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AFL Almanac round 15St Kilda v Adelaide 7.40pm, Friday, July 13, The Dome John Harms In the south we are in the middle of an old-fashioned winter. Puddles and steam-breath and heavy coats and hunched shoulders to make your scarf more effective. The sort of winter that would take Frank McCourt back to his childhood. Friday night and again it's freezing outside. Damp, about to rain. Fortunately I'm inside, standing so close to the fire in the North Fitzroy Arms that my calf muscles are in grave danger of being burnt by my own jeans. Beers are going down beautifully and I start to wonder why I'm even thinking about getting the 96 to the Dome to stand on the concourse, shivering, for a match between two sides, neither very impressive. So I don't. And that gives me another hour. Eventually I head home where the heating is on, a red is a corkscrew away, and a plate of rissoles is the mashing of the potatoes away. The pre-match analysis reminds me that this is actually a vital game for these clubs: the Crows trying to claim a position in the top four in a year where few teams deserve one, and St Kilda having to win every week just to make the eight. But vital is in the eye of the beholder. The teams start with far more enthusiasm than I do. The game has that something that demands you put the form guide down and watch. It's fast, intense footy - under the roof. Neil Craig has far more faith in Kris Massey than I do: he puts him on Riewoldt. Koschitzke is damaging around the ground. The Saints mid-fielders start well. The Saints look very sharp. But just as I'm forming the view it's the Saints' night, the Ben Hudson takes control in the way bearded ruckmen used to, and Edwards and Goodwin start gathering, and distributing. The Adelaide machine clicks into gear and in a matter of a quarter I form the view that my initial view is floored. The Crows will win this. They are too organised and equally significantly the Saints offer little defensive pressure. McLeod thinks it's the `97 grand final. He directs traffic from half back and then follows up to kick the sort of running goal that would accompany the opening titles of a documentary on the aesthetics of footy. Of sport. Of any damn thing. Just a documentary on aesthetics. Matt McGuire, returning from injury, is still trying to find the rhythm of the game. Bock benefits from his exuberant clumsiness, converting one free kick, but missing the other. The Crows play confidently, and as Edwards strolls into goal, it looks like the floodgates have opened. He misses. Still, the Saints look very worried: like their season is about to finish. Their resolve is rejuvenated at quarter time. But Bock thwarts them with a goal just seconds after the break. All over. The Saints are broken. Riewoldt doesn't think so. He tries to turn things around. He fills the hole inside defensive fifty. Then he presents on the wing. Then he takes a team-lifting mark, so team-lifting it even lifts Gehrig who takes three quick marks within range, converting twice, and hitting the post with the other. Half-time and now I'm really confused. The Saints have regained the lead, and with Rutten injured and unlikely to return, Hayes and Montagna on top through the middle, and Riewoldt marking everything, surely they must win. The Crows persist, relying on their organisation, decision-making and skilful disposal. They absorb the Saints' onslaught, knowing that being on terms at three quarter time will give them heart. A McGuire 50-metre penalty costs a goal to Maric, and Riccuito sneaks one. His team is hanging in there. As I pour another red the best I can muster is that it's anyone's game. The final quarter is tense. What has been an entertaining game of space and freedom turns into an equally entertaining game of desperation and territory. When the scrimmages are cleared Ball, Fisher and Harvey pump the footy forward. Riewoldt keeps marking it. Gehrig gets enough of it. Indeed St Kilda has the standout players, but that's not reflected on the scoreboard. Koschitzke is inspired. He takes one grab with such determination, I expect he has forced the air out of the footy. He kicks the goal. As he contests another Riccuito's bump knocks the air out of him. St Kilda look the winners. Another Gehrig shot hits the post. And yet when Welsh marks inside 50 his shot levels the score. It becomes one of those games where you can hear screams in the effects mike. The commentators are excited. South Australia is excited. The players look spent. They bob up in unlikely places but no-one can score until the Saints score a rushed behind. It is enough to win a game they should have won by more. I am happy to be in bed and not waiting for the Epping train.
