Footy Almanac 2014

My piece on the round 8 match between Sydney and Hawthorn is to be published in this year's print Footy Almanac:


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The first morning we woke in the rental house we still live in, the Cygnet toddled to the back door. He was two-and-a-half. He stood in the frame looking out over the grass of the yard and the lane that extends away beside the house and without turning back to me said Can we go home now?

His words dipped into my own uncertainty. I’d never lived in this part of town. I didn’t know the roads, the direction of the corner store. I didn’t know the noiselessness of suburban back streets. I wasn’t even sure yet of the route to get back to the coast I grew up on.

Seven years later, we know every vessel of the place. So when we received the Vacant possession please notice a few weeks ago, the same sense of pathlessness overtook me. And this time there was school to think about and friends’ houses and the well mapped routes to workplaces – a whole system of positioning ourselves in the world would have to be unpicked and stitched in somewhere else. Despite our reassurances, the Cygnet laid his head in my lap and wept: There’ll never be a home as good as this one.

Saturday mornings I headed out to look at properties to rent… or buy. Please can we reinvigorate the Sydney cost-of-living allowance? For everyone? I stood in the wide window of a sixties gem by the Cook’s River, the escarpment staring heavily over my shoulder, a motley carpet underfoot and tried to imagine myself waking there. I walked the ashen blue tiles of an unfamiliar kitchen wondering if our breakfast banter could exist in that space. I stared at an entire wall of men’s trainers which dressed a soundproofed spare room and wondered whose shoes I would be fitting into. David Lynch came to mind. In all those new spaces I was looking for much more than a floor plan.

I am sure that during the summer, Lance had a few of those moments. He said it himself – leaving Hawthorn was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. And as he strutted through a lakeside preseason and kicked back in the Entertainment Quarter with the papers, I’m sure he caught the odd glimpse of himself in the red and white and took a second look. He’d been poo and wee since seventeen!

I have no idea then, why the public relations or sports psychology departments of football clubs tote the just-another-game line when a significant player is coming up against his old team for the first time, why they feed it through the player’s mouth when other players, current and past, when supporters, commentators – humans generally – and history are humming the familiar tune of feeling. Must be the parent-style veneer of it’ll all be OK. Isaac Smith called it like it was: I’d say it’s the most anticipated game of the year. Bet the big fella would love to kick ten on us.

Despite an 8am start for recorder ensemble, a full day of school and an hour and a half of trapeze, the Cygnet accompanied me to Homebush. Please can we get rid of the stadium deal? For everyone? The mood was up, a buzz spreading for the tall forward line we all wanted to acquaint ourselves with. We sniggered at the roster: Franklin off, Reid, Goodes and Tippett on. Reid off, Goodes, Tippett and Franklin on. Goodes off, Tippett and Franklin and Reid on. The Cygnet and I met O’Reilly Max in the stands (our Cob was in Melbourne for work). Connie was there in front, her husband at home with a bad back, her sister in his seat. Nigel was there with Gwen, mother to us all.

I’m always grateful when the Swans start fast; it still feels like a luxury. They looked sharp. Hannebery was playing mine mine mine from the start, he and Kennedy bullying Hawthorn in the middle. Reid had his marking mittens on. Tippett just looked strong. Lance was still finding the posts. There was plenty of appetite and some good movement. Really it’s a game of appetite and movement. And gee I like that Swan Bird.

Having polished off his pie and chips, the Cygnet took to his book in the second, a tale about a Nanny Pig leading kids astray in a fictional town. Lance led his kicks the same way. I couldn’t work out whether either of them was genuinely un-phased by Hawthorn’s building system and run. The margin narrowed as the behind tally rose and took our collective systolic pressure with it.

Gwen brought out her Mother’s Day treat at half time – a Tupperware of chocolate delight, topped with a crumble of Peppermint Crisp. With the first bite, I suggested she might like to get it down to the dressing room.

It’s not only the players who have to find themselves at home in their new team. We too inhabit our team like a home. We know its solid structures, its foundations, pillars and walls. We are aware of the loose swinging doors that need work. We imagine renovations that need to happen and regret some that have. It took me a while to see Teddy without the sash. It took some weeks to adjust to Mummy in the red hooped socks and is odd to see him in grey. We need to find a place each new season for the expensive decorative elements we buy, the best place to show them off to guests. We need to walk past them many times in the corridor until we feel they’re truly part of the scenery.

Sydney supporters don’t seem sure yet whether Lance really is the centrepiece he’s been sold to us as. The jury still seems hung: half-hubristic for the snare and potential, half-cynical about the cost. And perhaps he feels the same way. The apology to Birchall said it all. And frankly I kind of like the moments of doubt.

Our heads were so deep in our own back yards in the third that we didn’t notice Rioli’s early exit. The Swans’ hands and pressure were largely sound, but when the Hawks took, and immediately added to, the lead, there was a feeling that they could really run away with it. We know the neighbours. We remember the battles we’ve had from year to year. We know which ones we can get along with and which drive us totally mad. Parker stalked Shoenmakers like an alley cat and minutes later, with his best buddy Gibson on the mark, Lance avoided another shot on goal. Connie turned with urgency: We just need Buddy to kick a goal and then the floodgates can open. The Cygnet finished his book and was ready to barrack.

