empty interregnum

Disappointee's,

If anything good was to come of the weird-shit opening round of the AFL it was the-powers-that-be finally answering my years-long call for shorter quarters in Australian Rules.
Said it before, say it again, the game goes on for far too long.
Who on earth has got three hours these days to watch a game of footy, when the matches are seemingly on at all hours on almost every day of the week?
It was fine when all of them were played on a Saturday afternoon, but in this day and age of instant gratification?
They should stick with the 16 minute quarter instituted for no-crowd football, if and when the season resumes, and they should go further.
It's always been a mystery to me why the clock stops when the ball goes out of bounds.
What's that about, especially as the "deliberate' was being enforced to the hilt under last year's swathe of rules changes?
Shorter games would also mean new tactics and game strategies for extra interest, and it might even reduce the very high injury toll, which you'd have to think the players would be all for as no one wants be down
in Sick Bay drawing half-pay.
A win-win situation.
But if an empty stadium emphasised anything, it's something hundreds of thousands Melburnians, Old Adelaidians and Denizens of the Golden West have known since the invention of the telly - Australian Rules is a crap game on television.
You hardly see any lead up work except in occasional wide shots, you don't see the jostling for positions in the forward lines when a side is pressing for goal, and you never see the defensive players whose
sole job is to close down star players in opposition sides.
None of that appears on the Unblinking Eye.
David Rhys-Jones won the Norm Smith Medal for shutting down Dermott Brereton in the only MCG Grand Final ever to be graced with my presence in 1987, and yet Dave wouldn't have been seen on the Crystal Bucket
as Dermo couldn't get a kick.
There is simply no substitute for being at the ground, and as My Spy at the Ground remarked "If people can't go to the footy and cheer on their side, then what's the point?"
Quite right. Football doesn't work sans the Roar of the Greasepaint and the Smell of the Crowd.
There is no "A Wonderful Day Like Today" without it.
The premature end to the season after one game is a blessing for the Swans, as another of My Spies suggested the Red and the White (and the Crows for that matter} "won't trouble the scorers much" when it
comes to tallying up the Premiership Points in the denoument to see who's in the Top Eight and who's not.
That's if they even get the abacus out of the dusty cupboard in the Club Secretary's office.
It's a lucky thing for the AFL that they have deep pockets - made even deeper by their heartless intention of reportedly laying-off as much as 80% of their staff due to the current difficulties.
The lack of gate receipts is the club's problem, and HQ want nothing to do with it..."we've got our own problems, fellas".
When the clubs run out of money and stop paying their players, what happens then?
Will they cry poor? Will footballers have to line up at the CES and apply for jobs that no longer exist in order to pick up the dole?
But the shit will really hit the fan when the sponsors want their money back, and the TV broadcaster demands the rights contract be re-negotiated in a world where network television is rapidly dying anyway, and nobody's got the
faintest clue about what the future holds.
Seven would be glad to wash their hands of it, the way it stands now, as they will lose money hand over fist in an industry that's barely profitable, if that.
And what are the players to do with themselves now they're unemployed?
Training would have to be out of the question as 'social distancing' is impossible - there's far too much snot and sloppy spit flying around the practice paddock.
It'd be an infection hotbed, and put whole teams to sleep.
Gym work? You are kidding.
Suppose they'll just have to follow the North Melbourne lead and host all night house parties with plenty of grog and gak.
It's as good as time as any to get off one's tits.
And don't suppose the drug testers will be coming a knockin' on their doors in the foreseeable future, as they would have been laid off too, and it would be too dangerous anyway.
Whether or not the result actually stands is beside the point - it was a very unusual unique farcical match - and as long time followers of The Red and The White have pointed out - a win is a win is a win, and you'd always take
the four Premiership points if they're on offer under any circumstances.

ADELAIDE: 6.0, 7.1, 9.2, 11.5 (71). Goals: Walker 2, Lynch 2, Fogarty, Stengle, Atkins, Sloane, Murphy, Davis, Jones.
SYDNEY: 3.0, 8.3, 11.4, 11.8 (74). Goals: Heeney 4, Hayward 2, Kennedy, Blakey, Gray, Papley, McCartin.
At Adelaide Oval.
Crowd: 0.

