with plenty of powdered sugar and a French tablespoon of Grand Marnier. I vacuumed the living room floor and filled the kettle. (We’ve inherited a flat screen TV which makes me feel the players might step out onto the rug at any moment, and I’d want to have it nice for them.) The three of us gathered from all corners of the house and circled kick off with various necessary and unnecessary tasks.

During that first quarter, we were stroppy and inclement, yelling at the flat new box, the Cygnet disappearing in disgust at his team … or his parents. Intensity was down, the infallible back line looked human, the absence of Bolton was gaping. Only the Canadian looked right! The ball ping ponged into the Doggies’ half, time and time and time again. The temptation to turn away was too great: the rest of the shopping needed putting away; the compost needed churning; the Tupperware cupboard may have needed sorting. Only the kettle was boiling.

But the season, the finals – they can’t go on like this! Ten or so minutes into the second half, with tea and cake in hand, I forced myself onto the couch and as the ball spilled to ground metres from another Doggies goal, I gently coaxed the defence to pick it up, switch it out to the wing and get the turnover moving. And they did. They took it coast to coast and we goaled. I turned to the other half who was still grumbling: ‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Only encouragement from now on.’ And so we sat, Ma and Pa, on the couch with tea, stroking the boys from afar, willing the work, nudging them into their second efforts, navigating a course for the forward movement, holding the press in close inside 50. And it worked. The highest score in five seasons. Delightful that two lovers of the game believe in the singular power of their soulful barracking.

This week’s challenge is great. But Sydney’s hit a warm patch and I can smell finals on the breeze with the blossom. Which only adds to the temptation to turn away and wake up to the good news a month or so down the track. It comes with the territory of knowing just how good it gets, and just what a journey it is to get there. During a small meditative stopover at a pond in Sydney’s Centennial Park on Tuesday, I entertained the idea of flogging our members’ passes for this sold out Saturday, taking our small fortune and checking in some time on Sunday. And just as the thought finished, something emerged from underneath the jetty on which I was sitting; a sleek and certain reminder, a lone black Swan. Reassuring how one greedy beast has the power to keep conviction on track.

 

RESULTS

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Again, the lead it changes! Bravo to Shaar who top scored last week to reclaim the lead at the top of the Backpocket. This must be as close as it's even been! And at the other end, bravo to Sally who has finally achieved her goal of getting to the wooden spoon position. She just has to hang on for 3 more rounds!!

RESULTS - Round 18

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High scoring for most, Round 18 brought the Backpocket yet another new leader. Bravo to J@TS who find themselves momentarily in the gold medal position. Even the Roumanian judge agreed on their perfect 9.

The 9 club was large this week with Sharolyn, Gai & David, James, Omar, Melissa and George all chiming in. And then, of course, there was Clicky Justine, who top scored for the round with one of those 9s and a margin of 64! So she gets a gold in the individual event, followed by Sharolyn and Melissa in the silver and bronze positions respectively. The mistress salutes you all.

Omar 'the missile' Cygnet gained a whopping three positions to climb into the Top 10, clearly a fast finisher. Sally on the other hand is performing much like Niger's Hamadou Djibo Issaka who finished one minute and forty seconds behind all other competitors in his Olympic single sculls repechage. Sally achieved the ultimate success with what she claims to be her new 'anti-tipping program', tipping a perfect 0 this week. The mistress wonders whether it's stubbornness or originality that means she doesn't simply turn her tips around ...

As we head into the back end of the season, with only five home and away rounds to go, the Mistress de Mission wishes you all the best. In the spirit of Michael Leunig, I encourage you to forego 'Faster, Higher, Stronger' and tip 'Slower, Deeper, Wiser'.

TIGER DIARY - 28 July 2012

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Christ is rumoured to be coming back next season, for Richmond.
The Nazareth Icons have been camel trading back and forth with The Tigers for the transfer involving Gold, Frankincense and Myrhh, none of whom have proved their worth over the last couple of seasons.
Jake King is said to be totally sick of waiting for the other 2 Kings from Orient and is so ready for a Saviour.
Mary Magdalene is sure to be a big hit on the red carpet come Brownlow night. Bad news for the caterers though if JC pulls that bloody trick with the loaves and fishes again.

RESULTS - Round 17

Round 17 and the results are refreshing.

Defending champion, Lyndon appears to be peaking at the wrong end of the season, much like his beloved Cats. Certainly Lyndon has left it too late. But as for his hooped friends ... Lyndon topped the round this week with a score of 8 and margin of 53. A win's a win.

A single point off the pace and second for the round, was the Cygnet, Omar, with 8 and a margin of 54. But the thing that matters most about his new ladder position is the fact that he's now in front of Mum.

And third for the round ... our new overall leader Shaar who scored 8 with a margin of 57. Well done Shaar. Can she hold her nerve with only six rounds to go? Is she peaking at the perfect moment?

The J@TS team jumped into second place, pushing the Three Amigos - Patrick, Peter and Mark - down the ladder into the remaining top 5 spots. But with only a couple of points the difference, it's still a top 8 game. 

As for the Mistress ... I just stopped behaving. I had been disciplined all year, played the percentages rather than the passions. But I couldn't hold my nerve, couldn't stick to the team game. I can say now, that I have well and truly fallen off the wagon. Was almost tempted to tip against the Pies this week! I'll be tweeting and speeding and abusing the junior footballers before you know it.

While Peter tipped from Bali, the best international tip must, this week, go to James, who tipped from Bhutan where he is on an extraordinary landscaping assignment.

