Cheyenne Rd 6 Stk v Foots


It’s not good enough. I’m really disappointed in my behaviour. It’s totally unacceptable. I’ve let myself down, my family are under unfair pressure and we’re working our way through this difficult time. My crime was to enjoy a low scoring game of football.

No, dear reader, this is not Troy Buswell or any other politician or sports icon talking, but Cheyenne himself. I’ve embraced this new ability for wrongdoers to in fact separate themselves into two and have the ‘good’ half rip into the ‘bad’ half. “My behaviour is totally unacceptable.” You expect Tiger Woods to pull out Big Bertha (his driver) and start whacking himself around what’s left of his head with it.
You see, Cheyenne absolutely loved our win last Friday, but, according to the footy community, that puts him in a category worse than Carl Williams or asylum seekers. (Incidentally, the news that Roberta has given her permission for Carl’s brain to be studied should do wonders for criminology as a science. If they can get past the BigMac, trakky dack and pistol icons in his cerebellum, that is . . .) So, with Cheyenne now firmly in the underworld, he can’t wait to get his shovel and torch and go to the cemetery, dig hard, and remove the $40,000 worth of gold-plating from his coffin. Gotta get in before Gatto.
If our Sainters had given the Dogs an inch we’d have lost by ten goals. Everybody knows how quick and lethal they are by foot. Barry was belted by Sam Fisher, whose curling snap at the end was worth the admittance fee alone. Cheyenne is in awe of the Sainters’ steely resolve, and if we can stay in the top four till Nick returns, it’ll be ticketyboo.
Yesterday Cheyenne went on a scouting mission to the MCG and saw 40 goals kicked in an ‘entertaining home and away game’. As we all know, finals aren’t played like that – never have been (except the 1972 GF aberration) and never will be. Football is a lot like the rock music industry. You do your apprenticeship, learn all the tricks and frills, but when the actual battle (gig) begins, it’s rarely what you expect it to be. You go in hard, claw your way through the variables, stick to your plan, then if at some stage you get the chance to display a trick or a frill (e.g. Sam’s late goal or Milney’s grubber) you do it. It’s why there were hardly any decent bands in the 80s and 90s – machines took over and young musos forgoed practice and preparation for the pushing of buttons, and what happened when they were confronted with real audiences and dodgy equipment? They died – just like the Dogs on Friday.

Cheyenne Autumn

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