Goals - St Kilda: Gehrig 4; Riewoldt, Birss, Milne 2; Koschitzke. Adelaide: Welsh, 3; Burton, Ricciuto, Bock 2; McGregor, Maric, McLeod. Best - St Kilda: Riewoldt (best on ground), Hayes, Montagna, Gehrig, Harvey, Fisher. Adelaide: Goodwin, McLeod, Hudson, Edwards, Reilly Umpires: McLaren, Ryan, Jeffery Crowd: 32210 Votes: Riewoldt (St Kilda) 3, Hayes (St Kilda) 2, Montagna (St Kilda) 1 GEELONG v COLLINGWOOD 2.10 pm, Saturday 14 July 2007 at the MCG Christopher Riordan Some days are just perfect for sports lovers. The scent of anticipation, the drama of the contest and the collective joy at the outcome live long in the memory. Cox Plate Day, 1982: "Kingston Town can't win". SCG, 2001: Steve Waugh's last ball ton. Add to this, Geelong v Collingwood, MCG, Saturday afternoon in Round 15 as the benchmark for home and away footy in Melbourne. No marketers' hype, no choirs, no Craig Willis, but a lot of people wanting to see a good game and make judgements on season 2007. A weak winter's sun fought the chill air as 85,497 strode expectantly in to the home of football. This was simply a wonderful occasion, with a quality match to complement the sense of theatre that the MCG can arouse. And, for once, the professional veneer seemed to be discarded as Cats fans, and, I reckon, players, celebrated being part of a uniquely Melbourne experience. Geelong could not be dislodged from the top of the ladder. But their hold on premiership favouritism was under heavy scrutiny. The spirited Magpies had been winning over the sceptics. I had seen each of these teams in round 0ne and had been unimpressed. You could have secured long odds on an MCG blockbuster 15 weeks later. Collingwood, of course, live at the G and face huge crowds wherever they go. For the Cats it was another test. Geelong, the victors, were thrilled with the achievement. After a stuttering start, they'd gained and maintained control for most of the day. It was uplifting to hear the throng chanting "GEE-LONG GEE-LONG" in the safety of the final minutes, daring a September rehearsal with a choir that filled the mighty ground. And, upon the final siren, the "Cheshire Cats" expressed their pure happiness and understanding of the moment. The beauty for me as a neutral supporter was seeing the players almost as under 12s knowing they'd earned a hotdog for their effortsa team sport moment. The mix they'd displayed was intoxicating. In the time honoured "League Teams" tradition. I'll start "from the backline". Easy. Matthew Scarlett was magnificent. He set the tone for his team's fearless display. Although Anthony Rocca, his opponent, was insipid, lacking vim or verve, Geelong's stalwart defended stoically and launched relentless counter-attacks, seemingly chuckling as he eluded "Pebbles". This spirit inspired the skipper Tom Harley, improving Andrew Mackie, dashing David Wojcinski and the understated Darren Milburn to foil Magpie attacks. To the midfield, where Geelong again showed its depth and strength. Although young Gazza seems to get all of the accolades, I thought that he was fairly ineffective other than exciting the devotees each time he gets given the ball. Rather, the versatile Corey Enright and outstanding Jimmy Bartel "straightened them up" whilst James Kelly and Joel Corey made valuable contributions. And, perhaps most memorably, I got to see the rookie Joel Selwood. He is a beauty, able to intercept skilfully, stand his ground manfully, or, in one memorable passage, dispatch the long handball of a visionary. Put Zabeel to Circles of Gold to find the equivalent of the Selwood bloodline. Up forward, Cameron Mooney was terrific. His conversion was not great, but his presentation and endeavour were a marked contrast to Rocca at the other end. The Cats have an enviable variety of forward structures, able to go tall with Tom Hawkins or utilize the zest of Travis Varcoe, the guile and skill of Paul Chapman or even the endeavour of Matthew Stokes, who was undoubtedly one of the match's early stars. The wildcard, though, is Steve Johnson. To call him mercurial implies random influence. This was not the case. Johnson tormented the Pie defence consistently, whilst still maintaining his trademark flair. On one occasion when he played on around the man on the mark and goaled, the defence looked silly. He also made some basic errors. I am brave enough to declare that his capabilities are Crosswell-like, and could indeed be decisive in the Hoops' hopes of future glory. Cameron Ling again displayed his talents. A goal scoring tagger, the tireless "Rock" just kept challenging the Pies and was amongst the very best in his 150th game. For a match with a relatively small margin, it was easy to enthuse about the boys from Corio Bay, but surprisingly difficult to find winners for the Pies. Partly, I am sure, this is due to the style and thrall of the victors, but coach of the vanquished, Michael Malthouse, agreed with the conundrum. Travis Cloke was one. Big occasion; big game; big future. Tarkyn Lockyer was always prominent. And Collingwood's future is far more assured, with Scott Pendlebury, Tyson Goldsack, and Sam Iles showing plenty. Marty Clarke looks like he could excel in whatever game he chose. He appears to have been playing our complex sport forever. Below their best, the Pies were still not far from the likely minor premier. But this game was about the occasion and the winners. Neutrals left smiling, reminded of what great VFL games had to offer, and Cats fans dared to dream. And why not? Ten wins in a row, a massive crowd, an heroic victory, with finals beckoning next time they head to Jolimont. Hitch your carriage. It's sure to be one hell of a ride.
