no laurels to rest on

Critics,

Well, well, well.
What to make of MJ Clarke's third series as Captain?
Only thing that can be said for certain is that he remains undefeated, and even at 1-1 through the odd quirk of the last time they played them, still managed to retain the Trans-Tasman trophy.
After Brisbane, you could understand that the very long gap in tests played between Australia and New Zealand (1946-1973) was perhaps the right call.
After the Blicks first win on Strayan soil in 26 years in Hobart a week later, you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Joisus.
Just what is going on?
Pup's big ton in Brisbane was as pretty as a picture.
He's undoubtedly the best cover driver in the game when he gets the sweet spot, and there's no better square cut around at present.
Game changer, as they say in the modern jargon.
He had every right to be filthy that he didn't get man-of-the-match.
What the??
So, isn't it strange that in match where the Skipper makes virtually no contribution at all with the blade, the Kiwi's come up and bite them on the arse, hard.
They should bear the fang marks for a while.
Not that 241 was ever going to be easy to get on that pitch at Bellerive, after making 136 in the first innings to find themselves 14 runs behind.
You'd only have to ask Clarkey what he thought about it after being bowled neck and crop while not offering a shot in the second innings for sfa.
It's just like Clarke, who constantly fidgets and fiddles with himself while he's at the crease, to be a touch hyper-active with his field changes, for mine, as he hops about in the slips, which certainly contributes to the appallingly tardy over rates.
Something else he could tidy up.
Very sad to see Ponting being a fool to himself and a burden on the community.
While he's still pretty sharp in the field, and doesn't quite yet need the old man's motorised buggy with a red flag on the back and a shopping basket out the front to run between the wickets, he seems to have lost his eye in his advancing years against honest seam bowling that's on the move, and the way he slowly shuffles across his crease, suggests that he's lost the fancy footwork as well, and that leaves him wide open to be trapped leg before, playing on, or being bowled through the gate.
Surely he must know in his heart of hearts that he should have taken the ultimate responsibilty, fallen on his sword, and retired gracefully with some dignity after the Ashes Debacle.
Why put enormous pressure on yourself and the new selectors by being a shadow of your former self?
Someone has to draw a line in the sand, and for the best accumulator of runs for Straya since Bradman, it should be him.
Thanks for all the fish Ricky, we'll see you down in the Legends Lounge at the Twilight Home.
Mr Cricket finds himself in the same predicament, at his age, with the eye and the timing all but gorn.
Time to get on the Jason Recliner and take it easy, Mike, ol' boy.
The selectors would also want to have a look at how many byes Hadds has conceded and the percentage of fumbled takes in recent games; he's looking like a slow moving bus behind the pegs of late with an erratic driver behind the wheel, notwithstanding his excellent stumping in Hobart - mind you, it was a carefully planned set play, and only the fourth of his test career.
Poor ol' PJ Hughes looks like being sent to the spelling paddock; the fact that he's been caught by the same fieldsman in the slips off the same bowler four times in a row would have to count against him, and he'd be rueing the fact that there's no first class cricket between now and Christmas, by dint of some stupidly clever work in Cricket Australia's Match Scheduling Department, who've decided to put on a Mickey Mouse two-day game and a three-day match, neither of which are first class, as the Indian tour matches, with most players tied up by good money to the Big Bash, which is yet to show if it can draw crowds, and hence gate receipts, or indeed, any interest at all.
The Token Muzzie is so full of promise and yet continues to disappoint by his apparent inablity to go on with it after making a start, but should probably be persisted with for the time being.
The Suburban Boy, who not so long ago once feared that he'd never play first class cricket, let alone test cricket, obviously looks the goods in the long form and is likely to be a big star in all three.
And he's a good, honest kid to boot - all power to his oars.
Happily, the fast bowling stocks appear to be fairly deep for a change, despite the number of young tear-aways who find themselves in Casualty Wards all over the country, and the Token South Australian [mind you, he was born in NSW] looks to be developing into a solid, efficient, if unspectactular, offie.
MJ Clarke, Mr RJ Inverarity and the faceless men have some work to do, before they can settle into the Christmas Pud with Brandy Sauce and double cream while sipping on a draft of fine tawny port.
Oh, yessiree.
Simply no laurels to rest on.

