General Admissioners,
Decided to take the traditional way to Leichhardt Oval on Friday afternoon; the 445 bus from Canterbury station to Balmain.
[Of course back in the olden days it would have been the other way round from various houses in Balmain and Rozelle. In ’89, lived to close to the old Oval, you could walk there].
Announced my destination on boarding the bus.
“Leichhardt Oval, thanks mate!”
The bus driver looked at me askance and said quizzically…
“What you mean, mate? Where you wanna go?”
Did the quick computation in my head.
“uumm, yeah, Lilyfield will do”
The bus driver’s eyes lit up…
“Aaah! Leeelyfield! No worry mate. That’ll be three buck”.
[There has long been conjecture about which suburb Leichhardt Oval is actually located in. It is certainly not in Leichhardt, and probably not in Balmain. It’s either in Lilyfield or Rozelle.
One thing’s for certain, The Balmain Leagues Club is in Rozelle.]
A half a dozen intellectually challenged spastics got on the bus at Petersham.
There was one bloke with wild bug eyes and a gaping rictus, who was sweating profusely and chewing his fingernails down to the bone.
He was obviously worried about the match result two hours out from kick off.
Felt like telling him to calm down and stop being a burden on the community, but it wouldn’t have been of any use.
Decided that a couple of quiet ones in the Orange Grove Hotel just around the corner from the back entrance to the Oval would be in order.
Jumped off the bus only to find the old pub boarded up, shut, gorn, closed, finished up!
It couldn’t have been closed for that long as the planter boxes were still on the footpath outside, and the chalk on the specials board was still legible.
It used to be a wonderful watering hole.
People from all over the district would congregate there on match days, to enjoy the warmth of the tiny front bar with open fire place, before spilling out onto the footpath to swap yarns, talk shite, dribble and drink schooners of Toohey’s Old.
One or other of the venerable old ladies who’d been to every home game since The War could usually be found holding court there.
A shrug of the shoulders is all you can do when confronted with further confirmation that the glory days have gone away.
Some fast bastard will make a nice killing when the three storey apartment block gets whacked up on the site.
There was no one in the ground – one of the smallest crowds seen at Leichhardt in recent years, after the madness of all those record crowds.
At the Norman ‘Latchem’ Robinson Stand bar I noticed a boy of about 11 or 12 walk past, decked out in full Sharks gear, and wearing a sandwich board reading “Bring back Birdie”.
[For those of you who don’t follow the game intimately, Greg Bird of NSW, Australia, Cronulla fame was on a club suspension for glassing his girlfriend after an all night session on the drink. Apparently that’s de rigueur in The Shire].
Thought about telling the boy he was a sad individual, but then thought better of it.
It was easy to park myself alongside the Good Lady Wife on the little bleachers between the bottom of The Hill and the playing arena, on the 20 yard line at the northern end.
No finer viewing of the game anywhere in the world.
And what of the game itself?
It was one of the most unremarkable, pedestrian, lackluster games seen at the ground in many a season.
Cronulla teed off with a couple of quick tries, and then just patiently waited for the Tiges error, or to force the mistake and draw the penalty, to score again.
Tiges defence was powder puff, with no go forward from the forwards whose hearts were patently not in it, [surprising, given that they all must’ve be playing for contracts] so the backs could hardly be expected to lay anything on.
The Balmain wingers wandered around in circles in a desolately fashion, and both of them would have been lucky to get a touch all night.
There was a small group of Tigers fans, young blokes hitherto not seen at the ground, who herded themselves into a pen at the northern end.
They had a cowbell with them and a drum and stick, and had some pretty good lines with which to taunt the Cronulla cheer squad
Among them “show us yr premiership! show us yr premiership!”
On account of, of course, the Sharks have never won one.
There were emotional scenes after the game had finished; not a soul had left the ground early.
Ten minutes before full time the Tigers Kittens went around chucking hundreds of black, white and orange crepe paper streamers into the crowd to return to the field when The Great Hoddo did his inevitable lap of honour on his retirement from the big league caper after 222 first grade games.
He looked like the loneliest man in the world as he trudged around the sidelines on his own, swathed in streamers, acknowledging the crowd, with tears streaming down his face.
We stood, we applauded, we cheered, we wore our hearts on our sleeve, and threw our streamer at the great man.
We honoured a dead set legend and genuine ornament to the game.
It was up there with best farewells.
It was an end to a day; an end to yet another era.
WESTS TIGERS 6. Tries: Harrison. Goals: Hodgson
CRONULLA-SUTHERLAND SHARKS 32. Tries: Taulapa, Covell, Anderson, Seymour, Kearney. Goals: Covell (6).
At Leichhhardt Oval.
Crowd: 10,766.
Always a good look to give the last opposition of the home and away season a right ten goal football lesson on the march into September.
All the better that it was done without The Blackfella’s or Rhino Keefe.
That can only look good on paper.
The conundrum being that there is no replacing experience, even if you have to forgive the bad knees, dodgy shoulders, and the loss of pace out of the blocks over 20 yards.
Just ask the Vespremi kiddie.
Obviously has a boot on him, and shows promising skills while in play, and wouldn’t have been plucked out of the little leagues otherwise, but as raw as a Japanese radish.
Those who have taken the time and trouble to observe the football at close range might suggest the Swans final game form is illusory.
Taking on the Kangaroos is a good option; that grand old rivalry if you come from Melbourne of South v North [even if, due to the peregrinations of time, South is now north and North is now south!]
If the fishwraps can be believed, looks like the North Melbourne match committee will be putting on Grim Reaper costumes later in the week and taking to the team with a scythe.
A quick glance at the AFL finals system reveals it would have been much better to finish 5th, rather than 6th, as the third round crossover means you avoid Geelong all the way to the Grand Final if you get that far from 5th.
It’s been done before, but you’d have to seriously worry from 6th.
If there was a surprise, and the Swans manage to progress through September, the finals campaign would almost certainly come to a shuddering halt against the Cats in the Preliminary finals.
No flag, no cigar.
Sydney only has two things going for them at the moment.
SC Roos knows how to coach finals football, there is no doubt, and most of these blokes have been there, done that, so you would presume, know how to play finals football.
We live in hope.
SYDNEY: 3.3, 7.8, 12.9, 17.12 (114). Goals Moore 4, Veszpremi 4, Jack 2, McVeigh 2, Malceski, Bird, Richards, Everitt, Hall,
BRISBANE: 1.6, 3.9, 5.13, 6.17 (53). Goals Bradshaw 2, Selwood, Clouston, Henderson, Charman.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 24,076.
