Wild Anticipationists,
The day after the 2005 Grand Final, SC Roos started to plot and plan this one, and it wasn't long until he had Longmire on board to help him out.
They knew it was likely to take this long.
Seven years.
After a long, patient wait, they'll see to it that they don't fall at the final hurdle.
Don't you worry about that.
Match Day did not auger well from the off.
Late-morning found myself in dreadful need of a a nerve-settler or three so dropped into the Front Bar at The Local.
It was empty.
The Philosopher was curiously absent, as were the Brown Bros [someone said they'd seen them actually laying a new footpath for the council somewhere a couple of blocks away].
So there was nothing for it after the odd snifter but to go to the Back Bar for a spot lunch.
Minding my own business, and enjoying my pork chops when there was the unmistakeable sensation of something furry brushing up against my leg.
Only slightly startled, looked down to see a cute, rather small Labrador cross and thought "Aw...nice doggie has found his way into the pub looking for a few scraps".
Then noticed that the hound's collar was attached to a leash, so my eyes followed the lead up to unveil a seven-foot tall NSW copper.
Behind him, stood five of his heavily-armed mates.
The pooch gave me a good sniff and moved on.
Said nothing and went back to my bones as if nothing was going on, shaking my head at their poor intelligence.
Anyone in the Front Bar, if they were there, could have told them that at that stage of a Friday afternoon, all the kiff, pill and powder merchants would be down at the bottom pub tidying up and finishing off business for the weekend.
Couldn't work out if the police were so retarded that they were Collingwood supporters, or if they were just plain dumb.
As the Good Lady Wife remarked when the story was related "a good thing you were wearing your shorts; that mongrel would surely have snouted out some stray bud detritus that'd fallen into the cuffs of your trousers".
On the packed Olympic event bus to the ground [another wonderful Olympic hangover, the bus works as seamlessly now as it did when ORTA invented it 12 years ago], there was a boy of about the 8 years old, dressed in all black & white, babbling on about how good the Magpies were and listing off the names of their good players, with a critique of each.
Under normal circumstances you could tolerate that, but don't know what stopped me from snotting the child as he burst into song with "Good Old Colingwood Forever".
At the very least could have strangled him with my Swans scarf.
It was an easy egress into the ground, which is brilliantly set up for big crowds.
It's as good as the day it was built.
Quite surprised to find ourselves ushered into rather brilliant Silver seats perched out on a little low-elevation balcony with only two rows in front of us overlooking the ground from just inside the 50 metre arc; the drop down to the adjoining bay of seats were Platinum.
Scored.
Everything went like clockwork, on and off the field.
The result was never in doubt from the opening bounce, for mine.
Sydney looked like they had a plan from the outset - lock down the backline, smash 'em in the ruck, roam about with intent in the mid-field, and the goals will look after themselves.
As long as the opposition don't kick any.
Restricting Collingwood to just three goals in total deep into the Championship Quarter was just what the doctor ordered.
Never mind that the Woods kicked a couple of soft goals either side on the last break, it was game over, no Lamé, no cigar, no sirree, not this year.
In fact, Sydney was never headed throughout.
When Mummy tapped the ball from the first bounce to the Goodes Train, who set off and kicked the ball to Rhino on the half forward flank, you could see where it was all coming from, as if it was all pre-ordained.
Four goals to the good early in the opening stanza was always going to be very difficult for the Maggies to peg back.
Of course, the loco Bamfords made an exhibition of themselves throughout - what is it about umpires that they are all on drugs that effects their eyes?
But in the end, it was neither here nor there.
Found myself screaming and yelling "toot! toot! here comes The Train!" quite alot, as Goodesy was working his magic around the paddock.
Now, there's a bloke who knows everything there is to know about finals football, and the Yoof of Today in the team have obviously learned themselves a thing or two from the ageing superstar.
Chief among them The New Train Jetta who scored the goal of year.
Scooped up the ball on the half-back line, stepped on the gas and just kept on running, runnng and running for about 90 metres, with probably five bounces on the way through before kicking the pill from point blank range in a vacant goal square.
Thought for a moment we were witnessing running rugby league at its finest, with the extra degree of difficulty in having to bounce the ball.
The crowd went absolutely ape shit.
My Youngest was at the other end of the ground to us in the cheap seats right behind the goal and has a spectacular view as Jetta came straight towards her and booted the ball clean over her head into the bottom tier of the stand.
She said the Swans fans down there flipped out, and the noise was deafening.
Did like Mummy, after murdering them in the ruck all night, taking a simple mark off a well worked lead right in front of goal to boot the final quarter match winner deep into the teeth of the Collingwood cheersquad.
A truly fabulous scene, as at that point Pies fans started leaving the ground in droves and the Swans supporters stood as one and waved them goodbye.