a mix of yoof and experience

Spectators,

Trundled my vintage Toyota Camry [just re-registered at 21 years old] along Driver Ave on Sunday morning and parked right out the front of the Members Gate [jeez, don't the crowds flock in for the Shield? They were beating back the unruly mob trying to get in with rattan canes] at the advertised start time and wandered into the SCG without anyone noticing, only to find that they had been playing for an hour already, with NSW very well placed for the first innings lead.
What with the first two days being seriously affected by heavy rain and the way they are mucking about with the lunch and tea breaks in the Shield this year [they are now half an hour each, so lunch is now too short, and tea is too long. Progress, apparently. Can't see it, for mine. If it's not broke, why fix it?], no one really had any idea if or when any cricket would be played on the day.
As it turned out it was a picture postcard perfect day in the Emerald City; 25 degrees, a pleasant breeze and fluffy white clouds across the sky.
Me ol' mate Trev ambled in later with his tow lads in tow, and we got to talking why Katich wasn't picked in the current test team, just as we started to have a look at The Kat go about making a very good hundred, along with the 18 year old debutant Kurtis Patterson, batting at No.6 [who went onto to make 157 - the highest score by the youngest player on debut in Strayan first class cricket, no less] and put on a 200+ run partnership.
Brilliant, plain & simple.
From time to time we mumbled to each other, that back in day, a mix of yoof and experience was considered an essential requirement in any winning sports team.
We wondered why The Suburban Boy had been picked to open in the first test against the Blicks, when the Kat has opened for Straya more than once or twice, and has the small matter of 56 games under the baggy green to his credit.
And he can't get a game?
Just a sorry shame that his mouth and one man - who just now happens to be a selector - who he tried to strangle at one point, stands in his way.
The Mongoloid who was sitting a couple of rows across from us kept on calling out "Where's Michael?" "Where's Michael?" "Where's Michael?", until his minders told him to shut up.
Don't quite know what he was implying, but if it was that the Australian Captain should've been playing, or at the very least, standing around in the Members Bar with his Selectors Hat on having a very good look at proceedings, then he was spot on.
MJ Clarke was in town, after all, but nowhere to be seen at the ground.
Not that we don't like Warner.
Oh No Siree.
Just a few weeks a ago we'd both been at Bankstown to see Justa put on plenty, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with the way he clean clubs the ball with that great thumping tree stump that he's got for a bat [Lance Cairns' old baseball bat has nothing on it]; the thing is, he's fine bat, but still really untried in the first class game, so to ditch him into test cricket might end up being to no one's advantage, particularly as he's just filling in for the perpetually injured FIGJAM.
All things being equal, Katich should be playing in Brisvegas, but he isn't, and that's that - another of the many iniquities to be found in the summer game.
The Kat wasn't in much of a hurry to do anything starting the day, as he knew he had all day to shuffle about on the crease.
Against a dead-set pop-gun WA attack [they used seven bowlers on the day] with nothing much more penetrating than some sharpish medium pace from a bloke called Rimmington, Simon Says was happy enough with his immaculate forward defence and to rock back and forth on the back foot and just patiently wait to smack the rubbish.
And smack it he did, smacked it good.
At one point he clocked the perfect pull shot; by the time the sound of the ball cracking off the bat reached you in the MA Noble Stand, the ball was already at the boundary and the sound of it clattering into the fence hoardings followed soon after.
The Patterson Kiddie, in contrast, was keen to get on with it.
He was nervy and edgy to start, as could be expected, putting a couple over the heads of the slips that better batsmen would have hit at head high and been caught, but soon settled in.
A tallish upright left hander with a compact stance, he's clearly in love with the cover drive, and why wouldn't you be when you can play it that well?
Some good boundaries via that stroke, but he's a bit airy fairy in his leg side play that could see him caught out there on any other day with a few too many balls played in the air.
Also pushed plenty of balls to point for singles and some two's and three's backward of point.
Looked like a pro.
Obviously, you don't make a very good hundred on debut if you can't play.
Kurtis' Mum and Dad were in the ground forming the nucleus of the cheer squad, along with his two younger sisters who were flitting around with cameras, and by the time he's notched up his half century and word had got out on the street, another fifty people had joined them, all loudly boostering the kid when he made a good shot.
Lovely.
All in all, a good day out.
Seems like they've refurbished the beer taps in Monte's Bar to pour a half-way decent, and cold, Carlton Draught as we thank the Good Lord Joisus that the execrable, warm, Toohey's New has finally been relegated to the sluice bucket where it belongs.
A welcome development, even if they are still slugging you six-fitty for a schooner.
The offal pies were the same as they've ever been down the years; allegedly delicious served piping hot out of the thermo-nuclear pie warmer with all the sauces.
As we nibbled around the burning edges, we also pondered the poor fate of Trent "The Muso" Copeland, who of course, was never called upon to do anything all day.
We both saw him on debut at the ground a year or two back, and he's done nothing wrong since.
He's already got a baggy green, so you don't have to mint a new one, having played in all the recent test matches in Ceylon, and yet he can't get a place in the first test side to play the Kiwi Kuzzins, even with so many injuries in the bowling ranks.
What the?
He must be scratching his head and wondering what he has to do and if he's now a prime candidate to become a three test wonder, and put his cap in a glass case.
Beyond belief.
It's a funny game.