Seeing an empty hill at the Spiritual Home was both eerie and depressing. It was as if the ghosts of past Balmain greats had emerged from the Pantheon and were stealthily haunting the joint in utter confusion.
Never seen Leichhardt Oval that empty.
Reminded me of sitting on that same hill back in '89 with a heavily pregnant Good Lady Wife and a couple of our mates in driving, torrential rain.
It had been raining for days, the grass on the hill had turned into deep mud and little rivulets were pouring off the mound and onto the concourse below.
You could hardly see the game through the pelting precipitation, and the thud and thwack of the tackles was about the only thing that could be heard above all the splashing and sploshing.
Got no recollection of who the Mighty Tiges were playing, let alone the final score, but the lasting vivid memory was there was hardly another soul in the ground apart from The Man & His Dog.
"The joint's empty! There's nobody here!" as we marvelled at ourselves being such fools wearing entirely useless plastic poncho's.
Surprised to see that elusive human-canine duo hadn't snuck into the ground undetected somehow, and the TV shots of some flag waving pissed idiots trying to look in over the barbed wire topped galvo fence were truly pathetic.
Such pathos.
There's a balcony on the back of terrace house there that overlooks the ground that would afford a fine view of the game - but I have never once seen it occupied by anyone during a match.
In 35 years.
Yet, when the ground was dead empty, that perch was full of chardonnay-gulping canapé-chomping supreme wankers, who were displaying no interest in the footy, only in waving at the TV camera's.
Look at me! Look at me! Knobs, they were, of the highest order.
Enough to make an Ol' Balmain Boy go off in the direction of sticking the fingers down the throat territory.
The Tiges had started the season off well enough winning their opening game on the back of a Benji Marshall "masterclass" against St George-Ilawarra in Wollongong - which did have a crowd of 9,137 in the rain - after
ScoVo had graciously allowed them in before banning large gatherings, mainly so the Hillsong Conference out at Homebush could continue on it's merry tongue-speaking way on the Sunday.
Now that's entertainment.
But Balmain had it coming to them in this game with a defence that was so piss-weak it was a shock to see the hopeless mess they were in out back, even to those who've lived through nigh on a decade without making
the finals.
And when the "Dog Rooter" scored a very soft second-half try for Newcastle it left a taste in the mouth that was most unpleasant. Made me want to spit out a gobful of gloop.
The Rooter of course is Mitchell Pearce, the son of the famous Balmain champion, legend, and immortal Wayne "Never Played A Bad Game" Pearce.
You'd have to hope that Wayne didn't feel the need to hang his head in shame, as everyone knows it must be very tough to have spawned such a disappointing deviant son who plays for the wrong team.
He's too good for that.
Before the season began the so-called expert pundits were asked to publish their predictions of the season's results, and no-one put Balmain finishing anywhere above 14th and many had enthusiastically backed them for
the Wooden Spoon, not very quietly confident they would finish stone motherless last and they thought the 7/1 on offer were luxury odds.
And in the likely event the season is delayed for a long time, it could even sound the club's death knell, unless some White Knight comes to the rescue, but you'd think they'd be in very short supply during the current interregnum.
Balmain has been short on cash for decades, buying and selling the wrong players and hiring coaches who were out-and-out gibbering duds and wanted their grossly bloated stipends paid out.
The merger with Western Suburbs was ill fated from the off, resulting in a totally dysfunctional board of infighters and backstabbers who couldn't organise a chook raffle, let alone work out two bob in the coffers.
The Tiges have been more than broke more than once.
Like everyone else in the country, how are they meant to survive with an income of precisely zero?
Here too the sponsors will all want their money back as the Leichhardt turnstiles once again rust to a ghostly silence.
For the faithful, it's a fine ol' time to close down the season. Only postpones the inevitable. They've tried to kill off the club before and failed, and they'll try again in a Doomsday Scenario.
Supporter solidarity and eternal vigilance are the only things standing between us and them.
It was shaping up as yet another Winter of Discontent for the die-hards anyway, so, as the Philosopher said while nursing this week's favoured tipple down in the Front Bar on my last visit to The Local before they closed the pubs
"might as well just throw your arms in the air" and may the Good Lawd Joisus help us all.