And lastly, we have the season's first bonafide tanking admission. Sally has packaged her score of 1, margin 84 as intentional.

BULLETIN - Women's Round

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Recently, I have been both Mum and Dad.

Dad was off creating a show to launch the London 2012 Festival, the centrepiece of the Cultural Olympiad associated with the imminent Games. Which meant, that the Cygnet and I passed 8 varied weeks in each other’s company.

We are a fairly reconstructed home. The division of labour is not always drawn down gender lines. But there are tasks that Dad has naturally been persuaded to look after. Like breakfast; I have a genetic predisposition to a continental coffee and toast, nothing more. So Dad’s in charge of cereal, smoothies, porridge or eggs. Dad does the bins, the outside ones at least. Dad does backyard footy, especially the gracious retrieval of errant footballs from the neighbours’ yards. Dad cleans the goldfish tank, squeezes the muck from the filter sponge and realigns the log bridge. Dad clips the lawn edges. By hand. And then he mows. And Dad turns the compost.

None of these things phased me. We are a reconstructed home. And, in fact, I took small pleasure from smoothies that were given the double thumbs up. Small satisfaction from soft yolks on fried eggs, a gleaming tank, an illicit trip over the neighbour’s side fence, a bin full of clippings or the whiff of freshly turned scraps.

But there was one thing that was on my mind from the day Dad hit the tarmac.

Late one Friday night, I checked the parent roster for the Auskick Under 8s canteen, BBQ and timekeeping duties. I’ve done canteen. Piece of cake. I’ve done timekeeping. I was good with the siren. I scanned the spreadsheet, found the row for the Under 8s and there in black and white was Dad’s surname. BBQ. I prayed for July. The top of the column read 23rd June.

Our local footy club is a reconstructed type of place. I help with training on a Wednesday night. I wash the jerseys when it’s my turn. I can stand along the boundary line of any suburban ground and hold up my end of the footy banter. But there is one thing I have never dared partake in.

The BBQ at our club occupies a concrete verandah at the clubhouse. Think of it like a stage. Terraced wooden steps join a grassed hill down to the field. When the siren sounds on the Under 5s, 6s and 7s, a hungry audience queues and demands. They will unfold onto that hill in a cascade of grubby knuckles and grass stained knees, their parents propped on their desire to return to bed, the now high sun condemning them to their day.

The BBQ at our club has its legends, pioneered by a man known only as BBQ Bob. I’m not sure exactly how many years he commanded the hotplate, but they were many. Last year, his retirement imminent, an apprentice, J, was spotted at his side. J had rugged good looks and an apron that matched his flannie.

Dad did time with the pair of them. Dad witnessed J making the hallowed omelette of the Club President. Dad served a sausage to Johnny Longmire the day we played the Pies at Homebush. And one particular Saturday was completely blurred by one of Bob’s ‘special’ morning coffees; Dad didn’t see straight til late on Sunday evening. Dad told tales of territory, of the unique camaraderie that grew between men who knew how to wait for the right time to flip meat. All I’d heard of J was his advice to a kid as tall as my thigh reduced to tears by the presence of unwelcome onion on his sausage: Man up, you little snot.

I approached the platform with false courage. I’ve never worked any BBQ in my life.
‘Morning. I’m here to take over,’ I announced. J raised one eyebrow. ‘The shift,’ I added.
A relieved looking Mum handed me an apron and tongs and disappeared. There were no instructions.

In an effort to give status before it could be commanded, I kitted up and headed straight for J, offering my uncommon name which starts every new encounter with a stumble. ‘The French version of Matilda’, I assuaged. J raised the other eyebrow. A Dad joined us, and J moved slightly sideways, beckoning him without words to the grill.

J keeps an impeccable slab. Mushrooms, onion and diced capsicum down the side, egg rings next, sausages at the back, bacon at the front. And on the Saturday morning I was there, experimentation was afoot, with a vegetarian roll offered for the first time: haloumi and grilled tomato.

The first customers descended and I worked two trays and their lids, a pair of tongs and three different sauces. With a single utensil, I cut eggs into long rolls, sausages into round rolls and piled up ‘the lot’ until small fingers could barely hold it. I worked without stopping, offering complimentary onion, selling the new vegetarian option, returning tickets to the canteen, filling sauce bottles, cutting more tomatoes, dishing out more bacon. And as the stocks were replenished, or the queue waned a moment, J and I began to chat. About the Swans. I’m not interested in football. About sport. Only motorcross. About kids. Got three of them. About junior footy. You won’t catch me out there, setting up the fields, coaching, helping at training. You won’t catch me doing all that. But with three of them playing now, I thought I’d better do something. And they tell me I can cook.

As I watched J at work, it became clear that his 8 hour Saturdays depended on him oscillating between hands-on master and stand-off mentor. And that really he was as soft as his best yolks. An hour down, we’d gotten to know each other. It seemed intentional when he took a step back just as the egg rings were empty. I reached for the carton behind us, and filled a dozen without spillage. When the next Mum came for my apron and tongs, J passed casually in front of the grill. Nice work on the eggs. We shook hands. Look forward to working with you again.

I may have skipped back to the sideline, coated in and smelling like bacon fat. The team was up. The Cygnet made a great second effort in the forward line and finished it with a goal. He won the cards that morning for most improved. I asked him if I might have just one. The giants number 2, Curtly (Curly) Hampton sits on my desk and reminds me of the ways footy improves even a mum’s sense of where her limits lie.