No finer sight in the game than dejected Collingwood people.
Hawthorn hold no fears if they can only tidy up Adelaide by a mere five points, after losing the lead with five minutes to go.
Plus, the Hawks are, fortunately, wracked by injury.
They'll have half a dozen blokes dancing on one leg.
That serial pest Buddy Franklin has the potential to cause problems, but that All Australian star Teddy Richards should be able to nail him down flat with a tight tag all day easily enough.
Some hastily cobbled together trumped-up charge for some imaginary offence allegedly commited by Mummy quite rightly was laughed out of court before it even got to the tribunal, so Mr Ed has a fully fit, first-choice squad at his disposal [except for poor ol' In Like McGlynn, who was ruled out Wednesday].
It was a jolly scene [not of the Darren variety] on the event bus home.
We got the Club Song going after the GLW's marvellous warm up lead on banjo, played with her inimitable teeth music.
After the loyalists had the toon done & dusted, someone called out "bus driver, takes us straight to the MCG", to which the GLW added "and we'll bring our own food, as there will be no pies at this year's Grand Final".
That earned a hearty round of applause.
In keeping with not saying much Coach Horse didn't really comment at length on the win, but did emphasise the need not to play the Grand Final over and over in your head before you get to the ground.
"You get the balance right. You enjoy the opportunity that we've got ahead of us. There's no point blocking it out completely, but you need to know when to switch on and when to switch off."
On Monday night, my fancy, JP Kennedy, was never going to win the Brownlow Medal with too many votes leaked across the mid-field.
Son Of Gary and The Hannesbery Kiddie polled well as a result, but JPK was the clear winner at the club, as he should be.
Be buggered if it ever becomes apparent to me what goes through a Bamford's mind when it comes to anything, let alone The Chas.
The only thing that that can be discerned in that department is the sound of the pea rattling around inside the umpire's cranium.
Still, who are all these people who finished in front of my man?
Jobe Watson?
Never heard of him.
No matter.
When it's all said and done there is only one thing, and one thing only that matters in this caper, and that's winning The Last Game of The Season.
No one ever remembers who came second.
SYDNEY: 5.5, 7.9, 9.14, 13.18 (96). Goals: Jetta 3, Kennedy 2, Roberts-Thomson 2, Bolton 2, O'Keefe, Goodes, Bird, Mumford.
COLLINGWOOD: 2.3, 3.6, 5.8, 10.10 (70). Goals: Cloke 3, Dawes, Tarrant, Swan, Goldsack, Johnson, Beams, Fasolo.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 57,156.
Some of the more scurrilous Sunday fishwraps were suggesting that the Wests Tigers Rugby League Footbball Club and Super Coach Sheens were ready to "part company within days".
The only thing that needed to be argued over was the money.
Those papers tend to have good information when it comes to the rugby league, and so it came to pass on Tuesday; shuffled out the back door with, unlike most players, a nice fat sausage in hand.
He still had two years to run on his contract - the one he scribbled and signed on the back of a paper napkin in some cafe in Chiswick.
He would've been due about $850K, but has probably walked for a lot less so he can resign rather than being sacked.
You get the feeling that SC Sheens wouldn't be all that unhappy to walk away from it all, given that the club board has got rather sick and tired of having no silverware in the trophy cabinet after handsomely paying for a team, that on paper at least, was capable of winning the Premiership.
The buck always stops at the Coach's desk, and in any case, it had been looking for a while that St.Tim's halo had slipped.
After seven years and no results, it became increasingly difficult for him to continue to trade on winning the '05 Grand Fianl.
We'll miss the old taciturn bastard for sure, but he, more than anyone else, would have realised that's it's time for generational change - even though there are no obvious picks as a replacement - there aren't that many successful rugby league coaches on the market at the minute.
Surely, by now, it would have dawned on SC Sheens that you have to be insane to be a coach - in any code - and that it's not very good for your health, or your hair-do.
He'll be admitted to the Balmain Pantheon, no doubt about that, as a loyal servant of the club, and who could ask for anything more?
On Saturday night, after Canterbury-Bankstown got up over South Sydney to qualify for the league Grand Final against Melbourne, there were extraordinary scenes at Canterbury's now-disused home ground Belmore Oval.
Standing on the back deck at home, which is only a few punt kicks from Belmore, the toot of a car horn here and there kept building and building until it became apparent that the local Lebs had turned up en masse, with hundreds and hundreds of cars all blaring their horns like crazy.
Then started to hear the sound of wild cheering crowds, whistles, and fireworks started going off; even a drumming band turned up and could be heard in the mix.
The noise got really really loud even though it was half a mile away, and the dog didn't like it.
Still, better than a riot, but.
Lawd only knows what will happen if they lose the Grand Final though, as Bulldogs fans are not renowned for behaving themselves.