WESTS TIGERS 24. Tries: Nofoaluma, Thompson, Reynolds, Leilua. Goals: Marshall (4).
NEWCASTLE KNIGHTS 42. Tries: Tuala (2), Ponga, Barnett, Mann, Lee, Pearce, Watson. Goals: Ponga (9).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 0.

unlucky in love

Canine Fanciers,

It's always very sad to hear of the end of a love affair. Still, the terribly upsetting recent news is not all bad for a bloke who'd willingly roll over and let MJ Clarke give him a root. Felt that way ever since falling in love with Pup on seeing him for the first time in the flesh as a raw rookie playing for NSW v WA in the Sheffield Shield at the Newcastle No.1 Sports Ground. That day he put on a century partnership with ME Waugh in a batting exhibition, and at one stage looked so comfortable against the bowling, he tonked a mighty square-drive that soared high wide and handsome...one bounce off the asphalt and over the ground's perimeter fence, whereupon the pill bounced a time or two, and then gently rolled across half a dozen netball courts, before plopping into Mullet Creek. Saw it off the bat and all the way into the water. Despite the best efforts of gangs of yoofs looking for it, lost ball was the call. And that, my friends, was on the 23rd of January 2003. Now if that's not true love, then tell me something different. Been the man's biggest fan for 18 years, and in all likelihood, he doesn't even know it.

So it's a crying shame that Michael found himself in the most unfortunate position of having to move out of he and the wife's love nest, a "$14M Vaucluse mansion", to "another of the couple's properties in Bondi". Of course, Pup's always been unlucky in love. But if you believe the papers - and why shouldn't you - "Kylsy threw him out the back door without so much as a sausage". So, let's make this perfectly clear, MJ Clarke is no cad or bounder, oh no siree, a man of principle he is, who went away when he was told to leave in no uncertain terms, it seems, never to go back.

Most unfortunately, it will certainly further tarnish Pup's already tawdry reputation with the General Public of Australia - who have never liked him, never will and there's a fair bit of enduring hate out there too. As it is, he's hardly in town anyway and spends as much time as he can being a property baron in India with a net worth at a very conservatively estimated $US40M. (Never mind that the divorce will be a tasty lawyer's picnic). It's in India where he is lauded with much adulation and where his champion cricketing career is quite rightly, without question, widely revered. As it is in England, where he is one of the very few Life Members of the Marylebone Cricket Club, so he is always most welcome to a gin'n'tonic on the chit in the Long Room at Lord's any time he likes. Yet, in Australia, he is treated like offal. Please tell me why? It's the most enduring eternal mysteries of my fandom of the man that he is so detested by the Great Unwashed. Why, oh, why? The greatest batsman of his generation - intensely disliked by the Plebeian Masses, and Simon Katich. It doesn't make sense and it's just farking outrageous, for mine, considering his admission to the cricketing Pantheon. There's ample room for me to go on and on about it here endlessly and Blame the Bingle, that sport of thing - but being in a charitable mood, that you will be spared. You'd have to think he's happy enough now flogging Wagner snake oil, pushing other sponsor's barrows(Buy More Hublot Waches!), doing the Indian celebrity appearance circuit, and making poignant comments from time-to-time on Star TV's coverage of the IPL, which keeps him on the sub-continent for months at a time. Over there, he'd never ever be short of a root, and quite obviously, he's not short of a bob. So what's not to like?

At least, at 38, Pup's old enough now to know better, now he's learnt to put ambition away after finally realising he's done it all. For years after his premature retirement he had enormous difficulties just getting used to the concept of resting on his considerable wreath of laurels. Now he knows there's nothing left to prove. He's No.1, so why try harder? And he's clever enough to make sure he has a very lush pasture indeed to be put out to. Only one thing is for certain, he'll need some very powerful pharmaceuticals for his chronic case of Shagger's Back.