Goals - Geelong: Ling, S Johnson 2; Mooney, Stokes , Enright, Wojcinski, J Selwood, Chapman, Bartel . Collingwood: Cloke 4; Medhurst, Lockyer, Burns, Maxwell, Rocca . Best - Geelong: Scarlett, S Johnson, Mooney, Ling, Corey, Stokes, J. Selwood, Mackie. Collingwood: Cloke, Lockyer, Pendlebury, M. Clarke. Umpires: D Margetts S McBurney B Rosebury. Crowd: 85,497 at MCG. Votes: Scarlett (G) 3, S. Johnson (G) 2, Ling (G) 1. Port Adelaide v West Coast 2.40pm, Saturday, July 14 at Football Park, Adelaide John Kingsmill The Eagles have had their troubles all year with injuries and other problems of their own making but they have still managed to present a formidable unit each week or so it seemed. Their wheels began to fall off in June with losses to Essendon and St Kilda. Adelaide let them back in the competition in Round 13 but the subsequent loss to Brisbane has seriously tarnished their premiership status. In this match, without Kerr and Wirrpanda and only half a Judd, team disintegration reached the tipping point. Ben Cousins won't save them but their soft run home, only playing one team in the current eight, might get the battered ship back to harbour. Mark Williams has had a difficult season, too, juggling his Marketing Department's Revolution 2007 theme with the more evolutionary task of turning a bunch of babyfaced kids into reliable men. That Port Marketing Division always comes up with some wacky theme pinched from the student revolution years of the seventies. Power to the People and all that stuff. There must be some old counter-culturalist lurking over the light table with his Letraset and gluepot who comes out of the closet every summer. Will next year's theme be Right On, Brothers and Sisters!(c) In Round 12, Port were 12 goals up at three-quarter time but only managed two points for the rest of the game as Williams took his foot off the pedal, giving rookies game time and trying out a few structural experiments. Essendon kicked six and Port lost valuable percentage points. Last Saturday, Port fired on all cylinders for four quarters in a powerhouse display of team football. Asked whether he needed a top four finish to be motivated at having a genuine crack at the Cup, Williams said what all Port supporters wanted to hear: "If we get into the final eight, we won't be sitting back. Absolutely anything's possible." The revolution is on. Port were the genuine article in this game with noticeable improvement from all of their forward options. Warren Tredrea will never be his brilliant dominating self again - those Kick it to Warren days are long gone. But, at one stage in the third quarter, he was involved directly or indirectly with four quick goals; there was a screen here, a bump there, a long falling handball and a telling mark. Around him, the skinny Justin Westhoff constructed goals for himself and others with sharp intelligence, rather than brute strength; Daniel Motlop became less flashy and more effective; Brett Ebert lead strongly and passed the ball quickly, creating many opportunities for his teammates; and Chad Cornes picked up a lazy four when no-one was watching. The Port forwards used each other to construct team goals. In the past, this theme has often gone missing when some of its brilliant individuals, namely the two Burgoyne boys, decide not to play. Individual brilliance has often sparked team brilliance in this group; conversely, the lack of a few individuals to constantly deliver the miraculous has also seen Port quickly lose its collective will. This full-on/full-off syndrome has been Port's bugbear over recent years, but Williams seems to be getting on top of it. In that light, I had mixed feelings watching Danyle Pearce's outstanding solo effort, weaving his way along the wing, bouncing the ball, ignoring a multiple of gives, baulking, reaching the flank, straightening up and delivering what may become the Goal of the Year. He had to kick that goal! If he had missed, he should have been dragged and dropped next week, for not understanding why football is a team game. And for not understanding that the last thing Port Adelaide needs is a third Burgoyne. I was more impressed when both Nathan Lonie and David Rodan burst from the fold and, instead of only being nominated link players, had the