A timely piece of reminiscing...Rd 16 2008

[Thinline]

Some of you may relate to this. Written after last season's high point (I thought, anyway)...




It’s my first August up here on the Gold Coast.

It’s still warm enough to swim in the sea. Canals and crab pots. Rugby League from the back page all the way to the obituaries.

It’s all a bit bloody strange to be honest.

Tim Baker's a new mate. Good, solid bloke, too. We get along well. He’s a Hawk. Same as my brother and grandmother. For no reason other than them, I’ve got no gripe with the Hawks. But there’s no love there. That’s saved for the Saints. It runs deep. I blame/thank my mother, depending. I was in her womb when she stood on stacks of steel beer cans at Moorabbin to watch Smith, Breen, Stewart and Ditterich. I had no choice. It was written.

Anyway, Tim and I are at a barbecue the weekend of Round 15. Baker, salt-and-sun-seared from years chasing the waves he writes about for a quid, spruiks the Hawks ‘08 chances. He’s talking up Buddy’s genius and Chance Bateman’s motor. Cyril Rioli’s mentioned. Have you seen that kid play? He’s extraordinary! Then there’s the courage of Hodge and the hardness of Sam Mitchell and Campbell Brown.

He talks a good team, Baker does. He’s making sense, too.

‘Big game next week,’ I say.

‘Sainters, eh.’ He sucks in a deep, slow breath and exhales quickly, head shaking, all mock frustration. ‘Not sure they’re up to it this year. You just can’t trust ‘em, huh?’

He’s right, of course. Our form’s a harder to track than Osama bin Laden, but his condescension still rankles. Eleventh for now, but such is the way of things this year we’re only a few cuts of good fortune out of the four. Regardless of what’s said, we’re still well in it. Style doesn’t matter. Winning’s what counts. And is it only me that realises we’ve won three straight? I extend an invitation. ‘Hawks and Saints. Blue Ribbon Cup. For those two fallen cops. Silk and Miller. Saturday night game, mate. Bring a couple of beers. Big screen. Could be fun.’

‘I’ll be there for sure,’ he says, a glint in his eye, nostrils flaring at the prospect of picking on the bones of a freshly slain Saint.

All week I’m finding reasons and looking for omens. A dog-eared ’05 Saints member’s sticker spotted on the bumper of a tradie’s van in traffic at Tallebudgera. A kid in a black and white t-shirt with red trackies. Mum calling in to say she’d just spotted Banger Harvey at Chadstone. He had his kids with him. He’s just wonderful, isn’t he? What will we do when he goes for good? The match ups flash and flicker behind my eyes. Maxy can do a job on Franklin. He’s got long arms, Maxy. And he’ll get in his ear. Talk him into error. Buddy'll fumble a chesty. His hands won’t work. He’ll crumble. Besides, he can’t be up all season. Surely not? And Sam Fisher’s having a terrific year. He and Maxy'll figure something out. But who’ll take Roughead? Don’t worry about that now. Midfield. We’re flat, no doubt. We need run. Gram can lift. Ball’s improving. Harvey’s still putting in. Dal Santo’s due. There’s upside there. Kosi. Riewoldt. We have options forward. We can do this. I know we can. Can’t we?

Friday comes. Beers are opened. Baker’s on the Cascade Lights. He drove. Soft, I think to myself. Another omen? By now I’m clutching at anything.

Early signs are terrible. Hawks are punching forward in pulsing surges. Their skills are sharp. First touches everywhere. Their wins at the clearances are cheap and easy. Franklin and Roughead threaten, but Williams is the danger man. Williams ! I didn’t even think about him! He snags two before a solitary Saint’s had an effective use. They’re all over us. I loosen my scarf, suddenly hot. We haven’t kicked a goal. I’m feeling sick. Maybe we can’t? Maybe we won’t? Then Dempster floats forward and snags one, but at 1.2 the Saints are still in single figures. Riewoldt bangs through a set shot after the siren to limit the damage to 15 points, but the Hawks' 4.6 isn’t a true reflection. Only ugly kicking saves us from a massacre. ‘Could’ve been worse...,’ I mumble, a losers lament, a long night looming. ‘What was that?’ Baker asks. ‘Nothing, mate,’ I say, my apparent cheeriness a facade.

At quarter time, I drink. What else is there?

The second quarter’s a flurry of intensified effort, but for all the lift and hard run from the black, white and reds, it’s thrust and parry then counter-thrust and parry again. In the end it’s pretty much goal for goal. Stephen King, quiet all night in the centre, threatens to make a contribution for all the wrong reasons when Michael Osborne scales every inch of King’s imposing frame to all but pull off the greatest mark of all time. Baker bellows as he rises with Osborne’s ride. ‘Did you see that!’ he yells, joy all over. I did. Impressive. Schneider’s late shot saves some face for the Saints, but there’s little hope. For all the apparent evenness, the Hawks extend their lead. We’re twenty eight in the red now. A text message from mum - awful just awful. The horse has bolted. We can’t find a way. I’m resigned to defeat. Half time’s a relief.

Baker’s relaxed. ‘Mind if I have a little half time smoke,’ he says. I don’t. I open another beer and join him outside. I ponder the Hawks out loud. ‘They’re good’, I say. ‘I’ve underestimated them. They’re a very, very even football side. I can already see the headline in tomorrow’s paper. Hawks The Real Deal.’

