 |
| Footy Almanac, Malarkey Publications, Fitzroy, 2012: pp 90, 430 |
For the Record
Hawthorn versus Sydney
1.10pm, Sunday, 29 April
Aurora Stadium
Modern girls are taught not to believe in fairytales. But
when a band of unkind fathers has denied your club’s leader his right to glory
in his own kingdom, and exiled him instead to a hostile southern land to fight
for honour and history against heralded men, it’s hard not to foster at least a
faint hope that fairytales really can come true.
Micky O was always my Prince Charming so there was a spot of
regret that his club games record should be broken. But if there was anyone who
could take the mantle unopposed, it was the gallant # 37. I had to work the
Sunday of Goodes’ 304th appearance, almost glad not to watch the
inestimable unfolding of such a milestone. At 1.42pm, word came through: ‘Hawks
annihilating us … xx’ I made the decision not to look at my phone again until
home time. Four hours later, walking out into the evening magic hour, two
messages sat unattended on my screen: ‘Hope you enjoyed that!!!’; ‘What a
fabulous win!’
They were not spoilers, those messages. Clearly something
extraordinary had happened. But even if the ending was now assured, a good
fairytale never loses its shine in the re-telling. Its extreme generic
implausibility ensures that there is always a chance, that this time things
just couldn’t turn out the way the course is set. On Sunday night, I tucked up
on the couch to listen to the story.
Sydney were undefeated, the Hawks 11th and
favourites. The game opened under pressure, the Swans holding the early ball
inside their half. But Gibson the one-man-shield, made the targets look shaky:
Jetta goaled off a ball that was out; McGlynn was run into the goalpost; Reid
was all flailing limbs, like a foal running for the first time. Only O’Keefe
was sharp shooting. On the other side, the Hawks looked imposing – spread,
skills and Burgoyne all over the park and delivery to a forest of forwards in
Hale, Franklin and Roughhead (was there ever a better name for an antagonist?).
Our hero had a handful of touches, most of them low impact, and at quarter time
33-14 looked a score you’d take as a Swan.
An early second quarter goal from Kennedy kept the pages
turning. But the big Roughhead continued to fill his bag. Until the
one-man-shield limped off wounded, and the contest somehow seemed more even.
But with a twenty point deficit at half time, I felt jittery and unconvinced.
Perhaps I got the wrong story.
I forewent the customary denouement of tensions afforded by
the half time break. With a stroke of ‘fast forward’ Bird was passing to the
hero himself, Goodes goaling not one minute in. Smith, the unheralded, was
subbed on and Goodes goaled again. I could almost hear the sound of hooves
approaching. Subsequent majors to Kennedy and Bird took Sydney to the front.
The Swans had kicked 5 unanswered goals for a 13 point lead, but still the tale
was not told. Cyril the Magnificent snapped and Lewis evened things up, and
again I was left gasping at each play, wondering how the numbers were going to
add up, doubting an ending that never looked guaranteed. ‘C’mon, c’mon!’ I
hurried them.
What are the points on which stories turn? Sydney had forged
a bit of system with run, targets and accuracy, the forward pressure was
supreme and the absence of Gibson helped. But even on replay, it seemed a turn
around of mysterious proportions, not attributable to a particular someone or
something. And that’s what fairytales are made of – the presence of magic, an
element of impossibility, things we secretly yearn for but often don’t dare to
believe in.
As the hours of narrative clutter looked for a close, in
stepped Adam Goodes. He pulled down a hanger, turned and inhaled, chin up,
chest out, warming that 304 game hamstring before he kicked truly and roared! He
and his brothers found their meant-to-be ending with a lead of 37.
*
The Art of the Smother
Adelaide versus Sydney
2.45pm, Saturday, 8 September
AAMI Stadium
I feel little towards the Crows:
not the over-the-fence curiosity of a
neighbour; not the vitriolic antipathy of an enemy; not the stand-back respect
of a comrade. No, all that I know of the Crows is, that for some reason they
have a habit of beating us, that for some reason they traded us arguably the
best long left foot kick in our team in Mattner, that there’s a man with the
very ominous moniker of Dangerfield and a crew of very tall forwards, one
especially coiffed.
I try not to
think about this game. Three brutal, close losses to the heavy hitters of the
competition has me wondering about shaky form and a potentially spent peak,
about that elusive extra gear needed for finals and the breaking point of
morale. The full back is suspended, and despite the comfort of a ready made
replacement in LRT and the safety net of the double chance, this is the game
that worries me.
Right from the first bounce, it is
finals footy. Every year I forget what a different breed it is, sporned from
pressure alone. And it unfolds in the commentary box too, in the form of
sensational stats of the rare and wondrous: Bolton and Goodes in their 21st
finals, 9 Crows in their first. Walker coming in with 4 goals a game, Jetta
with one for the month.
Four minutes
into the Second Qualifying Final the game is already true to type. Johncock
smothers a Mumford kick; seconds later, Mummy returns the favour through Sloane.
Walker opens the Crows’ account with a miss while Goodes scores with a goal.
LRT looks like he’s never left defence, sweeping around back there. The Swans
are pinpoint perfect out of the centre clearances and for the first time in a
long time, the forward structure looks like someone has finally stitched the
squares into functional patchwork. When Goodes drills the second goal of the
game, only 10 minutes in, some of the anguish abates.
If there is a
stat tailor made for finals footy, it has to be that precious, infrequent
defensive act—‘the one percenter’—the knock-on, the spoil, the shepherd, the
smother. And for all there is to say about this game, the one percenter proves
to be the true star of the show.
The encounter is
relentless and Adelaide never looks in it; it is no game of tides. McVeigh is
everywhere. Jetta pips Dangerfield on the wing. Mattner is spoiling everything.
Goodes is scoring from everywhere. Alex Johnson is playing the game of the year
down back. There is such immense force applied to the ball carrier that any
break feels like freedom. A different terror emerges in seeing the Swans play
with such composure, controlling tempo, space, structure and scoreboard. A
sense emerges of imminent breakdown as
commentary warns of the Crows that will come. But at the end of the half, the
only evenness in the game is the palindromic score, 7.2 to 2.7.
The break offers
no relief for the home crowd. The longer it goes the slimmer my doubts.
Pressure, numbers, hands. Smother by Reid on Shaw (theirs); smother by Mattner
on Walker; smother by McVeigh on Sloane. A smother on O’Keefe takes it to 8
apiece. Jetta pips Dangerfield on the wing … again. After an almost goalless
third, the Crows get one with 90 seconds to go. But the late change Morton
replies and tea and tarts are served. Sydney look made to play this way, and it
seems right that it should all come to an end with a Jetta smother on McKay.
By the end of the afternoon, Sydney have 15 more one percenters than the Crows and 25 more tackles. The often talk of finals is that defence wins premierships. And the back six or seven looked rock solid. But there is now more joy than ever in the Sydney defence, because it is the foundation to genuine renewed attack. As the Swans work their way to a 29 point win, I’m looking at an injured and sobbing Benny McGlynn. I think, for both of us, the realisation has just hit that this Swans campaign is now a multi car train and could go all the way to the final destination.
No comments:
Post a Comment