courage to break the shackles and go for it by themselves. A good team structure allows this sort of unpredictable breakout. It throws the opposition's defence into despair. John Worsfold was shellshocked at the press conference and why wouldn't you be after being smacked by 91 points by a bunch of pretenders? He normally faces each question with the straightest of bats and the poeist of faces. This week, those large sad eyes had nothing to hide. He's discovered that his champion team needs all of its champions on the track for the rest of the year to even stay in the eight. Mark Williams was at his cheery worst. He'd just coached a game when his two fireflies, the two Burgoyne boys, were less than brilliant but nearly every other player on his board excelled. Below, I name 15 Port players amongst their best, the highest number this season, and it only includes one Burgoyne. This is that first sign that his young side has grown up.
Goals - Port Adelaide: C. Cornes, Motlop, Westhoff, 4; Tredrea 3; Thomson 2; Ebert, Lade, Lonie, Pearce, Rodan 1. West Coast: Lynch 3; Armstrong, Cox, B. Jones, LeCras, McKinley, Seaby 1. Best - Port Adelaide: C. Cornes, K. Cornes, Rodan, Ebert, Cassisi, Westhoff, Thurstans, Lonie, Thomson, Lade, Tredrea, Boak, Motlop, P. Burgoyne, Pearce. West Coast: Lynch, Seaby, R. Jones, Embley, Rosa, Priddis. Umpires: M. Vozzo, M. Head, M. Avon. Crowd: 27,879. Votes: C. Cornes (Port Adelaide) 3, Westhoff (Port Adelaide) 2, Rodan (Port Adelaide) 1. Essendon Vs Western Bulldogs 7.15pm, Saturday, July 14, Telstra Dome John Weldon Two teams equally poised, both looking to cement a finals future, both missing key players, both high scoring and aggressive, and both terrible defensively, only this season's tragic triumvirate - The Blues, The Tigers and The Dees - being worse. In the days of the five neither of these sides would have been considered serious finals contenders going into this round, the Bulldogs seventh on the ladder and the Dons eighth. But in these days of the final eight, and given the closeness (mediocrity?) of this year's competition, they're both potential finalists, even though their back lines combined couldn't stop a rice pudding. Paradoxically though, given both teams' lack of goal-stopping ability, the Bulldogs full back, Brian Harris is currently favoured to win that club's best and fairest, while the Dons' best defender, Dustin Fletcher, is having a career-best season. So what gives? Is it a lack of pressure in the forward line or midfield? Is it a lack of accountability, is it this, is it that - oh Christ, will someone turn off that bloody transistor radio, get the beers in, and umpire will you bounce the bloody ball. For a visceral game a lot of footy takes place off the field and in the head of today's statistics-driven, digitally-enhanced and epistemologically over-burdened punter, leading to pre-match overload. Sometimes you just have to stick the Sony in your pocket and let the sweet caresses of the mid-strength mistress soothe away the stress. You need to banish the Bearded Burbler and his ilk, and follow John Kennedy's maxim, "Don't think, do!" even if doing amounts to little more than scoffing a pie and hanging it on the opposition banner. Once underway, though, all that pre-game waffle actually seems to make sense. The Bulldogs have the early running thanks to the usual array of fast-running, slick handballers and the Dons' inept defence. And then, just as swiftly, when they're four goals up they completely turn off and The Dons slam on four quick goals, thanks to a complete lack of any sort of pressure from the narcoleptic Dogs, allowing the red and black to edge in front by a point. The second quarter belongs to the Dogs, though, aided by The Dons' inability to kick straight, a possible result of Sheedy inexplicably sending Mal Michael up forward. This ascendancy continues after half-time thanks to the running, tackling and goal-scoring of the blond twins, Adam Cooney and Jason Akermanis, although the Dons still refused to go away until late in the final quarter when they just ran out of legs. The Dogs blow them away. Interestingly for the Dogs, Scott West is not sorely missed, repeat NOT SORELY MISSED. The makeshift, yet effective midfield speaks more about the future of