‘Told you,’ he says, smug, but deservedly so.

At first his lack of sympathy grates. That little Jones bloke tries hard, he could say. Or something like: Riewoldt’s just off his game. What a player, though wouldn’t have been out of place. Or Fisher’s an A-lister these days. Elite backman. Doull-like sometimes. Nup. He gives me nothing. But then again, why would he? This is a hard, cruel game. Sympathy plays no part.

We make our way back inside fuzzy and lighter. My hands push aside leftovers on the bottom rung of the fridge as I search for another six-pack. Coopers Sparkling. Not preferred as a rule, but for now there’s nothing else. Baker doesn’t immediately return. He’s chatting brightly to my wife and a couple of friends of hers who’ve surprised us with a unannounced visit.

The bounce goes up. For now I watch alone.

And then it starts.

Oddly, I can see it almost before it happens. It’s just there. There’s resolve. There’s possession. There’s run. There’s industry. Dal Santo is Dal Santo again. Ball’s outgunning Mitchell. King’s finding willing hands. Kosi’s angry. Harvey’s hitting targets. Riewoldt’s everywhere and when he snaps truly, impossibly off-balance, he confirms the seriousness of the chase. And then there’s the small matter of Jason Blake. The Beaumaris bits-and-piecer is suddenly untouchable. Three goals, all clean and precise. Bang, bang, bang. Shots from a gun. We’ve just witnessed quite possibly the finest ten minutes of his relatively short life. His effort’s infectious. Soon there’s Saints everywhere streaming forward, all screaming for the ball.

I holler to the other room: ‘You’ve gotta see this. It’s madness!’ At first Baker thinks I’m lying. By three quarter time he’s certain I’m not. Eight goals to two in the third stanza and the most exhilarating thirty minutes of St Kilda football for as long as I can remember. Saints - irresistibly - by nine points at the final change.

More beer follows. It’s starting to taste much better. Coopers, eh. Maybe I should reassess...

There’s doubts, of course: we’ve spent too much gas. We’ll fade. We can’t maintain it. We’re St Kilda, we’ll find a way to botch this up. I try hard to keep them to myself. Tense silence betrays me. Baker lets me know. ‘They could still find a way here, my lot,’ he says, sensing weakness. Then Franklin gets greedy and Clinton Jones runs him down. Holding the ball says the umpire. Franklin looks embarrassed. Jones looks inspired. Baker has his head in his hands. St Kilda lifts again. The Hawks fall to pieces. Riewoldt confounds the critics and kicks straight to snare six for the game. Milne and Gram ice it with a late one each in injury time.

Siren sounds. St Kilda by five goals.

I bottle the gloat, but pride’s shining from every pore.

Baker’s sporting, but can’t find words.

‘Our night tonight,’ I say, helping him out.

He shrugs. ‘Too good, the Sainters. Way too good.’ His handshake’s genuine.

Then he’s off home.

[Moods]

Great read mate - loved it!

[bigred]

Great read.

I have similar memories of that game....as I was watching it at a mates place....

[mullet]

The best part was the shutting up of those obnoxious hawthorn singing supporters who think its hilarious to stand on the wing behind the st kilda members area and sing their stupid songs. All of a sudden jarred roughead was no longer walking on water

[Beej]

Haha, quality post.

I think we can all relate to your to-ing and fro-ing with your mate but you described it perfectly.

Thinline, you're not a footy journalist are you? You should be.

[Thinline]

Haha, quality post.

I think we can all relate to your to-ing and fro-ing with your mate but you described it perfectly.

Thinline, you're not a footy journalist are you? You should be.

Sadly, I don't take that as a compliment...

Nah. I do write for a quid, but writing about footy's just a hobby.

[Joffa 5]

The week before the game my Hawk supporting uncle was at my house getting all cocky about the hawks. I told him buddy was a hack and was going to get found out as a bit of a stir and he came back with 'who have you got to play on him?'. I replied with the best full back in the league and he scoffed at Max's chances.

That was a sweet phone call after the win

[Moods]

He’s right, of course. Our form’s a harder to track than Osama bin Laden,

‘I’ll be there for sure,’ he says, a glint in his eye, nostrils flaring at the prospect of picking on the bones of a freshly slain Saint.

Friday comes. Beers are opened. Baker’s on the Cascade Lights. He drove. Soft, I think to myself. Another omen? By now I’m clutching at anything.

At quarter time, I drink. What else is there?

At first his lack of sympathy grates. That little Jones bloke tries hard, he could say. Or something like: Riewoldt’s just off his game. What a player, though wouldn’t have been out of place. Or Fisher’s an A-lister these days. Elite backman. Doull-like sometimes. Nup. He gives me nothing. But then again, why would he? This is a hard, cruel game. Sympathy plays no part.




More beer follows. It’s starting to taste much better. Coopers, eh. Maybe I should reassess...

Great lines - Very Australian

[LovedLintonStreet]

Loved it

Great post. Got me fired up to watch the 2nd half on YouTube.

It was like a little advance glimpse of 2009.

[snoopygirl]

What a delightful read.