Brave Beserkers,
The plotting of the gargantuan pitch invasion began
in earnest at quarter time. Just before the first break, found
myself clambering up the steps from Bay 12 to the Doug Walters
Bar when the crowd went absolutely apeshit, but daren't look
back for fear of toppling over. At the top the staircase,
pivoted, and saw The Great Lance Franklin boot his 997th career
goal and every man, woman, and child were off their tits. Of
course, Buddy got a standing ovation around the ground and there
was a palpable feeling in the air that something might be on
here, in a joint packed to the rafters and dripping with
atmosphere. My Spy At The Ground was also in the house, but at
the opposite end in the Members and he reckons they were already
having paroxysms in there.
Everyone had reviewed the old video footage of Plugger "There's
Only One" Tony Lockett sending his 1000th pig skin through the
big sticks at the SCG way back in '95, when a few hundred fans
ran on and mobbed him from a poorly attended match against a lowly Freo in the
second last match of the season in a town that cared little for
a losing team, let alone two no-hopers who couldn't make the
finals, with the official crowd listed at 10,410 for the Great Plugger's
milestone. Plug didn't have the same pull as Bud. The worst
thing that happened that day was a goal umpire dressed in a
white lab coat & Fedora got bowled over in the fracas as the
cops fruitlessly tried to become involved. It was a vastly
different world back then; Ron Barassi was coach, for Chrissake,
bringing the Swans back from their lowest ebb in 30 years, but
the 27 year old precedent had been set, and everyone knew the
pile-on would be on for Buddy's Big One. No question. An old bloke just along the row from us was
incongruously dressed in a Swans guernsey paired with a
tasteful set of gold Hawaiian shorts with brightly coloured
pineapples and palm trees on them. He explained before the
match began that he'd selected that particular set of togs "so
there's a better chance of getting seen on the TV during the
rush", even though he conceded his senior citizen status would
mean he wouldn't be the first one over the fence. Little did
he, or anyone, know what was to come. The only question
begging was when? The whispering had been going on for weeks.
The Great Man couldn't possibly do The Grand in an away game
(oh, no, no, no, no siree, the Swans PR Dept would have banned
that outright), the Living Legend got shut out of it anyway in
the season pipe-opener against the Pygmies scoring a single
goal, his 996th, so the odds were fairly long on four majors to
complete the feat at the first opportunity at home. Most of the
born pessimists rated the chances of the thing going off against
the Cats as very slim. But, only the old time rusted-on diehards
know that faith equals hope and they were there with bells on
anyway. Tickets were snapped up by a lot more than just the
faithful - there were plenty there who were driven by a bad case
of Sydney FOMO.
The Ground hadn't hosted a Swans game in nine
months, and the old paddock hadn't been graced with my presence
for just over five years, so the fever pitched anticipation was
ubiquitous. And as the game went on, it got worse. As the
maneuvering in the crowd got going after quarter time, the Swans
played some mighty fine second
quarter football, putting on seven goals to four to let the
scoreboard do the talking, knowing that Geelong would have to
play catch up football for the rest of the night, and they only
had to hold them the in the Championship Quarter and the
shooting match was in the bag. It didn't help the Cats that they
were caught in the Swans' new-found "McCartin Sandwich" up
front, got beaten badly in the mid-field, their back line was in
dissaray and their two marquee players were being tagged right
out of it. In reality, the Swans were too big, too strong, too
hard and a Sydney win was never in doubt at the main break. Of course, The Great Man could do no wrong
at any time during the proceedings, despite giving away frees
and having rings run round him. A bloke nearby barracked when
an opposition rookie half his age beat Buddy cold or better
still, when some Geelong 'superstar' dived for a free kick,
with "we didn't pay to come here to see you, mate!" Lance
kicked his 998th, and now it got interesting.
Having succeeded in beating the traditional
three-quarter time rush for the bars and dunnies after The
Champo - which the Swans won handsomely - this time found myself
a slip-slidin' across on the piss soaked floor in the Gents and
was about to push the exit door when the unmistakable
crescendoing roar in the house told me that The Buddwah had
kicked his 999th goal. Pirouetted on my stick and saw that some
boffin in their infinite wisdom had installed a telly on the
wall just along from the said shit house, so watched the replay
of the goal right there as the last break became this gigantic
swirl as folks were darting in every direction like Whirling
Dervishes. Nearing the end of three quarter-time it was simply
impossible to move in the human traffic jam, and all praise to
the Youngest Daughter (who'd flown up
from Melbun specifically for the match as she had a feeling in
her water that this would be it) for rescuing me and
literally wrestling her way through the wild throng to get the
old bastard back on his perch ten rows from the fence. Thousands
and thousands and thousands of punters had moved down from the
stands above and people had been switching seats so young folks
were on the ends of the rows pushing the elderly to the middle
and the walkways between bays were sardine tin packed with
people literally sitting on top of each other in a sea of red
& white. Some in the rows behind us had to stand on their
seats for the whole last quarter to see anything at all, such
was the crush. Security had vanished in the face of this heaving
half-to-fully pissed mob in a very happy frame of mind. But
things started to get really tense with a sense of intense
disappointment looming after all that, as the quarter clock on
the scoreboard ticked towards 25 minutes. And Franklin wasn't
even on the ground as Super Coach Horse held him back as the
ultimate strike weapon, something he's expert at, having done it
for the last eight years.
