a Gigantic Tusk up the runter

 

 

Deflatee's,

It's probably best to be flogged in an 10 goal+ football lesson in the Grand Final than to get done over by a point. That way you can have a quiet cup of tea and rue the day, and there's no need to call for the Packer Wacker for the unfortunate fans with heart troubles. Disaster, catastrophe, eviscerated (as the Guardian put it) might not have been too harsh; a huge disappointment doesn't cover it by half, but "how embarrassment" seemed to sum up the day's tawdry proceedings from beginning to end.

Acres of old growth forest have already been sacrificed to newsprint for detailed 'expert' analysis of just what went so horribly wrong, so there's no point adding to the environmental crisis here. It's just such a shame that no one remembers who came second, ever. Nobody. That's now been consigned to the 'lil ol' history books for the Stats Guru's to pore over at their leisure as they do the things with numbers.

As the burning wreckage crashed its way to its inevitable demise, it became a game of how many sporting cliches you could come up with to apportion blame. "played their grand final last week", "didn't turn up to play", "left their kicking boots a home", "never had Buckley's" etc etc et al or according to one of my many Spies at the Ground, who threw in the astute observation "lost it at the selection table". Sure was. Some very obvious silly shitty mistakes were made there that upset the whole apple cart as it rippled through the playing ranks, and was fatal to whatever strategy they needed, because, as it was, Plans A, B, & C never worked. Failed miserably, is another way to put it. It's never a fabulous idea to go into The Big One half cocked and pretend you know what yr talking about. But the finger pointing and recriminations will have to come later, after the third grand final loss in a row ('14, '16, and now '22). The much vaunted "Sydney System" gets them through to the finals all the time, more or less, but the Premiership continues to elude them. Surely it can't be plain bad luck that they've blown their chances to win four Grand Finals in a decade and join the immortals? No heads will roll, but there will be plenty of navel gazing and casting of the eyes far out to sea during Sunday Smoko down by the Magic Waters of the Eastern Suburbs sea baths. Super Coach Horse will have to rub his chin a lot with a furrowed brow, as he ponders his long term future. He knows where the buck stops more than anyone.

It's never a pretty look to witness a team copping a Gigantic Tusk up the runter, and it started to become a game in my head to try and pinpoint exactly when we arrived at the juncture where there was absolutely no question that you could make the definitive call: ALL HOPE IS LOST.  But for those long-sufferers peering into CH7's Unblinking Eye, it must have been during three-quarter-time, somewhere between when the camera focused on The Great Mickey "O", who the papers would have said was 'visibly upset' - bugger that - the poor bloke had been weeping and when the camera panned across the faces of the deranged, nay, utterly berserk Geelong Cheer Squad and stopped on a banner that read vertically in navy blue on white "TOO OLD. TOO SLOW. TOO GOOD. PREMIERS '22". Or it could have been after the first bounce. It was abundantly clear from the off the Swans were playing the best team in the comp who'd won the Minor Premiership by the length of the street and were on song, having barely raised a sweat cantering through a Prelim. demolition job the week before to make That One Day in September as red hot odds-on favourites who'd had been coached to the very minute. But in the hubbub of the gargantuan crowd, who was the first to hear the faint distant strains of the Fat Lady singing? They are unmistakable.

So, that's another season of the Winter Game done & dusted, won & lost, and the good burghers of Melbourne won't known what do with themselves. Another Mad Monday is under the belt to clear out any chance of horrific recurring nightmares, and soon the thwack of leather on willow will be heard on football grounds across the Wide Brown Land. And in the famous last words of The Philosopher as he nursed this week's favoured tipple in his corner of the Front Bar down at The Local while repeatedly stabbing at the Red & White back page of the paper with his bony finger -- "there's always next year". That's just about the only thing you can't argue with.

GEELONG: 6.5,  9.8, 15.11, 20.13 (133). Goals: Stengle 4, Hawkins 3,
Smith 3, Cameron 2, Close 2, Blicavs, De Koning, Duncan,
C. Guthrie, Parfitt, Selwood.
SYDNEY:    1.0,  4.2,   4.3,   8.4 (52). Goals: Warner 2, Hayward,
McLean, P. McCartin, Mills, Heeney, Papley.
At Melbourne Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 100,024.