And just to confound and spite me, with a new gig in commercial breakfast radio, soon enough Michael Clarke will be proclaimed Bachelor of the Year and he'll start doing nude centrefolds in Cleo magazine, with a fetching batting glove tastefully concealing his manhood.

All power to his oars.

the ‘Feuded With Michael Clarke’ XI

Aficionado's,

The Chairman and the Three Wise men have found themselves between a rock and a hard place, as the new cricket season hasn't exactly got off to a great start, despite the Mighty Blue Bags winning their first four games in the Shield outright at almost full strength and all but booking a place in the final before December. When NSW cricket is strong, Strayan cricket is strong, eh? Three blokes have cracked in November, and can't play on. And none of them have done a hammy. These sort of things can be career-enders. Not the first, nor the last, to have their heads done in; that's no place to be and there's no fun there when you're like that. This does not auger well. With two of the absentees in almost certain test contention, the selectors had to be disturbed from their slumber to do some hasty re-thinking for a squad to take on Azhar Ali's Paki's [btw it's pleasing to see Imran Khan's love child and namesake making a comeback at 32 after two years in the wilderness.] And then Jimmy Pattinson gets rubbed out for one match for calling an opposition player a homo - the third time he's called blokes names in a Shield game this calendar year. Doh. Then Smiffy gets reported, and cops a "code of conduct" and a fine for dissent, failing to remember the fundamental principle that The Man in White is Always Right. It seems they just can't help themselves. Given that the first four picked [SPD Smith, DA Warner, PJ Cummins, JR Hazlewood] are carrying the can for the team, the pickings are on the rather slim side. Yet again. And eight of the players in the squad are 29 or older. Where are the gifted 16-year-old tear-aways?

Amongst the droppee's post-Ashes, it was most disappointing to see the Token Muzzie brushed. The Ooz Man has once again been treated disgracefully by the selectors [he does average 40 in Tests after all], even though it never helps having a poor Ashes, moving to Queensland, ever, and making F-all early-season domestic runs. But you'd have to sincerely hope they aren't going to hang the "has-been" placard around Khawaja's neck. If you want to know about cricket being a cruel game, just ask Tokes, he'll tell you. You are in constant danger of being shoved out the back door without so much as a sausage. In the never ending quest for another opener, Harry Harris has been the victim of having his card marked "not quite a Test cricketer". JoBru Burns comes back from the bush for another shot at opening, despite having next to no form, purely on a horses for courses basis. No surprises either that the patsy in Sandpapergate and therefore the third "cheater" in the squad, Cam 'Bonkers' Bancroft, comes back with Alfie playing favourites and Chairman Trev saying "he can bat anywhere". That, after ten tests as an opener? Redeem one, and you have to redeem them all, is the only other explanation. Mike Neser is no bolter and no rookie and has been bought in to replace the perpetual 12th man Sids as the traditional "entertainment officer", handling important duties such as preparing the trays of powerful gin & tonics. The poster boy for the banana industry, PM Siddle's laugh-a-minute demeanour will be sorely missed, but he'll happily admit he's been carrying the drinks for a bit too long.

The Summer comes after the very close run thing that was the 2-2 Ashes in the Old Dart. Memorable only for Smiffy playing right out of his brain and getting Bradmanesque-like averages while his partner in crime Burbs Warner picked up a very bad dose of The Yips. Ian Baker-Finch came to mind; couldn't play the shots he'd mastered on the practice greens. Warner was obviously suffering under the ban on punching out Joe Root for being an obnoxious Pom in some bar room brawl in Birmingham, after which he made a mountain of runs. Never mind that the middle order failed miserably, often, or that Hazo and Cummo carried the attack under difficult circumstances bowling out Pommies and winning a couple of matches. It was not like the Glory Days of a five-nil thumping, 2006-07 style. Who will ever forget the "Never in Doubt" Test in Adelaide, when England declared their first innings closed at 500+, and still lost. The Great Warnie, Ooh Aah Glenn McGrath and Alfie Langer all retired, while Damo Martyn drifted off the face of the planet mid-season without explanation at the peak of his powers, never to be seen again. Stresscothick lost his shit after two tour games, and went home before the first Test, which he knew would mentally destroy him. Pup tonked a couple of classy tons and was never again dropped by Straya, while Roy Symonds went north in search of the ever elusive Barra and became a shadow of his former self. Things moved in mysterious ways that summer.

