Round 10 – Gold Coast v Hawthorn: They spoilt me.

 

 

Gold Coast Hawthorn spoilt me.

 

   I’d done my back in the bush, fell sideways over a log while carrying a 7ft tree fern out, about my own weight. It landed on my neck with the back over the log. So it goes, par for course, really.

I bluffed my way through training, as you do, and took off, parking on the ridge somewhere, going home. Sat in the ute, back pressed on a full bag of ice, watching the footy on the laptop to drown my sorrows. Why not? The odd dairy truck might rumble by, but there’d be no other cars until dawn.

 

   This was no ordinary game. Suddenly, the beautiful dark of cold ranges nights I adore fell away. The filthy ute cabin fell away. My computer screen was a portal to another, glossy world, Darwin by the look of it. Hundreds of happy Indigenous supporters in the crowd. It made me miss my time living and working in the tropics. I wanted to be at the game, in the crowd so bad.

 

   On the oval, everybody was doing their thing. Rowell was a beast, a bull, barging through the ball like Ricciuto before him. King was leading and leaping hard and high. The grumpy blond down back for the Suns executing magnificent rebound. The rucks looked stupid performing a two man play about Moore and Dempsey, standing side-by-side, negating each other, looking more like angry sex than football, diminishing all options or roving angles.

 

   The Hawks had the Wizard proving; cocky, arrogant, lairish – the hype is founded, that he’s some player. Ginni did his bit – to kick goals, to be a character, the sort haters hate, but love hating, that the game needs desperately. They all did their bit. Jai is just a monster.

 

   But that was all secondary to two things. The first being speed.

 

   Neither team hesitated. Neither waited. They ran at insane speeds and winged the rest. It was exciting beyond words, just electric – because they weren’t machines. Each team had breathtaking skills with their passing, around their ankles, tricks like knock-ons and over the head handballs, insane marking. They made the attacking Geelong dynasty of ’07, ’09, ’11 look ridged – slow and pudgy.

 

   It had almost zero to do with the stuff I play in the bush on Saturdays. This was grunt and Hollywood. For every soldier, every bit of gristle, every Wopel or Holman, there were two out-and-out bolters!

 

   It. Was. Electric!

 

   The future, personified by my new favourite player, Josh Weddle. One day they’ll write poetry about his long, thoroughbred stride. Ed Langdon, but taller. McCloud, Rainse before him, and Bourke before him. Just magic. Gliding, full steam, cutting down the middle of the oval. Gout-Gout with a mullet; hair shaped like a stupid marsupial humping the back of his skull, just to remind us he’s still human.

 

   The Hawks have two or three tip-top-shelf defensive defenders, Sicily and Barrass, taller keys like who do things like have hangers taken over them, and otherwise tie down King and absolutely humiliate Jed Walters, freeing up Weddle to run, taking us with him.

 

   I watched closely, as he landed from pack contests running. Bang, long strides, zoip, instant top speed! Okay, now where’s the ball? It’s the same when he gets it. “Shit, I’m running so fast, now what do I do with it!?”

 

   He just carves through lines, knife through butter. Give it a few years he’ll be the highest scoring back flank in history, dragging the way the game is played with him.

 

   Yet he still looks all likeable and dopey. With and effortless running style that can’t be imitated.

 

   Even if, on the night, his running wasn’t enough. The game was a shootout. Go, go, go. I could just picture both coaches standing at the same time, screaming into their phones, veins popping; “ATTACK, YOU BASTARDS!”

 

   And, in a shootout, with cracking mids on both teams, goal after goal, speckies galore, in a game that came down to the bounce of the ball and sliding door moments, I couldn’t help but feel the difference were the half back flankers. With very few ball-ups, due mostly to this year’s innovation; standing in tackles, getting off arms-pinned, body-heaved little handballs, as high as the scores were, the Sun’s small defenders ran the ball out that bit better.

 

   A team within a team, led by Danial Rioli. Yeah, he’s loose, but the way he runs, and slithers, and slips and breaks lines, and uses his voice to set up play after play, is, frankly, 3x premiership material. Money very well spent. Leadership and ability. He’s always had that second more time in speed and chaos than others, but once more, as Richmond fades, solid structures around him.

 

   I was a pig in shit watching all this lightening! But lightening is nothing without context. Just flash and shallow. Fortunately, once or twice the ball bounced around big donk ruckman, Jarrod Witt’s ankles. In the team for his height and the way he can lift heavy boxes, he looked like me out there – slow and awkward – as the other players hammered him and his slow turning brain each time he rose holding the ball. Zip, he was Glad-wrapped before he’d straightened!

 

   And still players bent and twisted and got creative with hand and foot at absurd angles while running at breakneck speeds, and tall keys like Chol scooped ground balls on the run, dodging opponents and slotting majors. It still came in long and high for forwards to still go the pack mark and speckie, but landed in a washing machine of pinballs. Hawthorn, so young, playing like it, three goals behind, yet setting the game’s tone, taking it on as if 3 points up, daring the Suns to catch them!

 

   A stupid free provided the sliding door moment. Ben Long, with that trenches face on a slick, system-produced body, the smart footballer, yanked his opponent’s jumper in a one-on-one marking contest, yet, through force of will more than anything, somehow got the free and goal for doing so. It killed Hawthorn’s momentum.

 

   But that’s small potatoes.

 

   The game had me spellbound. Weddle, even when sideways chipping, those dead, 20 metre, zero steps pokes, delivered, then just took off, three hard long strides. Every time. “Okay, I don’t have the ball now. Hm. Let’s see. Where I can RUN to?”

 

   The full two hours was electric. All other games this weekend paled in comparison.

 

   Can such speed and creativity be broken apart? Absolutely. Can either of them be beaten by others? Yes.

 

   I don’t care. I’ve seen the future. (And it still has hangers!)

 

   All that was left was to take my now soaked back home, and find a way into the cabin without setting off the dog and waking the family.

 

   And stretch up for my version of the game on Saturday.

 

GOLD COAST             5.2       9.4       11.6     16.8 (104)
HAWTHORN             2.0       7.2       12.3     15.6 (96)

 

GOALS
Gold Coast: Long 4, King 2, Ainsworth 2, Miller 2, Swallow, Rosas jnr, Humphrey, Flanders, Clohesy, Anderson
Hawthorn: Watson 3, Hardwick 3, Chol 3, Ginnivan 2, Newcombe, Morrison, Moore, Amon

 

BEST
Gold Coast: Anderson, Noble, Collins, Miller, Rowell, Long, Powell
Hawthorn: Newcombe, Watson, Weddle, Hardwick, Barrass, Amon

 

INJURIES
Gold Coast: Nil
Hawthorn: Nil

 

SUBSTITUTES
Gold Coast: David Swallow (replaced Ned Moyle during the third quarter)
Hawthorn: Bailey Macdonald (replaced Calsher Dear during the third quarter)

 

Crowd: 12,314 at TIO Stadium

 

More from Matt Zurbo HERE.

 

To return to the www.footyalmanac.com.au  home page click HERE

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE