on the pool deck at the Coffs Harbour Hilton, pt II

Midnight Tokers,

As Essendon rapidly go the same way as all the drugs they flushed down the toilet after being nicked injecting snakey substances into their player's eyeballs, while talk emerges of "insane" training regimes, and other clubs run their rosters up and down precipitous mountain sides in Colorado and Utah, what do the Swans do?
They have a noice relaxing four-day break on banana lounges on the pool deck at the Coffs Harbour Hilton, as bellboys flit about with jugs of Pina Colada on silver platters.

Never mind that the Australian Crime Commission has blown the lid clean off the whole damned thing, calling professional sports about as straight as a crooked stick, that's the way you win Premierships - the old fashioned way.

gin-soaked plans

Dog Handlers,

After a stellar year in the Test match arena, and having retired from the national team in the T20 caper [while still available for good money to play for whoever will pay him], you'd have to wonder why MJ Clarke still bothers with one-day cricket.
Why carry on with a format that's about to die and take the Goanna's legacy with it?
The powers that be suggested that he was "rested" from the first two games to give him a break, what with the hammy and the Shagger's Back 'n' all.
But maybe playing the odd shortened game is the only way to keep the eye in with the Sheffield Shield seemingly in interminable abeyance at the minute, but surely the bloke with the second most important job in Straya should be eschewing the pygama game entirely, and be spending his time plotting how to play India at home?
Joisus...it's a four test series in places like Madras, Hyderabad, Mohali, and Delhi with the first game just five weeks away.
It's a full time job.
Just ask Steve Waugh, he'll tell you.
Pup must be thinking hard about what sort of team he wants to take to the low-slow dustbowl turners of the sub-continent against another team full of rascal bowlers and half-way decent batsmen [even though Engerland got them 2-1], and once he's made up his mind, there would be no shortage of gin-soaked plans passed down through the years on how to play in India to pour over - then make up yr own.
Never mind The Ashes.
Cross that bridge when we come to it.

PS. There is no man in an Indian touring party more important than the "Entertainment Ofiicer", who is usually the perennial 12th man.
Arrangements require arranging.
You need someone to look after the dinner suits, as well as make sure the afternoon tea cucumber sandwiches are in order, and the Pimm's well iced, not to mention only the very best Cognac and cigars will do at the very arse end of the day.

this season's average in the stratosphere

Canine Fanciers,

So, MJ Clarke picks up the MOFTS Award for the three tests against those sterling chaps from Ceylon, and some gong called the McGilvray Medal.
Largely for his captaincy you would have thought [although he seemed to have had a peyote moment when he sent them in in Sydney. Isn't the mantra, particularly when at the SCG, when winning the toss "think about sending them in for a moment, and then bat"? Don't want to be caught batting last on a wicked turner. Got out of that one by only five wickets, by the way].
Mind you, he was pretty handy with the bat too, making 74, 57 [rtd hurt], 106, DNB, 50 & 29.
Kept this season's average in the stratosphere.
Anyone would be happy with that, more so the skippy.
Deported himself rather well on the field and in the pavilion, used his authority to good effect; in the rare moments of heatedness among the players, defused the excitable ones with his cool determined demeanour reminding them that they have to keep their minds on winning the game, but was never short of a laugh on the paddock, and got on well with the umpires.
For what more could you ask, Australia?
Given the level of applause for his batting in Melbourne and Sydney, the general public in the bleachers might just at last appear to be warming to his superlative cover driving, straight hitting, and that miraculous late square cut where he's 110% committed to the shot the moment it pitches, otherwise, leave well alone.
Never mind that he's without doubt the best player of spin in the world game at the minute who's not afraid of using his feet against the slow men and getting out of his ground to smack 'em to all parts, or the fact that he must be the finest exponent of leg side play in the modern era.
Now, it's obvious that people, some of whom are even unknown to me, have accused me of being in love with the bloke, and someone who would enjoy nothing more than being bummed by Pup, but c'mon, let's face it, he's grown up to be a dead-set genius, as people who actually saw him debut and play in the first class caper with their own eyes at the ground [like me] all those years ago now, thought and hoped, he might.
Still, he could do well to sack himself as a selector.
Little point being associated with the Chairman & and The Faceless Men who are clearly on drugs.
India will be the usual time-honoured grinding, agonising affair - the toughest test of endurance you can get - especially without that fearless player on low slow turners, MEK Hussey.
But, who can blame him for not wanting to go there anymore?
Clarkey's bad hammy, damaged knee, and his chronic Shagger's Back will get a genuine work out there.
In general terms, the only time the Australian captain is a selector in times-gone-by is when he is on tour, so perhaps he has no choice now.
But sure as hell, they/he better pick the best available in-form 12 from the touring party against Engerland each and every game, with the idiocy of sports trick-cyclist's so called "rotation policy" well and truly consigned to the history books, otherwise the Poms will have us for breakfast, like choice kippers on lightly buttered toast.