47 all out and all that

Critics,

The most contrary test series in recent memory.
The only certainty about the whole saga is that MJ Clarke got out of it undefeated as Captain in test series', but only by more than a few strokes of luck and twists of fate.
Take Cape Town as a case in point.
Perhaps Pup's finest test century to date [although his debut ton was pretty good by any account].
Leading from the front in a difficult situation, played all the shots; some of the best leg side play and straight hitting seen in the shadows of Table Mountain in quite a while, not to mention the pretty cover driving.
22 balls rolled away to the boundary in a quick smart innings of 151 with his ton coming off not too many more than a hundred balls.
Seeing it like a watermelon as time went on.
Then of course it all came to nought, when they got the Seth Efreakens on the back foot with a dead-set pop gun attack and came to within an inch or two of being able to enforce the follow on, and then found themsleves all out for 47 in the second innings, and were then thrashed piteously by plenty in the dénoument.
More than enough has been said about it, but no one can say for sure exactly how it came about.
"Inexplicable" is probably the best word to describe it, given that no one has been able to come up with a plausable explanation for it -- just like a UFO sighting.
Pup is probably still tossing and turning in his sleep wondering if any lesson can be learnt from it.
It was certainly enough to do Roebuck's head in.
Joisus.
[Got down from the bookcase the hefty tome of Wisden test scoreboards from the year dot up to 1977-78 to look up the the previous lowest total of 36. The Strayans found themselves in England in the notoriously wet summer of 1902, and were caught on a sticky wicket at Edgbaston - so at least they had something to blame - Trumper top scored with 18, and they still managed to get away with a draw in a three-day match ruined by rain].
Move the binoculars to Joburgh, and Pup makes absolutely no contribution with the bat, his field placings in the Kaffir Kickers' 2nd innings are heavily criticised in some quarters, and yet he still manages to get away with one of the most improbable victories seen on the veldt, all on the back of the The Childe Cummins.
An unbelievable fairtytale on debut.
Mind you, it puts eternal pressure on the kiddie, as he will no doubt level out in coming campaigns, and people will inevitably say "oh well, not as good as he was on debut".
And, a mere slip of a lad from the foot of the mountains, at 18 years of age or some such, he now faces the prospect of trying to play in six test matches before Australia Day.
Good luck to the lad.
Just a shame to see the old guard hoisted by their own petards for playing on too long.
Punter, of course, should have retired immediately after the Ashes debacle, Joke Johnno the same - always had a feeble cricket brain but to see him disintergrate utterly and completely to a shell of his former over-rated self is an awful thing to watch - Sidds was probably never a test class bowler for mine, and was very lucky to get the baggy in the first place let alone the number of games he got, while Hadds should have had the good sense to hang up the gloves stuffed with porterhouse steaks a while ago now.
Pleasing to see Clarkey stake his claim in the power play and insist that he be a selector in the new scheme of things.
Of all people, he should know his men.
It's always struck me as an anomaly that, in the past few decades at least, the Captain in Strayan cricket has never been a selector.
The new regime will certainly have their work cut out, but surely they can do no worse than that bunch of clowns, who at long last, have been forcibly pushed out the back door along with all their worthless baggage.