A stupendous commotion went up when The Living
Legend was finally released from the bench into the fray, and
with minutes left - it seemed like only seconds as time began to
warp wildly - No.1 Chad Warner fed Buddy with a perfectly
weighted chip kick from 20 yards, delivering the pill for the
thousandth moment, then time stood still as the stadium fair
shook with the thunder of the screeching, screaming and cheering of
thirty thousand plus brave beserkers. The moment Buddy took the
simple chest mark, all the Cats players except two sprinted
straight for the sheds. Seriously eager fans were already over
the fence and crouched on the boundary line like sprinters on
the starting blocks at "on your marks". Of all the 999 goals
he'd kicked, there was no way in the wonderful wide world of
sports that King Full Forward would be missing this one. As soon
as His Most Excellent Football Magesty lurched onto his
favoured left leg and the ball sailed through the
high-diddle-diddle to notch the 1000 - the gifted make it look
easy - total pandemonium never before witnessed broke out
everywere. And it will never be seen again. Security guards
opened the gates for people to stream on, sensibly preventing
the potential of a human catastrophe. It was pretty fuckin'
dangerous as it was, with legs, arms, and feet catapulted over
seats as beer cups flew and half chewed pies dropped as the
swollen river of spectators swept towards the ground. It's a
plain miracle there weren't more injuries. As more and more
punters continued to pour onto the Hallowed Turf, a hand crafted
banner with white letters on a red background appeared in the
Bill O'Reilly Stand: "Congats on 1000 Buddy! We've loved 420 of
them", a reminder of the number Buddy'd actually kicked in The
Red & The White (the others were for arch enemies Hawthorn,
just saying). And still they flooded onto the ground; fans
picking up sods of turf ploughed up by the players as souvenirs and one
woman even managed to spread her Nanna's ashes on the centre wicket square
amid the chaos as per the dear old rusted-on fan's dying wish
last year at 93. After His Glorious Greatness was finally
escorted from the field, the fans struggled to get off, there
were so many out there. The game, in fact, was in real danger of
never restarting at all - due to a lack of players. Of course,
every Sydney player wanted to watch the 1000th go through, and
apart from a small bodyguard for Buddy, they all then fled for
the nearest exit they could find as fast as they could. Warner and Ollie Florent took a wrong turn
under the stands and ended up outside the ground, on Driver
Ave, clueless on how to re-enter. When the crowd
started pooling at the boundary rope waiting to get back into
the stands, Supercoach Horse did a head count and found he was
five players short. They were all eventually rounded up, and
back on they went. In an
anomaly, the final quarter clock on the scoreboard kept on
running throughout the tremendous tumult. When the players
finally reappeared after the joyous riot, it read 51'36". Yep,
the sixty minute quarter was on its way.
There was a fair bit of pent up emotion left out
there by the faithful; all memories of empty stadiums, fake
sound effects, player bubbles, hubs and nubs, restricted
crowds where masks off were only approved while drinking
heavily - completely & uettrly forgotten. No Covid protocols of any
description were observed at any time by anyone in the
bleachers for the entirety of the match. It was like the last
two seasons never happened. Under the circumstances, with a
sub-mutant doing the rounds, it was a technical "super
spreader" event. But in the heat of the moment, no one could
give a blue root, and as always at the footy, the chances of
being gobbed on by someone are high. But no one will ever
regret being there even if they get crook, and as time goes
by, hundreds of thousands will claim they were.
The last six minutes of the match were played out,
as you'd expect, in a rather desultory fashion with The Main
Man firmly benched. But nobody had left the ground, so the
joint erupted once more in cacophony when the final siren
sounded as the scoreboard clock rolled over the sixty minute
mark to FULL: 00'00".
And then, for the first time during the night, it
rained.
That's entertainment.
SYDNEY: 4.3, 11.3, 15.4, 17.5 (107). Goals: Heeney 5, Franklin 4, Hayward 3, Gulden 2, McLean, Mills, Rowbottom.
GEELONG: 2.4, 6.7, 8.13, 10.17 (77). Goals: Close 4, Atkins, Duncan, Hawkins, Kolodjashnij, Parfitt, Tuohy.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 36,578.