this club than its current state, featuring the names of Mitch Hahn, Daniel Giansiracusa, Matthew Boyd and Akermanis. Nor did they miss the power and old-man wisdom of Chris Grant. The guards, they are a changin' down at Doggie land. West's place was consummately filled by his baldness: Nathan Eagleton, one of those players for whom much was traded (ie Leon Cameron), of whom much was expected and from whom little was received, in the first few years anyway. Perhaps it was the receding hair, perhaps a vision of himself, Kevin Bartlett-like, comb-over akimbo streaming down the wing was too much for the then 22 year old. Whatever it was, ever since he adopted the Yul Brenner look a few years ago, he has grown in stature and now sports a set of knackers the size of rockmelons, and the fans love him. His bald nut popped up everywhere the ball was and his runs down the wing, lobbing long bombs into the forward line, were great to watch. They served Brad Johnson's business-as-usual brilliance very well. At the end of the round the Dogs remained seventh, while the Dons dropped to tenth, both still within hoi of the top four and yet both still capable of finishing outside the eight. Once again both teams had let in around 100 points or more, and although the game was high scoring, this lack of a contest, lack of pressure on the man going forward, diluted the drama. Let's hope that if these teams make the finals there are not too many rice puddings in the forward line, or it could be very messy behind the goals.
Goals - Western Bulldogs: Johnson 5; Cooney 3; Murphy, Eagleton 2; Gilbee, Akermanis, Everitt, Robbins, Harbrow, Ray, Higgins, Hahn. Essendon: Lucas 4; Nash, Monfries 2; Ramanauskas, Lloyd, Michael, Stanton, Lovett-Murray, Lovett. Best - Western Bulldogs: Cooney (BOG), Akermanis, Eagleton, Giansiracusa, Morris Essendon: Watson, Johnson, Johnson, Nash, Monfries. Umpires: Donlon, Allen, Wenn. Crowd: 45,283 at Docklands, Melbourne. Votes: Cooney (Western Bulldogs) 3, Eagleton (Western Bulldogs) 2, Akermanis (Western Bulldogs) 1. Sydney v Carlton 1pm, Sunday, July 15, Sydney Cricket Ground Mark Branagan After South Melbourne was banished north to become the Sydney Swans, a small cell of supporters used to gather together in secret locations to watch them on TV. Like oppressed nationalists sitting around in freezing caves speaking Gaelic, Kurdish or other outlawed tongues, the Bloods' loyalists gathered and whispered the heresies of Skilton, Nash and Johnny Sudholz. It generated a genuine sense of brotherhood as secretive calls would come in generally late on a Saturday night advising supporters where to watch the next day's game - "it's on at the Middle" (Middle Park Hotel). Such clandestine planning set the heartbeat ticking faster as small but loyal groups of traditional supporters gathered together at local South Melbourne pubs. Ironically, the Swans had been dispatched so that they could appear on TV every second Sunday and to make a pile of money for the competition. Now, as squillions are spent on promoting the game, the AFL is paid even more money to not actually show the Swans on normal TV. As a result, Swans fans have been forced back to old ways to watch their team in the secret company of fellow supporters. That place is the Danish Club at Albert Park. The symmetry is superb - the Danish flag is simple red and white, the Danes (like the Swans) were nomadic rejects for many centuries before becoming conquerors themselves, and of course all genuine Australians have the greatest affinity with Denmark though "Our" Princess Mary. Despite the change in viewing location, my pre-match routine still includes the mandatory wrestling with superstitious calamities. On entering the club, I unfortunately glanced over the honour board of great past presidents stretching back to 1899. The Danish names unfolded like a well-oiled rollmop - Mortensen, Nielsen, Andersen, Olsen, Pietersen, Jensen, Larsen, Holdensen, Ditchburn. That last name hit me like a force-10 Baltic gale. Ditchburn? Not only that but "Ditchburn, R". I recoiled at the horror of the memory of the career of that low-profile Carlton full-forward, Ross Ditchburn who in fact managed to kick 12 goals in one game against the Saints in 1982. And to see Ditchburn - the only