the man and his dog

Canine Fanciers,

Wandered into the picturesque Bankstown Memorial Oval with me ol' mate Trev on Sunday morning without being noticed by anyone, to watch the the first spot of first class cricket for the season.
A delightful ground that is almost a perfect circle with a picket fence all the way around and then ringed, as it is, by oaks, lilli pilli's and Port Jackson figs along with four spectactular Jacaranda trees in full bloom, and a scraggy looking pine tree near the front gate that was germinated and planted from a seed that some digger brought back from Lone Pine in 1915.
If nothing else, a very nice shady place on a hot day, and a good viewing ground.
Not too big - you can hear what is being discussed out loud among the players on the ground - and some excellent sight lines from the bleachers.
After lunch, without warning, the weather suddenly turned ominous with dark clouds building out the west behind the scoreboard.
In the end, it never amounted to much more than a thundery shower, but they were off for an hour and a half.
Kids played tennis ball cricket in front of the small grandstand, while the old blokes shuffled around drinking beer and having a chat.
During the rain delay a few people we hadn't seen before wandered into the ground, followed by a small dog trotting along behind.
Said to me mate "have a look at that, Trev, the man and his dog have just arrived in the ground!"
He was a white short-haired terrier type with brown blotches who also had some Daschund in him so had a bit of an elongated body and stood on short stumpy legs, with a furiously wagging tail.
The dog siffed about a bit and went on his merry way as no one took any notice of him.
As the half a dozen council groundstaff were lazily taking off the covers, affecting a look of not being in too much of a hurry, and then banging the stumps back in, the Umpires went out for a pitch inspection.
The Bamfords left the gate open, and the dog followed them out onto the ground, trotting dutifully behind the two blokes in white lab coats and fedora's.
The dog went for a bit of a perambulate around the field of play before Trev said "hey, look at this Craves, that dog is dead set going to piss on the stumps".
As he approached the three sticks with intent, some groundsman who was out there supervising the removal of the covers gently shooed him away, before another groundsman who was near the boundary called out to the errant canine, sat on his haunches, and then beckoned the dog to come over to him, which the hound duly did.
When he arrived at the groundsman, the dog flipped onto its back look for a tummy rub.
The groundsman gave him one and picked him up and put him under his arm, gave him a pat on the head, and carried him off the ground.
We didn't see the little woofer after that.
He looked like a local, but we couldn't find out his name.
The dog probably snouted around in the bins out the back of the canteen, feasting on some tasy leftovers, before going home.
The canteen had a small blackboard at the window listing the bill of fare in blue & white chalk.
It read, in order:
"pies, sausage rolls, beer, assorted bread rolls, also, chips, drinks, icecreams".
The third in the list of priorities happened to be three types of beer in very cold stubbies; Carlton Draught, Carlton Cold, and VB, all at $4 a pop.
The canteen [marvellously run by the ladies from the Bankstown District Cricket Club) didn't mention that they sold the cheapest beer of any cricket ground in the known world, no need to; there was always going to be a run on supplies at that price even with no more than 500 spectators in the ground.
When they ran out of the Draught at tea, the delivery van from the Bankstown Sports Club simply rolled up with more.
There was some first class cricket that went on as well.
Watched the Bluebags openers put on 233 for the first wicket against a Rednecks attack that contained a one-test wonder in PR George [who bowled a lot of half-way handy overs] along with the medium pacers Mennie and Christian operating on a largely flat, truly-paced, unresponsive pitch and the leg spinner CB Bailey, who didn't do much on the day except try to tie up an end, unsuccessfully.
The Maddinson Kiddie impressed; a tall straight backed bloke who plays mainly off the back foot and drives well and straight -- virtually all his boundaries were straight or square of the wicket.
Hasn't got many shots and virtually no leg side play, but that'll come with age and experience for a 19 year old from Nowra who finds himself opening for NSW for a second season.
As one wag in the crowd called out "you should be doing an apprenticeship, Nic".
Maddo might be wise to put his hooks and pull shots away until he perfects them in the nets because they were risky and not very successful.
Still, a very well made innings from one of the best of the yoof of today.
He was kicking himself when he got out to a very lazy shot for 92.
He could be something;n but at first glance you'd doubt he'd play test cricket, but might enjoy a ten year career as a first class opener.
But you never know at his age.
He reminds me a bit of Greg "Snail" Mail, who made a poultice of runs for NSW in the 00's without ever threatening to do anything spectacular.
As opposed to Dave "I'm Just A Suburban Boy" Warner.
After being in mortal fear of being pigeon holed as a T20 or 50/50 specialst pinch hitter, he's matured into an opener who, for mine, is likely to go places in all three forms of the game.
Paced the innings perfectly; blazing start, consolidation in the middle with the weather looming, and then flaying the bowling something fearsome towards the end.
Warner has got all the shots, and tremendous power through the stroke of the ball, which can ping to the boundary with that unmistakable crack of a good shot - but seemingly without effort - with that huge club of a thing that he uses to clout the nut.
The Suburban Boy decided to bring up his hundred by launching a huge on-drive that made virtually no sound at all as it hit the sweet spot.
We both saw it off the bat; it sailed over mid-on and was still on the up as it cleared the boundary rope, and then hit the very top of the huge jacaranda tree next to the groundsman's shed under which the tractor was parked, tumbled down the branches and into the massive open stormwater drain out the back of the ground.
The groundsmen rushed out of their shed and went to have a look just in time to see the ball roll down the drain to the Georges River, and waved their arms to the Umpires to indicate the thing was long gone.
Lost ball.
DA Warner 100 no [went on to make 148], standing ovation, then everyone in the ground rested on their laurels, had another drink, another chat, while a bloke in a tie and shirtsleeves conveyed a large wooden box of balls onto the ground.

NSW V SA.
Toss: NSW.
Stumps Day One:
New South Wales 1st innings 283/3 (SM Katich 13*, SPD Smith 19*, 77 ov).

appears to know what he is doing

Followers of fashion,

So, what to make of MJ Clarke's first test series as Captain of his country?
1-0 speaks for itself, of course, but all reports coming in on the bush telegraph from Ol' Ceylon suggest he deported himself most satisfactorily both on and off the field.
Skippered a comprehensive win in the first test on a featherbed that turned into a Death Valley dust bowl, found himself a rain victim in the second test through no fault of his own while well placed, and played out a sensible draw to secure the series win in the third test, while scoring a century himself on the last day of the last match to put the issue beyond doubt.
Pulled off a couple of strokes to genius, most notably putting on that formidable strike weapon MEK Hussey to bowl, and pick up the crucial wicket of Sangers on the opening day of the second test.
Huss said "he couldn't believe" that he'd been asked to warm up the bowling arm, but afterwards described Pup as "the thinking man's Captain".
The poo-bah's down at the Sinhalese Sports Club in Colombo suggest Clarke followed all the local customs to the letter, was very gracious towards his hosts, got on well enough with officialdom, and commanded the confidence of his men.
They say he appears to know what he is doing.
All in all, a debut that can't be faulted, and above all resisted singing his own praises.
Respect.

