There’s too much footy on TV. But when you’re tired and sore it’s easy to watch.
Thursday night I trained with dodgy ribs, but decided to play. Numbers were low in the McGoos. I told myself I could drop out if they hurt too much, but knew that was bullshit. I’d get through regardless.
Port were playing on the telly. One of those teams who are a bit undecided about how good or bad they are. Butters is the guts; stupid fast, smart, mouthy. I love the way he’s so mouthy! He gives lip to everybody, big or small, elite or hack, whatever, here’s an earful! A true Port player. Beyond that, god, both teams were fighting for dreams, sacrificing their all for Premiership glory. It took me five minutes to even remember who they were playing against, much less Butters’ opponent.
Adelaide are coming good. Nothing flash, just great at running. I still feel Tex is the key. He doesn’t have to get into the best, or kick bags. He just understands timing. Key moments. He knows when to roam down the ground to clunk one on the wing, when to stay deep. How to affect a game. How to search for it when it’s slipping away. Reel it back in a little. Which he does, regularly.
*****
Who played Friday? I dunno. It’s Monday now. Okay, I cheated and went to the phone. Pies Blues was a corker. A bit fumbly, but close. Electrically so. Not the best game, but hard and down to the wire. If you barracked for either of them, it would have felt epic!
Carlton’s ruckman looked like he was tough at the ball, but hopeless overhead. A few clunks from him, his team might have held on. The Blues were fierce at the man, tackle after tackle after tackle. The Pies, as always, killed it on the rebound, running through the middle.
Moore, credit to him, played a blinder. Maynard, the wanker, walks the walk. Tough, quick thinking, attacking. DeGoey was missed. Mihocek seems to be playing past his best. Daicos won it. Everyone not a Pie, once again got sick to death of them putting the cameras on Peter celebrating.
The game reeked of 5th vs 6th, but momentum is a beautiful thing, and the Pies did what the Pies do best; won a close one. Anyone else playing them has surely, by now, got the message; kill the beast early.
*****
Saturday we played Simpson and Simpson. A ripper country club. They have a small playground for the kids, and even a treehouse. My girl had a ball with our kids, then theirs. That’s what you want, as a dad, from football.
I managed to take my mind off the ribs by rolling my ankle. Nice one! Second quarter. Played it out, as you do, then, icepack down sock, drove to Apollo Bay for a great, great mate’s 50th. Mark Shortis, just the most dead-set corker bloke ever! You know how it is sometimes. You’re new to a club, spot a fella, and think, yeah, we’re gunna be mates! That’s how it was for me meeting Berry, 30 years ago.
Old Dog’s crook ankle
The pub was a bit of a bloke’s world, but that’s fine, the company was heaven. About seven of us. Ironically, they all retired ten years ago, but I’m the only one of them who never won a premiership. Not there, anyways. And the only one still playing.
Strawb’s mates, humble, down to earth, rippers. We talked about anything and everything except our glory years. Not once, the whole night long. Just music and family, work and footy in general. Yet, as Melb vs Gee picked up, we found ourselves all facing the big flat screen on the pub’s far wall.
In the end we conceded we were simply watching the footy, and took it to the barrel under the screen, where all us tough bastards without our glasses could watch without being a table full of squinters!
Petracca is generational. A freak, week in, week out. Somebody find a way to bottle that hardness, awareness, decision-making, delivery. Whereas Oliver is the league’s ultimate slapper of the ball, Petraccia is all lasers.
Stephen May is a jet! One for the ages, too. Built like a freight train, yet the only big back who really clunks them! And kicks like a dream! Long bombs to wingers running away from him, or low bullets to 30. Hawkins was pantsed! I think, maybe, I briefly saw Rohan out there, but I may be mistaken.
When it got close, Gawn did what he does, what no other ruckman in the AFL can do half as good. Took great pack marks with soft, sticky fingers. Made them look crisp, effortless.
He’s not as physically strong as many, has shown this year, around the contests, he can be bullied. The same in marking. But give him a run at it, taps or marks, he’s the best in the business. Geelong gave him a run at it.
Ed was great on a wing, everywhere. Jack and Oliver Henry are the next Cat generation. I like both their games. Oliver, I suspect, will be something. But the Dees were harder, ran better. And, for once, rarely, scored better. I feel for big Benny Brown. So much personality, you want to barrack for him. But the Dutchman is coming along. I see little room for him.
I’d like for the Dees to win in September, but there are so many pendulum swings to go before anyone but idiots would predict anything. Their bottom six, the next gen, are still very much unproven.