Which brings us around to the inevitable question. What would Pup do? Given that he eschewed a spot on the selection panel whenever he could, not much. Clarkey said practically said nothing on the ESPNSTAR TV commentary of the Ashes that was remotely memorable and he was sparely used, now that he likes to keep well out of the limelight in his home country, preferring the Sub-Continent where he is considered one of the deities in the Hindu sect which has cricket as its cult. Sachin is God, of course, but Pup sits right with him at the Long Table along with a host of other living luminaries. And why not spend most of your ample spare time in India, when you've retired too early, where you can really easily soak up the "star factor"? Pushing snake oil on Wagner vitamins TV commercials, and appearing in magazines wearing a Hublot watch can't be that hard, surely? No-one asks for Michael's opinion in Australia anymore - never did really - which is par for the course, given the best batsman of his generation's shabby treatment from the General Public, who've put in 15 solid years of wholehearted detestation of the bloke for reasons known only to The Great Unwashed. No wonder he's sodded off.

So for the utter, hopeless tragic, the following snippet is shamelessly clipped from the little known and poorly read website, cricket365 https://www.cricket365.com/, who've highlighted the speculation involved in selection in times of difficulty with this splendid idea...picking the ‘Feuded With Michael Clarke’ XI. All eleven, top to bottom. Simon "Strangler" Katich? First picked. Captain:

"A theoretical cricket team selected solely for the fun of it, often under some ludicrous self-imposed constraint.
It’s a harmless and entertaining menial diversion – the cricket selection equivalent of doing a crossword puzzle, claiming to be gluten-sensitive or solving a sudoku. It’s a piece of play not just beloved by the dregs of fandom, but endorsed by as revered a figure as Sir Donald Bradman.
Bradman himself, whose selection of an all-time XI for the book 'Bradman’s Best’ featured five specialist batsmen, two spinners, Don Tallon (Test batting average 17.1) batting at six and, wildly, given the evidence at hand, a cover blurb by Richie Benaud declaring ‘Sir Donald was the best selector I came across in the game anywhere in the world’.
(Bradman, by the way, would qualify for two out of the three XIs mentioned above, and surely only misses out on the third because Clarke was still two years away from his Test debut when The Don passed away)."

You be the judge.