only had themselves to blame

Flabbergastees,

Devastated, crushed, shattered, heart broken are all good words in the circumstances, but none adequately sums up the bitter, bitter disappointment felt by thousands upon thousands of fans world wide at such an ignominious finish to the season.
SC Sheens was "too distressed" to attend the post match press conference.
If the coach was speechless, so was everyone else.
For a bloke who won the '05 Grand Final and knows what it's all about, Marshall described the result as "the worst loss of my life".
We are right there with you on that one, Benji.
And it's never nice to be done in by a stroke of extraordinarily appalling bad luck.
Not that they weren't without blame, oh no, sir.
Just in a game when they didn't need it, a poor performance in defence resulted in the leaking of soft tries; all but the last Worriers try can only be described in classical terms as "soft".
It was clear to me that a touch of arrogance afflicted them at 18-6, along the lines of "we've got you beat here, all we need to do is put the fruit on the sideboard, without having to work very hard".
More often than not that's a fatal attitude.
Two failed field goal attempts just before half time were a good idea [ie it's easier to get them early than late, in theory], but they worried me.
For mine, it planted the psychological seed in the opponents mind that the Tigers were intent on putting the game to sleep with a good lead, when it was patently obvious that more than one point was needed on the scoreboard.
It was like trying to take out an insurance policy, only to find the bastards refused to pay out in the end.
It aint over until the Fat Lady sings when the Bamford blows the whistle after 80 minutes, no more no less.
At half-time the bush telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom chattered into life with a message from Mary MacKillop.
Pulled the tape off the machine and saw that it read "New Zealand needs a miracle".
And so it came to pass.
The, by now, old ploy of grinding the opposition into the dust and waiting for them to tire and the gaps to open up just didn't work here - it never happened; this mob of Brown Brothers are some tough nuts, to be sure.
The Worriers just kept on taking it up time and time again and managed to keep the scoreboard ticking over.
With two minutes left in the match came the bad luck to end all bad lucks.
Desperately trying to hold out the opposition within a couple of metres of the try line, Inu took the ball at fair pace and looked like he had crashed over, but he knew he was inches short and had never lost control of the ball and wasn't effectively tackled even though he was fully stretched out on the ground.
Inu accepted the invitation and scored with a legitimate double movement, as he was perfectly entightled to do, putting the ball on the chalk to win the match.
Joisus.
Moltzen was clearly to blame; he thought he had made the tackle, but he only played at the ball without stopping the man, never mind that the defence was in disarray and he really had no one onside to help him
Lord help me.
The Bamfords had a poor game - the winning coach complained about them, for chrissake! - but the TV umpire got it quite right in this case.
To think that a season that promised so much could be snuffed out in an instant by a matter of centimetres.
Sat stunned on the lounge thinking how on earth this could happen; to mix a metaphor, you wouldn't read about it in your wildest dreams.
The Good Lady Wife appeared to be distraught.
After she recovered from her eyes glazing over with the aid of a large draft of dry red, she asked me straight out, with a heavy sigh, whether the whole season had been a worthwhile excercise, with a suggestion in her voice that the time, money, emotion invested in it might not have been.
It really wasn't a good time to ask the question, but tried to be positive and put on a brave face, and mumbled something along the lines of "well, you know what they say, it's all about the journey, not the destination".
She pulled me up there.
"No it's not!", she cried, "That's bullshit! And you know it. I'm really upset by all of this, to go out like that in the semi-finals. It's f*ckin' f*cked."
Who's to argue?
We agreed that four games at Leichhardt Oval was well worth doing, that the late season purple patch was a thing to behold, after they hovered in the bottom of the eight half way the season and for a while there looked for all the world that they might not make the grade.
But, of course, it was naive to think that the patch could go on forever.
Losers of course can please themselves, and there is the temptation to fill the off season with questions of "what if", but SC Sheens will make it his business to put a stop to that forthwith.
Walked past the Front Bar at The Local on Saturday morning pretending to be on my way to the shops; just eased the door ajar and peeped in surreptitiously.
It was no good, the Brown Brothers spotted me and burst into uproarious laughter, before one big boofhead came over to the door and opened it wide saying "sorry bro, bad luck, eh bro? don't worry, bro. come in, mate, its alright"
They poured me a schooner out of the jug and passed on their condolences while extolling the virtues of the Kiwi victory and their chances of going further.
Didn't last long in that company, finding it rather distasteful.
On leaving the bar, found The Philsopher alone, slumped in his usual corner, nursing a large brandy balloon.
He looked catatonic, as he compulsively shook his and muttered to himself over and over again "they only had themselves to blame."