We all had a good laugh at how annoying Jake Lever’s mo is. I was the only one old enough to remember Emmett Dunn, so I looked up what a cop’s mo looks like. Someone a generation younger said it looks like Ned Flanders can play defence. Which he can, beautifully. A bloody good player, damn it. That mo really bothers me!
Fritsch’s goal was pure freak. A lot don’t like him, that boy band look, they say he’s soft. All I ever see is a matchwinner. Game in the balance, no time left, two hot on his heels, the ball barely touched his fingers before it was dropping onto his boot at the perfect angle. Dribbling through at zero daylight. Perfect.
Perfect.
The game was over.
Then we drank and talked more about families and music.
*****
Sunday, I hit the ocean for recovery, under a brilliant, grey, rain-patched sky, and misty coastal rises, before driving back over the ranges, and down to the remote coast and my family. When I played with the kid, Freo Tigers in the background. The Tiges seem cooked. The next gen don’t have it. The current on-ball line up doesn’t have to toughness of yore. Edwards and Lambert weren’t the superstars, but were the Burns and Scotland to the others’ Buckley. The flashy ones are nowhere near as much without them.
Stroppy Jack’s retirement is a massive void to fill, too. Like Tex, it was not so much his tallies, as his timing. His talk, his presence. Without him and Lynch, they have so little. Second string players like Baker are asked to step up and be a bit more than they are able.
Though, I think the rot started with the retirement of Bashar. His run was just electric. Deep down in defence? No worries. Time to attack!
Rioli does it. Rioli is brilliant, a warrior. Nick V, a real warrior. Broad a trouper. The class of a 3 x Premiership backman, even if his kicking is doubtful. But it takes a team, and is being bombed down to them way too often.
Big Nank has taken to leadership, I believe. Ruckmen, on the whole, don’t peek until 27-30. It has seemed to me he’s defying tides, having his best year ever. He bullied Gawn, as mentioned, and Grundy. Is bullocking packs, marking in defence, and does what everyone who is not a ruckman doesn’t realise. Hits it from the ruck, on invisible strings, to his players. But this week came up against the one ruckman who always does very well against him. Darcy is just as strong. Wrestles in the ruck like a brute! Neutral ball, neutral ball. The Tiger on-ballers were rarely getting it hit to them.
The personal influence is glaring. I know big Nank, so I know his team. It feels like I’m barracking for Richmond.
The Purples do a great, even job, spreading, running. Nothing’s brilliant, everything is sweetly balanced. Good luck to them!
*****
Later that night, icing the ankle in bed, I watch a little bit of Bris and Goldy. Zorko is a competitive beast! Harris is close to the best defender in the comp. Joe is all personality. I adore him! Charlie is having a quiet one. But the real story seems to be the Suns. They put themselves in the right spots and butcher everything! Drop marks, miss targets. They stand in the right spots, run to them, as if working to blueprints… wonderful. Then stuff up like bush footballers.
I suppose it’s good to see a bit of me and my mates out there, but Hardwick must have stomach ulcers.
*****
I’ve got to watch less footy next week, or I’ll lose my passion for it. Just become numb, a drone watcher. Which might be what they want, but life is for the living.
*****
Last week’s footy actually started with my 6-year-old daughter’s first Auskick session. She was so mind-numbingly excited. It’s an hour’s drive away, in Colac. Her whole school, up on the ridge, has only 44 students. Yet her two best friends were there with her! Three girls, a team within a team, laughing, cackling! The instructors gave them games to play. I wondered if they start the boys that way? I get it, totally, easing them in, first let them have fun, but I can’t wait for our girl to be kicking and handballing!
Then, I’ll really be watching footy!!
*****
Actually, it started the weekend before, when we had the bye, and I took my family to see a mate and his family in Sydney. We saw the Swans team in the airport, just being themselves, no media, walking, shopping. My fucking god, they all looked so young! Well, McCartin looked rugged, Heeny mature, but most of them? Kids! Kids, wide-eyed, excited by it all. Kids with the reflexes of gods, and the power of the sun! Mythology at play in a carboard world, made just for them.
Mark ‘Berry’ Short bumps into Cielo at swimming lessons.
Photos courtesy of Matt Zurbo.
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Great insights from an experienced eye, Matt.
I wonder what your formula is that allows a few blokes to have a few beers over an extended period without referring back to ‘the glory days’ – quite a feat!
The ankle looks like you made a good job of it while you were at it.
Cheers Ian.
It helps that well all have lives outside footy!
Well played Old dog admit I rated the pies v blues game higher agree re frustration of ruckman unable to mark overhead – Riley O Brien takes one as often as win x lotto