PS.
Off topic.
Best sight in cricket so far this year?
The Great SK Warne grabbing MN Samuels by the front of his shirt and getting right into his face, giving him both barrels.
Priceless.
Can't buy that sort of publicity.
One game ban and $4.5K fine a small price to pay.
In fact, for mine, CA should have given him a medal.

the jig was up

Elephant Hunters,

No one will remember where they were on Monday when MJ Clark did some kind of extravagant dance down the pitch like a latter-day Nureyev, and was stumped all-ends-up for 44 on the fourth day of the Perth Test Match.
Why would you?
Best not to ponder all that capital expended in the first two tests for no result at all, only to be flogged mercilessly in the last.
Moments when there's blood on the floor and all hope is lost are best forgotten, and consigned to history.
Never mind...
a) RT Ronting's (aka "Cap'n'Cockhead"] woeful form with the bat in his final series before finally realising the jig was up and, at last, shuffled off to the State Sunset Home for the Bewildered, given that he'd suddenly become old and blind.
b) MJ Clarke's captaincy - hitherto without fault - being found out big time by the Seth Efreakens in their 2nd innings even though he had nothing to work with; them getting away with 250 runs more than they should've still a blotch on his otherwise sparklingly stellar series.
c) a top order that's not right for England.
d) or the lamentable return of muddle-headed selection policy, where a perfectly good pace attack was entirely replaced by B-graders on the sole grounds that they were too weak to back up.
Lawd, save us, in this girlie day and age.
Were not the last rabble of selectors sacked for just that?
And the irony is that one of the current bunch, Pup, lost his first test series through, very broadly speaking, no fault of his own.
Not much point in speculating about these things here, as they will no doubt be among the terms of reference for the forthcoming Royal Commission into the Whacking at the WACA.
Suffice to say, it's never very pleasant to cop a gigantic tusk up the runter from a mob of kaffir-kickers.
Whatever they do with the Boys from Ceylon won't rate; and remember, the Dark Satanic Mills of Engerland lurk just around the corner...

spellIing it out for the hoi polloi

Canine Fanciers,

A couple of months ago, stupidly declined an invitation to watch the Test Match from the comfort of the Members Enclosure at the Adelaide Oval on a Guest's Ticket.
Fool!
Idiot!
Imbecile!
Certainly pulled the wrong rein there - big time.
Just another day, just another double hundred.
Right up there with the most spectacular innings played on the ground in the modern era for mine, if only for it's sheer audacity, breakneck speed, and breathtaking expansiveness as he tonked the pill that looked like an oversized watermelon to him to all parts of the ground.
Never mind the grace and artistic genius.
Never mind making 200 in day and hitting 41 boundaries in the knock.
Didn't have to bother much with running between the wickets, that's 72% of his runs coming as the ball clattered into, or on one occasion, over the white picket fence.
You'd have to go back to Barry Richard's 224 in a Shield match in 1970 to find a better one, there.
Chase after that, you kaffir kicker, then you'll know who's boss.
A nice little factbox appeared in the next day's fishwrap that should have been, but wasn't, headlined SPELLING IT OUT FOR THE HOI POLLOI IN PLAIN & SIMPLE TERMS:

"Clarke, who has been in great form in 2012, brought up his second successive double hundred today after he had made a double ton against South Africa in the first Test in Brisbane.
Clarke is the first man in Test history to score 200 or more runs four times in the same calendar year.
Bradman (in 1930) and Ponting (2003) had done it thrice in one year but the current Australian skipper has bettered the greats.
The right-hander started the year with a triple hundred against India. He scored 329 not out in Sydney in January and followed that up with a 210 in Adelaide against the same opposition.
At the start of the series against South Africa, in the previous Test in Brisbane, he made 259 not out. Now, here he is batting on 224."

Better than Bradman.
My father always claimed he saw Bradman's 299* at Adelaide Oval as a 13 year old, but he's been gone for ten years now.
Enough said.
Did like Jon Tuxworth's column in The Age after the fourth day which began with the line:
"Dear Pup, on behalf of the Australian sports media and cricket fans across this sunburnt nation, it's time to officially say sorry".
Yeah, right.
Not before time.
But he probably went a bit too far to include the general public in the apology.
The next time MJ Clarke doesn't make a first innings hundred, they'll be calling him hopeless rubbish.
Oh well, he'd be well used to it by now.
That's the thanks you get, mate.

fookin' respect

At the end of a week in East Timor found myself in Dili for the opening day of the Brisbane test match, but managed to drift across to loll about in an eclipsing sun in Port Douglas just as MJ Clarke set about making his double ton at the old dog track.
The kiddie can play.
Never looked like getting out.
His straight hitting, as always, was superlative, and of course there were more than a few cracking text book cover drives and square cuts where the ball made the boundary in the blink of an eye, but his strokes to leg is where he is a cut above the rest.
There are very few world class batsmen who have ever had such a complete command of leg-side play as Pup does.
Never mind that he saved the match from a precarious position, with a bit of help from Mr Cricket, after the top order proved to be miserable failures.
So, now, will there be any fookin' respect from the Australian general public?
Three double hundreds, including a triple, and a thousand runs in the calendar year, even though he only played in seven test matches, might just deserve some grudging admiration from the riff raff?
Never mind that he's turned out to be a better captain than most would have dreamt of and now lives the life of a thoroughly decent chap, does the bloke with the second most important job in Straya get any credit where credit is due?
Fuck my brown dog, Harold.
Seem to recall that Clarkey doesn't mind a hit at Adelbrain Oval, having watched him a few times at the crease there, from the now extinct, demolished Col Egar Bar, so, bring on some more.
Now it's time for him to really sink the slipper into the kaffir kickers.

never in doubt

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.