non-Scandinavian (and Carlton) name up there on the honour board surely spelt doom for the Swans. Sure enough, it was not long before I was ready to burn the honour board down. The Blues jumped the Swans in the opening quarter and streaked away to a 26-point lead. No longer the feisty boxers, the Swans have taken to starting games like a group of old men getting out of bed - creaking, searching around and wheezing as they fumble for a packet of cigarettes. Finally the first gasper was lit as BBB Barry Hall produced the Swans' opening goal of the match. It was enough for the Swans to splutter their way back into the game and the young Carlton line-up was soon enveloped. In sunny and bright conditions, the football moved at a fast pace. The Blues' preference for all-out attack was lauded for its entertainment level but returned little value once the ball came back at twice the speed. The Swans took over. Nick Davis showed how dangerous he can be with three goals for the second quarter and the Swans big men Darren Jolly and Peter Everitt took complete control of the centre ruck contents. Nick Malceski glided across the half-back line and drilled some magnificent passes into the Swans forward line. Brett Kirk continued his good form in the middle of the ground and with overwhelming power in the centre clearances, the Swans had broken the game open by the half-time break with an eight-goal second quarter. As the third quarter unfolded and Barry Hall potted the first goal of the half, it looked like there could be a complete rout. Carlton plunged back at reckless speed with some strong efforts from midfielders including Kade Simpson, Heath Scotland and some effective forward work by Brad Fisher and Matthew Lappin. Again it was entertaining and fast flowing football, but the Swans certainly had the Blues covered. Four goals in the last 10 minutes of the quarter were enough to knock the last of the fight out of Carlton. The last quarter became something of a procession with Swans goals to Adam Schneider, Jarrad McVeigh, Malceski and Michael O'Loughlin. Fisher and Lappin replied for the Blues but it was nothing less than a capitulation. By the final siren the margin was over 10 goals and the Swans had in fact kicked their highest score against Carlton. Ever. It was Carlsbergs all round. This was a comforting victory for the Swans. Several players ran themselves back into form. The Blues had fought manfully but were well and truly outclassed. As I returned downstairs to the more raucous bar of the Danish Club, I brushed past the honour board and felt some pleasure that my superstitions had not caused any grief. But I also reflected on whether there were any other Danish footballers of note in the history of our great game. I could only think of Russell Ohlsen, a player with Carlton and Collingwood in the 1970s and 80s and Geelong's barrel-chested Christensen brothers. And oh yeah, of course we still have Dane Swan. I think he would look good in red and white.
Goals - Sydney: Hall 4, Everitt 4; Davis 3, Schneider 3; Kirk 2, McVeigh 2, Malceski 2, O'Loughlin 2; Fosdike, Jolly, Goodes. Carlton: Fisher 3, Lappin 3; Fevola 2, Houlihan, Bannister, O'hAilpin, Betts, Simpson, Scotland, Koutoufides. Best - Sydney: Malceski, Kirk, Everitt, Davis, Barry. Carlton: Simpson, Waite, Fisher. Umpires: H Kennedy C Kamolins S Meredith. Official crowd: 24,858 at SGC. Votes - 3 Malceski (Syd); 2 Kirk (Syd); Everitt (Syd). Hawthorn v Richmond 2.10pm, Sunday July 15, Melbourne Cricket Ground Howard Kimber I used to think of myself as an optimist, but I've recently realized that this isn't the case. I'm just optimistic for a Richmond supporter. For me the glass is half empty. But at least it contains something you can drink. Most of my yellow and black compatriots see liquid explosives, or poison, or urine from an old woman with a bladder infection. Obviously we don't come out of the womb depressed, sullen and wearing yellow and black. We are turned and twisted and sculptured this way by the trials we are forced to endure. Week in, week out. I've always thought of St Kilda as the team that attracts musicians and artists as fans. But any truly agonized and depressive poet or painter, curled up in an icy garret, dipping their brush in a cup of their own