another winter of discontent dissolves into Mad Monday

Exhaustee's,

The insanely fanatical resilience of the rusted-on life-long die-hard Balmain supporter has never been in question, even in the most trying of circumstances. The faithful will travel from miles around to be at the Spiritual Home, Leichhardt Oval, for their religious experience. The devoted will pack themselves together on that Hill, like sardines in a tin, and become this writhing, heaving, screaming mass of humanity that has a life all its own [see above]. Adherents of the Mighty Tiges let everyone know they have come for just one thing. To worship at the altar of a Tigers victory. And still they come, tumbling down from the Balmain Road or climbing "heartbreak hill" up from the Parramatta River and pouring in through the Mary St turnstiles, at even the slightest whiff of more glory for Balmain. At the appointed time, there's a crowd surge as serious pre-loaders leaving the Orange Grove Hotel [where drinking in the middle of the street is not unknown on match days], marching in colours, with flags waving, taking the short cut through the old Rozelle lunatic asylum [which has always been tastefully referred to as the "mental hospital"], arriving at the Glover St gates at the back of the Hill in the unshakeable hope of another magnificent Tiges triumph. And still they come, Balmain supporters are everywhere, and all of them will tell you they'd rather be at Leichhardt Oval on a Sunday arvo. Said it before, say it again, it is without a doubt the best viewing ground for rugby league in Sydney, and possibly the world. The last of the great suburban grounds. Ever since it was literally blasted out of the cliff face as a Great Depression work creation project with the rubble used to smooth out and fortify the Hill and build a swimming pool below in 1934, it's had iconic status. The idea of creating a large artificial amphitheatre for the game - where the spectators are more or less on top of the players - was a brilliant one. Improvements, tho', have been few and far between. Spectator facilities [highlighted by the 1950's era brick latrines without bog holes at the side of the Hill] have always been sub-standard, there's never been any car parking, the desultory scoreboard has its own idiosyncrasies and a famous bar, the Norman "Latchem" Robinson Stand was a 1970's monolithic mistake, and the original white-ant-eaten dinky little wooden Keith Barnes Stand, which holds only a thousand folks or so, has always been occupied by Tiges legends and club worthies on their way to The Pantheon. Most of the hallowed ground is standing room only for the hoi polloi. Despite none of it meeting any of the National Rugby League's criteria as a suitable up-to-code 'stadium' worth having matches at, and despite it being left in wrack and ruin as the autocrats at the Powers That Be have long been threatening it with closure as a waste of maintenance money - to howls of protest - the Spiritual Home endures. It's very hard to close an institution.

The final game of the season was a sell-out a couple of weeks prior, given that Robbie "The Best Leb in the Game" Farah was due to play his 303rd and final game before retirement. And it was do or die, the last throw of the dice to make the finals. Punters flocked to the ground doubts that Farah would even play, as he'd put a hairline fracture through his tibia 26 days previous and therefore had to "play on a busted leg". Robbie was ruled out of the game on match day morning, meaning he would have to do his lap of honour in a suit and tie.Then, ten minutes before kick off, Super Coach Mr Magoo dramatically pulled the trigger and decided to risk being a player down, and he put Robbie on the bench so he would indeed play his final game. Nobody expected the Great Man to come on much before ten minutes from the end and throw the ball about a bit from dummy half, and that's pretty much what happened. Fans got to say their much anticipated farewells to the Living Legend, and whether it was a tactical mistake picking a player who might as well have come on in a wheel chair is neither here nor there in hindsight. It's not every day of the week that your team - with everything to play for before a capacity crowd - is comprehensively outplayed and robbed blind by the Umpires. They had to beat Scummo's Cronulla-Sutherland Sharks by any margin to make it into 8th on the final ladder. [In a quirk of the table, a draw would have seen both teams go through the finals at the expense of Brisbane, but that result would have been clear cut case of match fixing, so it was never on]. It was victory, or nowheresville. But it never looked like it was on. Balmain didn't show up to play, were lacklustre from the off, despite taking the early lead with penalty goals, and then the refs turned against them, with the Bamfords constantly blowing the whistle for obscure technical infractions of the rules that no-one else could make any sense of, and the Sharks were given free ground to get away with four tries free gratis. There is no other sound in the world quite like a deafening Leichhardt Oval crowd going absolutely apeshit when Balmain scores - and in this case there was but one opportunity to go off one's tits.

So, for the eighth season in a row, emotional disconsolate fans filed out of the ground holding back tears, kicking the dirt with their boots. Yet again, no finals appearance. Another winter of discontent dissolves into Mad Monday. The screaming mob had yet again failed to spur the team on, and the usual 10 point home ground advantage at Leichhardt just did not materialise. For those of us who've been around a while, the Miracle Year of 2005, when they won the Premiership coming from stone motherless last mid season to finish fourth on the final ladder, slowly recedes further and further from the memory, the Grand final losses of 1988 and 1989 are in real and present danger of being lost in the mists of time, while the most famous Premiership victory of all in 1969 has now been consigned to the dustbin of ancient history.

Ah well, as they say in the classics..."there's always next year".

