Ye of Little Faith,
As astonishing as it was magnificent.
But it was no miracle, or was it?
Hard to tell.
All meticulously plotted and planned from Day One by Longmire & Co, with an unlikely mob of blokes who were really only expected to bring credit on themselves and reflect well on the club.
No one ever actually dreamed that they would deliver in spades, let alone The Flag!
Lovely sandbagging at the finish of the regular season to go 3rd.
The finals series was about as perfect as you could imagine.
Unbeaten in three games will do.
That's all it takes.
And yet the Big Dance constantly had the potential to go fatally pear-shaped.
Thought about going to the Alexandria Hotel for the GF action, but did myself a mischief on Grand Final eve.
The dog was spooked by an evening thunderstorm, and on trying to push him out the back door to go to bed, he arced up, dug in his heels, and knocked me off balance.
Took the fall on the lounge room tiles and came up second best with a corked right hip.
Ouch.
So, ruled out with injury.
On match morning laid about nine pounds of nervous turd with my stomach in knots, so never in any fit state to go out.
A good thing too.
My roving reporter pushed through a telegraph message just before the start saying "It's 50 deep at the front bar at the Alex, and the queue is around the block. No chance of getting a drink. Stay away".
Looking at the camera sweeps on the crystal bucket pre-match around the ground, spotted in the stands the best banner of the day:
YOU DIDN'T WANT HIM
NOW HE'S SYDNEY ROYALTY
JOSH P KENNEDY
On interview before the match Coach Horse was asked what the feeling was like in his water and he replied, with typical serenity under pressure, "I'm just going to enjoy it for what it is".
Sound advice.
The Bamfords did their level best to be fools to themselves, and a burden on the community, but were overtaken by the spectacle, and in the end only made a handful of mind-boggling blunders.
Chief among them very early on.
As my spy at the ground telegraphed through "like to have a look at a proper replay of Jetta's first kick; looked for all the world like a goal from here".
[This was especially galling, as in my pocket there was a five dollar punt on the Jetta 1st goal/Swans by 1-39 points double at 50/1. Talk about being robbed blind. The Umpire's boss will be getting a bill for $255].
One of the most remarkable things about it was the Swans got the usual course of proceedings all arse-about.
Outclassed by the Hawks in the first quarter to be an ominous three goals down in a match in which not much more than a total of 12 goals would be enough to win it, turned on Champagne football in the second stanza to not only claw back the lead, but give themselves what could have been under normal circumstances a match winning position, then completely messed up the Championship Quarter, which is usually a sign of certain death, before coming home with a wet sail to somehow pull the rabbit out of the hat [to mix a metaphor], to score one of the most famous victories of all time.
Decided there and then to build a little Swans shrine out the back to worship at, where we can honour the name by day and by night.
You are most welcome to make a pilgrimage, and be annointed with the Holy Champagne.
That way you'll be able to Honour our Loyal Sons.
You'd like to be able to say that the result was never in doubt from the opening bounce [as it was the week before against Collingwood] but, so sirree, not against this mob, and not when they pull on their Cardiac Kids jumpers.
In reality the question was not decided until there was just 34 seconds left in the game as Malceski booted the match winner [who'd have ever guessed he'd kick the Swans first and last goals?].
That didn't give anyone very much time to tune their banjo's.
At three quarter time found mself yelling "Nurse! Brandy!" as a fistful of heart pills went down the gullet.
And when the scores were level, deep into the last quarter, was just about to dial 000 for the ambo equipped with a gurney, before the Goodes Train came to my rescue with a timely six-pointer.
Gawd Almighty.
Mr Ed The Talking Horse seemed to spend the entire match on the telephone.
Was he screaming at the telephonist "For Chrissake! Get me Jesus on the line!"?
And they couldn't even put "All Played Well" in the Best scorebox in the Sunday fishwraps.
Teddy Richards was all at sea had no idea what to do with that serial pest Buddy Franklin and was comprehensively beaten for three quarters, but came good in the last.
Mummy got himself smashed in the ruck as he struggled on a hammy, leaving Pantsman Pyke to pick up the slack and do an admirable job, particularly in the last quarter.
The Great Jude Bolton was completely shuttered out of the game, so decided to rest on his laurels in his 301st; the coach agreed, so he spent quite a bit of time warming the bench.
The Great Goodes Train staggered about on one leg after doing a knee early, but still managed to make funny faces, wave his arms about, point to the spot, and marshall the troops throughout.
While Rhino Keefe deservedly picked up the Normie, the gong really should have gone to the Haneberry Kiddie for mine.
Had an absolute blinder.
The unsung heroes in the side - the likes of The Childe Johnson, Rick Shaw, Larry Bird, Nick Malooch Malceski, and that ultimate rejected-discard-made-good Marty Mattner [happy about letting him go after 98 games, are you, Adelaide?] - all had outstanding games.
Son of Gary could have done a bit more, but no matter, his father - the greatest fullback ever to turn out for Balmain in the rugby league modern era - was in the crowd.
Odd Head McVeigh, named skipper for the day for sentimental reasons, had an exemplary outing.
Just did everything right, as he has week in week out for the most part.
Certainly never played a bad game all season
Special mention should be made of Morton Youngster and his crucial two-goal contribution.
He was quite probably the only teenager on the ground and in only his 4th or 5th game in the firsts.
On interview after the match he was asked "well, you'd be living the dream right now?"
To which he replied "it's just surreal".
Fancy, to get a Premiership medal at that age, when many of the greats never got to play in a Big One, let alone win one.
In the final paralysis, how many teams have ever won a Grand Final after being clobbered in the ruck, caned at full-back, and losing the Championship quarter?
Unheard of.
They are that good that key elements of the game can go to shite and they can still pinch The Flag.
You can analyse the thing to within an inch of it's life if you like, but, in the grand scheme of things, what's the point?
The fact of the matter is the scoreboard doesn't lie.
And the scoreboard says the Sydney Swans Australian Rules Football Club won The Last Game of The Season by ten points.
Done, and dusted.
The Silverware safely locked away in trophy cabinet in the Club Secretary's Office.
It's not very often you don't have to say "oh, well, there's always next year".
Goddamit, The Ol' Glory is right here, right now!
It's not a dream, and you have permission to bask in the sunshine for as long as you bloody well like.
Cheer Farkin' Cheer!
SYDNEY: 1.4, 7.4, 10.5, 14.7 (91). Morton 2, Kennedy 2, Jack 2, Malceski 2, McVeigh, Reid, Roberts-Thompson, McVeigh, Hannebery, Goodes
HAWTHORN: 4.5, 4.6, 9.10, 11.15 (81). Franklin 3, Gunston 2, Breust 2, Hale 2, Ellis, Smith.
At Melbourne Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 99,683.
Footnote:
Just for the record and for the sake of completeness; in the Rugby League, Balmain-Ryde-Eastwood Tigers 18 lost the Suburban Comp Grand Final to the Newtown Jets 22, while the Wests Tigers 46 beat the Canberra Raiders 6 to win the Reserve Grade Grand Final.
Augers well for 2013.
Forget who won First Grade.
And so, after 30 odds weeks, here endeth the Winter Game wire for another year.
It's been a bit of fun.
Thanks for putting up with the nonsense; and for all the comments, corrections, suggestions, drunken ramblings and downright abuse.
Happy to cop it sweet.
The Summer Game is already well underway and it'll catch up with you before you know it.