blood, must surely be of the Tiger faith. I think that the Saints attract the commercial types. Shrouded in this cloak of suffering I shuffle my way to the G, mumbling to myself that we may yet be a chance to take the points. Classic delusional behaviour. I've had a couple of phone calls during the week from punting friends wanting to know if the Tigers can win. Of course they can, I say. The Hawks are down after last week's thumping by Adelaide. Our boys are angry with the Richmond/Hawthorn recruiting debates, the whole Tambling versus Franklin thing. If ever there was a game that we could win And so it starts. The first goal of the game is Richo's, running into the open square and nearly decapitating the goal umpire. He pumps his fist a little too hard, a little too long. He's an emotional being, Richo, but he normally saves this sort of stuff until the game is won. I'm reminded of the Essendon game, and I don't want to be reminded of the Essendon game. By the middle of the quarter the Tigers are three goals up and looking good, but the Hawks work their way back into it. We take a five point lead in at quarter time, but we are no longer looking like the dominant team. I'm reminded of the Fremantle game, and I don't want to be reminded of the Fremantle game. The start of the second quarter picks up where the first left off, with the Hawks in control. Sam Mitchell, good in the first term, is even better now. He has 11 touches for the quarter, each of them earned, each of them used well. He makes it easy for Jarryd Roughead, who has four goals from his first four touches of the match. Hawthorn surge ahead, but just when I'm thinking I may need to go home to put the roast in the oven, the Tiges come back with goals to Nathan Brown, Kayne Pettifer, and a goal of the week contender from Jay Schulz. While it got the yellow and black faithful out of their seats, it was this over-the-shoulder-bend-it-the-wrong-way' snap from the pocket that said so much about the state of the game, and in many ways, these two teams. This is what Schulz can do, but he does it so irregularly. Meanwhile, at the other end, Roughead was going about business in an effective, if less spectacular fashion. The game is revealing itself to me like so many before. We're not going to win. I'm staring at a half empty glass of brake fluid mixed with Draino. If there is to be any consolation for the bitter and twisted soul that I have become, it lies in the Franklin/Tambling contest. The big Hawk has done nothing till half time, kept quiet by the improving Will Thursfield. Unfortunately Tambling has done even less. I miss the start of the third quarter due to the AFL's insistence of estimating the number of catering staff needed for a game, and then booking just half of that figure. Thus by the time I finally get my pie and coffee the game is effectively over as a contest. With Hawthorn back to a three-goal lead it is obvious that the Tigers have taken the coaches words to heart. Not the ones he has delivered at half time, but the same speech Terry Wallace has given after every Richmond game this year, the "We're tired of honourable losses," oratory. Now, with Hawthorn grabbing the ascendancy the Richmond players decide it is better to die insipidly than with any hint of valour. Sam Mitchell keeps doing what he does - really well - while Jordan Lewis, Ben McGlynn, Rick Ladson and their ilk show why the future of Hawthorn is so rosy. Not to be outdone, old timers Joel Smith and Shane Crawford get plenty of quality possessions and make a statement with each one, like old roosters working their way around the henhouse, desperate to keep the chopping block at bay. The late highlight is a Manassa-like run from Hawthorn defender Campbell Brown, taking the ball from behind the back flank to the forward fifty metre line and kicking a lovely long goal. Mind you, that a player could run so far and in a straight line without once being challenged by an opponent says something about this game and these teams. One feels that both clubs are looking forward to September, if for totally different reasons. Oh, and the second half saw Lance Franklin kick four goals, while Richard Tambling didn't manage to touch the ball once. Somebuddy just knocked over my half-empty pot of piss.