WESTS TIGERS 20. Tries: Farah, Galloway, Marshall. Goals: Marshall (4).
NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 22. Tries: Hohaia, Inu, Maloney, Mateo. Goals: Maloney (3).
At Sydney Football Stadium.
Crowd: 27,109.


The failure to kick a single goal in the first quarter of a semi-final well and truly put the writing on the wall.
Mr Ed was seen in the coaching box scratching his head and his chin simultaneously, while his legion of assistants frantically scrabbled through the sheaves of gin-soaked game plans, desperately looking for Plan B.
By the time they found it, the match was long gorn.
Going into quarter time with but a single solitary behind on the scoreboard was screaming "no coming back from this".
And so it came to pass.
Sydney found themsleves 28 points down before they put one through the big sticks, and catch up football is never going to work in big games.
All the more puzzling as Mummy dominated the hit outs early.
John F Kennedy didn't have a bad game; Rhino Keefe, Rick Shaw and Odd Head McVeigh battled away manfully, while the Goodes Train kicked a few beautiful goals; as for the rest, they were just spectators as the Hawks ran rings around them.
As predicted last week, class will always win out in the end at the pointy end of the season.
It didn't help that they once again ran into the Lance Franklin Show; never mind that Buddy was playing on one leg.
Given that the rugby league and the rules games were played simultaenously, really only saw the second half, which was a good thing in the final paralysis, as it was an entirely unsatisfactory thing to watch.
The flock of seagulls at the MCG might as well have umpired the game; there were so many of them, and they were real pests.
They might have to ban chips at the ground for the rest of the finals, or if the punters won't cop that, the authorities should just spray the arena with 12-gauge shot guns as part of the pre-game entertainment.
Dead and dying shot birds have always been a spectacle, just ask the duck shooters, so why not?
And since when have seagulls been a problem at night?
Do they not rest?
A very disappointing, if predictable, end to the season.
What made it worse was the Swans weren't even that gallant in defeat, going out with a whimper.

HAWTHORN: 3.5, 10.5, 12.6, 19.8 (122). Goals: Franklin 4, P Puopolo 3, Bateman 2, Hale 2, Rioli, Lewis, Hodge, Shiels, Bailey, Osborne, Suckling, Burgoyne.
SYDNEY: 0.1, 4.1, 9.6, 13.8 (86). Goals: Goodes 3, O'Keefe 3, Bird, Rohan, McVeigh, Spangher, Mumford, Reid Kennelly.
At Melbourne Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 55,198.

The Tigers have jettisoned the dead wood and have already bought well, securing the services of Adam "Stink" Blair and paying him a minor fortune to lock the pack next year, they have a marquee hooker and five eighth on long term contracts, the centres are fine and they have enough wingers, but they could really use another highly experienced half-back and full-back.
No doubt that will be seen to.
Otherwise, right as rain.
The Swans are developing their young talent well, but still need to pick intelligently in The Draft, not much required to add to the mid-field, but they must get busy in Trade Week for some genuine tall forwards and some more starch in the backs with the retirement of The Great Kennelly et al, while The Train should be encouraged to play on for just one more year, before he runs out of puff and is confined to a wheelchair.
Bob's your uncle.
As they say in the classics, there's always next year.
And so endeth the Winter Game wire, rather too abruptly for mine, for another season.
It's been fun.
If you could be bothered, thanks for reading.
Appreciated all the insightful [or otherwise] comments, corrections, suggestions, light-hearted banter, downright abuse, and drunken ramblings.
Now, bring on Mad Monday, Cup Week, and some first class cricket.

