never in doubt

 

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.