Goals - Hawthorn: Roughead 5; Franklin 4; McGlynn 2; Lewis, Ladson, Crawford, Hodge, Dixon, Brown, Thorp, Campbell. Richmond: Brown, Pettifer, Schulz 2; Edwards, Richardson, Johnson, Tuck, King. Best - Hawthorn: Mitchell, Roughead, Lewis, Crawford. Richmond: Foley, Polack, King. Umpires: Goldspink, Grun, Stevic. Official crowd: 41,770. Votes: Mitchell (Hawthorn) 3, Roughead (Hawthorn) 2, Lewis (Hawthorn) 1. FREMANTLE v KANGAROOS 2.40pm, Sunday, July 15 at Subiaco, Perth LES EVERETT First period Monday in Brother Connolly's class is always scary after the footy team loses on the weekend. Especially when we lose to one of the poor state schools. I'm not in the team, so I should be safe, but it's always a good idea to keep your head down so as not to attract attention. Sometimes Brother Connolly comes into the class quietly, and places his Gladstone bag on his desk. While giving us a lecture about team work, letting down the parish, piety, making holy decisions or the relationship between a pure and healthy mind and good football skills, he takes out his strap. Slowly. Today he stormed in. Strap in hand. Hair slightly askew. Cassock twisted as though he'd slept in it and his red eyes telling up he hadn't slept well. We knew what was going to happen first. I almost glanced over to where the poor bugger was sitting but knew it could be fatal. "Thornton," Brother Connolly said. His was voice soft but sinister. Poor old Thornton had been a sickly kid for most of his time at school and we all reckoned his mum cut his hair. He walked out to the front of the classroom, shoulders slumped and put out his hand. Thornton knew all about getting the strap. "This..." WHACK! "Is for missing..." WHACK! "The goal..." WHACK! "That would have won us..." WHACK! "The game." WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Thornton slumped back to his seat. He never cries. "Mundy," Brother Connolly was worked up now. "Come here you stupid boy." Mundy was once the teacher's pet, he used to be so neat and tidy but something had happened to him. Some said he'd got into bad company whatever that meant, others reckoned he'd got too big for his boots. I didn't understand that either. "Both hands out you stupid boy." This was serious. "I told you..." WHACK! "Last week..." WHACK! WHACK! "But you knew better, didn't you Mundy?" WHACK! WHACK! "So you did it again." WHACK! "So guess what, you stupid boy..." WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! "I'm doing it again too! WHACK! WHACK! "Now get out of my sight and get that hair cut by tomorrow. Short back and sides or you'll really know what trouble means." I saw a bit of spit fly from Brother Connolly's mouth and land on Farmer's desk. He looked at it but didn't move. Some of the boys reckoned six was the maximum number of cuts with the strap you were allowed to get. But I'd never heard anyone bring it up with one of the brothers. "Schammer," Brother Connolly's tone was sarcastic. Little Schammer had been real crook and missed lots of school early in the year. He didn't often get into trouble. "You wait for buses..." WHACK. "You wait on tables..." WHACK. "You wait for Godot..." WHACK. "You do not wait for the ball! Sit down." Only three for Schammer, maybe Brother Connolly was worried he might send him back to hospital. "McManus." This was unusual. McManus was one of the older kids, he'd stayed down a couple of years and the brothers loved him. He never got into trouble. "If I was a cruel man McManus, I'd box your ears just to remind you that you don't tackle people about the head when they're 10 yards out of from goal and we're a couple of points in front in the last quarter," Brother Connolly delivered this like a sermon. "Instead, here's a gentle little something to help you remember in the future." WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! That was what was called six of the best. Suddenly Brother Connolly smiled. "Bell there's a 50 cent tuckshop voucher for you and 20 cents for you Johnson. What are you going to do with them boys?" "I want to donate mine to the missions sir," said Bell. "Umm, missions sir," said Johnson. "Good boys," said Brother Connolly. "Right it's handwriting next. Copy the exercise from the board. And none of those horrible shaky, chook scratchings thank you Thornton. "Pavlich, I'll be out of the room for a while. I want you to write down the names of any boys who talk while I'm away and I'll strap them when I return." "Yes sir," said Pavlich. There's a rumour going around that Brother Connolly will be going to another school next year. I hope not. I like him. He's funny.
Goals - Fremantle: Headland, Tarrant, Pavlich, Bell 2; Dodd, Murphy, Crowley 1. Kangaroos: Archer, Jones, Harvey, Hale 2; McIntosh, Harris, Lower, McMahon 1. Best - Fremantle: Johnson, Bell, Hayden, Headland, Dodd, McPharlin. Kangaroos: Simpson, Firrito, Harvey, McIntosh, Hale, Sinclair. Umpires: McInerney, Chamberlain, Hendrie. Crowd: 37,002. Votes: Johnson (Fremantle) 3, Simpson 2 (Kangaroos), Firrito (Kangaroos) 1. 9 August 2007 |
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