a game of two halves

Fanatical loyalists,
The seamlessness of the free major event bus network to the Olympic Stadium from all over town is one of very few valuable legacies of the 2000 Games.
Slightly worried that most of the people on board were St George supporters, but needn't have.
The match drew more than a few weirdo's out of the woodwork, like the bloke in the wheelchair who was dressed in a bright orange three peice suit.
On account of his apparent handicap, he got priority service at the bar, even though he was yelling alot and wasn't driving his conveyance all that well.
In truth, he was as pissed as a parrot.
Then there were the blokes with the full Sumatran tiger costume on top, teamed with Fijian men's skirts and bare feet down below.
Some people had obviously gone to the legion of face painters who were about and said "Black me up! Make me look like Benji!".
Almost did myself.
Or the two South Sea Islander women who were sitting behind us and spent the entire second half in a completely hysterical state, with attendant screeching and wailing like a pair of banshees.
What it is that compels people at big sporting events to dress and behave in a manner that they wouldn't even remotely contemplate otherwise remains a matter of deep mystery.
Slid easily into the cheap seats in the north eastern corner, surrounded by like minded Balmain and Wests supporters.
Even though we were just 27 rows back from the fence, you are a long way from the action in such a massive stadium, and the sight lines for rugby league are just terrible
At least they have a BIG screen.
Found myself coming down the steps to the concourse early in the first half holding two glasses of red wine aloft [why buy an execrable mid-strength beer at $6.50, when you can get a well filled tumbler of a cheeky Tyrells shiraz at $7?
A no brainer], when The Great Benji scores a freak try from nothing, an air swing of a kick that misses the boot and comes off his knee, the ball bounces off a hapless Dragon, and Marshall [albeit with a hint of a knock on] re-gathers and strolls away to score under the posts.
The Tigers section of the crowd went apeshit.
Tigers fans out numbered Saints fans by a margin of at least two to one, and made some tremendous noise with it, but there was precious little to cheer about for the rest of the first 40.
In fact...absolutely nothing, as Balmain lost their mojo and never looked like scoring again.
What the?
Turned to the Good Lady Wife on the half time hooter and said "well, that was the worst first half of football they've played in months".
SC Sheens on interview after the game said "that was the worst first half of football they've played all season. I was very surprised we weren't down 20-nil at half time".
Out in the bars and smoking lounges at the break there were some worried looks and downcast faces.
The general consensus of opinion was that Balmain's only hope was they might outlast the Dragons in terms of overall match fitness and run over the top of them.
And so it came to pass.
SC Sheens must have put a rocket with suitably appropriate high explosives attached to it right up the Tigers' collective runter in a merciless spray at half time.
There can be no other explanation for it.
Early in the second half, the Tigers spilt a nothing ball in the St George half, and SC Sheens - who was coaching from the sideline - in a rare display of emotion, stabbed his umbrella into the turf and said for anyone within earshot who cared to listen "f*ck, f*ck, F*CK".
With half an hour left in the match, the Saints did suddenly tire badly, and the gaps started to open up, ripe for explotation by the Balmain forwards, before the backs finished off the job.
Moltzen from way out back was easily Man of The Match, playing against the club he is going to next year, by inserting himself in the attacking movement at critical moments to create the extra man in second phase play when the ball is out there on the end of a string.
The points were always going to come, and Benji, thankfully, had his kicking boots on, particularly the two penalty goals, that proved invaluable, but the result was always in doubt right up to Benji working himself into a field goal position at the denoument, after his pack had put in the hard work to get him there, and he simply potted the one-pointer over the black dot from about 20 yards out.
A text book example of how to win coming from behind, not to mention that the purple patch has now extended to nine wins in a row with sudden death football upon us.
When the final whistle blew, turned to the GLW and said "that was the best second half of football they've played in months".
SC Sheens on interview after the game said "that was the best second half of football they've played all season."
The proverbial game of two halves, if ever there was one.
There were wild scenes at full time as utter pandemonian broke out.
Grown men were carrying on like pork chops, children were screaming and flipping all about, while women were weeping, some with joy, others with despair.
Heard some raucous singing coming from the dunny block on the way out, and on investigation, found scores of blokes heartily singing "Oh when the Saints! Oh when the Saints! Oh when the Saints go marching OUT!"
Etc.
[Even though, under the McIntyre system, St George did eventually survive and go through to the second week despite the loss].
In the huge throng outside the stadium we ran into a bloke who was running around in ever decreasing demented circles like he was afflicted with St Vitus dance displaying a large banner which simply read "SOWARD SUCKS".
The GLW stopped him and asked "where did you get that, mate?"
"I made it meself!!", he replied with pride.
Obviously in rapture.
The event bus on the way home was an ebullient affair.
Tigers fans are everywhere.
On our travels, we've run into people wearing Balmain gear in Vietnam, Laos, Bangkok and right out in the backblocks of north-eastern Thailand.
On Monday morning dropped into the Enfield Produce Store to pick up 20kg of chook feed.
The bloke out the back in there knows me.
He's a Tigers fan.
As we were loading the gear into the boot of my car he gave me a dissertation:
"Whaddya reckon mate? Mighty Tiges to win the Grand Final? The Worriers don't have any frighteners for us, do they? I reckon it's the same with Melbourne. The Storm are vunerable on their right edge, for mine. Tuqiri and Lawrence will find a way through there, easy. Much prefer to play Manly in the decider; Brisbane scare me, they are the definite dark horses - young, big, fit, strong, and they are doing it for an inspirational captain. Let's just hope St George do us another favour and knock out the Bronco's for us this week, and we wouldn't mind playing the Dragons again in the Grand Final, would we?".
Just nodded my head in agreement and said "fair enough", aknowledging he'd succinctly summed up the road to lifting the Cup to perfection.
Here is a man speaking wisdom.
Later in the morning, wearing a Tigers cap, ventured into the bottle shop down on the Canterbury Road to pick up a unit of hospital grade brandy to settle the nerves.
They know me in there and there was a bit of lighthearted banter about football, given that there is a St George supporter on staff.
In walks a woman, a very neatly dressed wine rep coming in to check if they needed any stock to stock up on the stock.
She looks at me and says "That's a mighty fine hat you have on there, Sir".
"I know".
She says "Waddya reckon, Tiges to win the Grand Final?"
"Dunno. But I really hope so".
Instinctively reached into my pocket and fished out the Tigers keyring on the car keys to show her.
"What did you think of Friday night's game?", she said.
"I was there."
"So was I!! I am living proof that it is possible to get a bit pissed on mid-strength beer".
She then reached into her purse and got out her Tigers Gold Membership card to show me, which meant she'd had a ticket to every home game.
Took my bottle of St Agnes, and we exchanged broad smiles and thumbs up, before going on our merry way.
On Saturday morning, surreptitiously eased my way into the Front Bar at the Local, as is my wont, just to survey the scene, and see who is betting on what, and so forth.
The Philosopher was still in bed, but there is one local Brown Brother who has eschewed his national team, in fact, he can't stand the Worriers, which has been known to cause trouble with his kin folk.
Fisticuffs are not unknown in the Front Bar.
He's a long term rabid Tiger's fan.
Wasn't in the bar for more than a few minutes, when in he bursts, dressed from head to toe in Tigers merch, with a huge idiot grin on his face.
After a round of high fives he breasts the bar, orders jugs all round to shout the bar, and says to the barmaid: "Whaddaya ya reckon, Amy? Tiges to win the Grand Final?"
The long suffering barmaid rolled her eyes and said "Joisus Christ. I bloody well hope so, if it makes you happy".
Enough said.