Lance kicked that goal five minutes into the last quarter. Swung it accurately from just inside 50. The smile enormous. And moments later, from a hunched position that looked like heavy fatigue, suddenly he’s on the ground and on the end of Jetta magic, prone and poking his toe at a 10 point lead. O’Reilly Max had only one word: le déluge. It was a flood of pressure and belief built on the apparent subconscious permission from one centre half forward to his new team.

The Cygnet and I drove back down Parramatta Road. It was just past 11pm. Can we talk about those words which are hard to define without using the word itself? he piped. Sure, why not? I was to find them and he would make an attempt. Traditional. Conscience. Attribute. Word! he realised from the back. I was thinking of home.

We made an offer to our landlord last week and found out that he’s accepting it. It looks like we might be staying after all. Of course Nic Nat will tell you that nothing is certain until you have a contract in your hand. But it looks like we’ll be kicking on in our own back yard, arcing the Sherrin around the hills hoist, using the telegraph pole in the lane to shade the eyes against the winter twilight, standing in the door frame looking west as the sun sets.

Footy Almanac 2103

In 2013, I had my report of the round 8 match between Sydney and Fremantle published in the print edition of John Harms' Footy Almanac. 

Footy Almanac, Malarkey Publications, Fitzroy North, 2013: p 140 


The Spectre of Captain Kirk


This match had a great trailer. Saturday night. Two decent teams. The battle of the apprentices, Lyon versus Longmire. And, not least, the return of Captain Kirk to the SCG. I bristled on Friday when I read some minor headline: Kirk plots Sydney’s downfall. I guess with five kids and healthy ambition, a job in the west was worth more than blood.

The O’Reilly was full and buzzing. The regulars were in below. And a band of unknown blokes in the row behind. While Row U counted White’s ten goals for the IIs, the return of Mummy, the inclusion of the Irishman, the late withdrawal of Mattner and the curse of the timing on Fyfe’s return, the blokes behind cushioned the start of the game with a set of their own predictions: Nick Malceski for most touches, Swans by less than 39.

From the start, it was hard to find the thread; nothing much was shaping. Some lovely goals for Fyfe and Ballantyne, a dubious looking workload for Teddy. Hannebery and Everitt popping up. The O’Reilly boys struggled with binoculars – who’s their number 9? De Boer. This was to be a numbers game. And most of them around the ball. I could hear the familiar whispers – ugly, dour. We defended it back then but we’ve become accustomed to something more than Cortinas now. Max noticed that Goodes runs like their new Labradoodle when he’s stolen a ball in the park. Twenty minutes gone in the first, Jude snapped a beauty. I could just see Kirky bounding down to the city end on duck-footed tiptoes to give him a pat and a slap. Give it Nick, they yelled from behind.  

Seven minutes into the second, we hit the lead through the Canadian. And then scoreless minutes, lots of them. I looked down at my empty notebook. The Dockers’ control of the centre was beginning to look like insider trading. The ring leader from the row behind was raving like he was in the front bar, about anything but football. And then up popped Hannebery with two. And three. Nick, Nick, Nick they slurred from behind when he was nowhere near the ball. It’s hard to watch a game when you have a shape in mind. They had the story told and dollars on it, all they needed was the content to catch up to its ending. Hard to see what’s really happening when you’re looking for something. I closed the notebook.

The Premiership quarter was the Turnover quarter for the red and white. Is there a collective noun for turnovers? I want to say rattle, a rattle of turnovers, something of rapid succession that sounds like death. Max noticed that McGlynn runs like their new Labradoodle when he’s been given a chicken leg. The commentary from behind was cheering for Malceski when he took off from half back. We were cheering for Jack when he kicked the score to 50. Bet Kirky liked that one.

His story was the one about the mentally ferocious captain, the Buddhist yogi who tackled the midfield by night. His culture was blood; put in, put in, put in. The roll of the dice that he was always throwing himself.

Some of the saturated folk behind were splitting before the end. See you at the wedding. What odds for that show: three years and she gets the house? Jetta surprised from a Freo kick-in and goaled from 45. McGlynn stretched the lead to 27. Fyfe and more Fyfe and then Mayne. As he closed the lead to 12, a perfect half moon smiled just below the top lip of the O’Reilly stand and I wondered if it wasn’t ironic. Another and another. Beginner’s mind. Johnson’s kick was punched from behind and scores were level. Johnson’s kick was marked from behind and scores were … level.

A draw, the first in Freo’s history. But the story didn’t seem to fit the ending. It wasn’t until we were walking through the car park that we got it. Of course! Everything in it’s place, Yin and Yang, the universe in balance. Tipsters take all, betting men get none. No outcome, just a long series of moments, all of equal weight. Very equal weight. The spectre of Kirky will linger long at this club … long time.

Footy Almanac 2012

In 2012, I had two pieces published in the print edition of John Harms' Footy Almanac. The first dealt with Adam Goodes' record breaking 304th AFL game. The second accounted for the second qualifying final between Sydney and Adelaide. 

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’ 304^th 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 11^th 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.

This modern girl has been a Swan since the ‘once upon a time’ of Adam Goodes. It is a serendipitous privilege that we ‘arrived’ in the same year and that I have witnessed a compendium of 304 of the most rich and varied tales. Whether or not the games record stays, They will be re-told. And so will the quiet assertion that a fairytale can come true. 

*

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 21^st 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.