The Dartslow

It was a gala night. Or maybe just a night for galahs. The big shots were out in force. They arrived early, nervous and expectant, groomed for the occasion, and ready to perform. Though mostly they just slouched over the front bar. The red carpet was swapped for red wine, and a few pots of Draught and Fat Yak were consumed as the considerable preparations were made for this night of nights…………….the dart board had to be hung.

 

I refer, of course, to the second annual Footy Almanac darts night, held in the heart of Melbourne (we had to fill the footy void with something!). An event that is growing in prestige and prominence each year. They came from as far away as Glen Iris to compete.

 

Last year’s winner arrived early. I’ve never seen an athlete looking so primed. Asked whether or not he felt ready to defend his title, old mate Mick simply stated,

 

“I’m going in a bit underdone…………….”

 

The crack field included, amongst others, Carlos the Killer (a steely eyed competitor who performs best on a full stomach), PJ, The Hankey, Flynn (who came dressed by St Laurent – The Brotherhood of St Laurent), JT, The Choker, Harms (whose previous performance in this event promised as much as the Colt from Kooyong, and delivered the same), Ned The Fluff Wilson (have I got that right Ned?), and Mick The Reigning champion, Howard (a man of profound calm under excruciating pressure).

 

The preliminary rounds sorted out the chaff, myself included. It’s the second year in a row that I’ve comfortably lead my elimination contest only to watch the lead dwindle and die. Though I should say in my defence that I had 3 opponents in the one game, as old mate Rowdy “retired hurt” after his darts didn’t make the distance, and his replacement took a well-timed toilet break as the game reached its crescendo. I went down fighting, requiring a 3 then a double 3 to secure victory. I was hitting numbers all around it.

 

The tension in the lead up to the final was intense, apparently. I say apparently because after my shock defeat I turned away  and watched N. Fyfe, 3 votes, cruise to victory in the chase for Charlie. The darts mayhem carried on without me. Good on Fyfe. Imagine how good he could be with two good legs. Meanwhile behind me I could hear all sorts of anguished cries as the vanquished took up seats near me and the victors continued their fight for darting immortality. In the end it came down to Howard V Wilson – the champion V the fluff.

 

I’ve got no idea what happened because I was watching the telly. It seems that M. Howard was just too gritty in the contest and achieved something that has never been achieved before in the two years that this competition has been running: back to back Almanac Darting Championships!! Well done Mick! His crap about “doing a Hawthorn” and going for the three-peat next year was met with a chorus of,

 

“Turn it up old mate!”

 

It was a superb night of glitter and glamour, outfits and fit-ups, guts and glory, banter and bulldust, and parmas and risottos (because no one can stuff up a risotto). The tram ride home was as boring as a Ross Lyon comedy routine.

 

Congratulations Mick. I’m already in training for next year.