WESTS TIGERS 21. Tries: Heighington, Marshall, Ryan. Goals: Marshall (5). Field Goals: Marshall (1).
ST GEORGE ILLAWARRA DRAGONS 12. Tries: Nightingale, Rein. Goals: Soward (2).
Crowd: 45,631.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.


"Ye of little faith" has been a phrase bandied about mid week in reference to me prematurely writing off the Swans after the Richmond debacle at the MCG.
Reminded, that according to this wire, the Swans were prime candidates for being 'eaten alive for breakfast' in the first week of the finals.
Wrong, probably for the first time since '89.
Barked up the incorrect tree, obviously.
It turns out Mr Ed knows about finals football and brought what he knows to the match.
A game of four quarters where Sydney were in peril of losing on a number of occasions, and lets face it, it's not often that a team gets comprehensively beaten in the Championship Quarter and still goes on to win the match.
Hardly ever happens in finals.
But it in other ways it was a typical final; hard-fought, ground-out, determined, gritty are some words that come to mind.
Pity they don't do Brownlow points for the finals, as The Train would have undoubtedly picked up a few.
Rhino was at his best as the Swans won it in the mid-field, and were harder all round, especially with the ball on the ground.
Loved The Great Irishman when he was penalised by that turd Ray "Artform" Chamberlain, who was on the other side of the field, for some non-existent infringment.
The idiot Bamford ran in from 50 yards away to give Tadgh a lecture on what he had done wrong, but Kenneley in the twilight of his career, had clearly had enough of this one.
Couldn't care less if he was suspended, as he's about to retire.
He just eyeballed Chamberlain from close range and gave him a right gobful about how he had read the rule book lately, when {guessing this is how it went} "you, you mong there with the whistle, yes that's right, that's you Ray, when was the last time you read the freaking rule book, you clown?", and then went on to give him free advice about the future of his career, and complained long and loud that to give a free kick against him was an outrage, that under the outrageous circumstances, wouldn't be tolerated by most people.
Artform just stood there gobsmacked that a player had told him in no uncertain terms to shut the f*ck up and listen to the bloke who was calling him a loudmouthed fool, in a pleasant Irish brogue.
Without doubt the best exchange of words between player and officialdom all year.
Brilliant.
The cards may just fall the Swans way again this week, as the Hawks are looking more and more like shot birds.
But if they jump that hurdle it'll be the Pies in the Grand Final qualifier.
Still, the equation is simple enough, if Sydney want to win the flag, then they are going to have to beat the top two teams.
A tall order, but stranger things have happened.

ST KILDA 1.3, 3.4, 7.7, 8.9 (57). Goals: Schneider 2, Goddard 2, Koschitzke, Dal Santo, Riewoldt, Milne.
SYDNEY 2.4, 7.6, 8.9, 12.10 (82). Goals: O'Keefe 4, Goodes 2, McGlynn 2, Mumford 2, Spangher, Reid.
At Docklands Stadium.
Crowd: 39,205