WESTS TIGERS 8. Tries: Garner. Goals: Momirovski (2).
CRONULLA-SUTHERLAND SHARKS 25. Tries: Feki (2), Nikora, Morris. Goals Johnson (3). Field Goals: Gallen (1).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 19,491.

the End of an Era, and that's no lie...

Die Hards,

The premature end to the Swans season was so cherry ripe for nostalgia it was sweet & juicy. As the Stats Guru was quick to point out, a 300 gamer and no less than three 200 gamers all bowing out on the same weekend, with two of them playing their last games in another bloke's 300th. A promoter's dream. It's not every day of the week that you see a hero's chair-off, let alone a double chair-off, or a triple, and in this case a quintuple chair-off. Yep... Jarred McVeigh, Kieren Jack, Heath Grundy, Nick Smith and Lance Franklin; all five hoisted on shoulders before the emotion-charged laps of honour.

Of course, Buddy batted away his 300th as if it was just like any other game. He's now an automatic AFL Life Member, entitling him to enter the Members Enclosure at any ground, and never having to pay for his lunch for the rest of his born days. Amid the richly deserved accolades, Lance quickly forgot that he'd spent half the season in Sick Bay after doing himself various mischief's, declaring that he's more than willing and able to play on until he's 85. And who could blame him? He really starts to hit pay-dirt next year when his massively backloaded contract money starts to kick in, with three years left on the nine-year $10M something deal. What's not to like about that? Brings 'em in through the gates, and he'll kick a thousand goals standing on his head.

The Great Jarred "Odd Head" McVeigh was probably the lynch-pin in the rightly famous "Sydney brick wall" style defence that got them to the flag in 2012. At the height of his illustrious career, Odd Head's ability as a stopper was impeccable and impenetrable and he looked as if he was born to it. Staunch comes close as a word to describe his feats. Back in the day when the game revolved around the idea of stopping the opposition from getting on the scoreboard, McVeigh was in his element as every forward he ever played on knew they were in for a hard day at the office. And he did all 300+ games as one of the cleanest players going around; hardly every gave away a free kick and never appeared down at The Tribunal, while going clean through the toilet in the Brownlow voting because Umpires only like pretty boys, not the hard working domestique. He reserved himself a pedestal in the Pantheon a long time ago now - only a very good opponent could get around him and right to the end he was still outfoxing the clever younger ones despite having lost a yard or two in pace. But eventually his body gave out on him and at the end of his last game he appeared like he had nothing; completely-fucked, buggered, rooted and a hot mess of tears, completely overcome by the moment, after a game of footy that must have been hell for him to play in. A world of pain right there. But the look of sheer joy on his odd face when he scored a very rare goal after being told to push forward in his bowing-out match and try for one, was priceless. You couldn't feel happier for a bloke if you tried. One for the ages. And it looks like J.McVeigh is going to lurk around in the shadows at the back of the box learning how to be a backs coach at the Swans. And why not? Makes sense. He's seen it all. It aint over yet.

The Great Kieren Jack was always a highly improbable success story. Spawned as he was by rugby league royalty and Balmain champion, The Great Gary Jack [undoubtedly the best rugby league full-back in the world at the time and the best Balmain No.1 in living memory], soon enough, Jack Jnr realised that he wasn't much good at this league caper. Then someone worked out that his eye-hand coordination might be better off in the Rules, to which he bought the fleet footedness and rugged defence of his father. Who'd have thought that on debut K.Jack would go on to play 264 first grade games, all of them for his home town? Sadly, he played on for a year too long, got hurt, and ended up not being picked for the Seniors in the back half of this season, and along with McVeigh, was only selected because it was to be his final game with the season gone. But, back in the day when the mid-fielder was King and reigned supreme, Jack Jnr had it all; the world at his feet with that great go forward from the scrimmages, darting in and out all over the shop with his lightning turn of pace, a ripping mark who took his fair share of screamers, whilst loving bringing down opposition mid-fielders like sacks of potatoes, again, just like his father. Although you'd expect that he's broken his nose far fewer times than Dad Gary, who now boasts a conker of super-substantial proportions. It must've been tough to play in that very long parental shadow, let alone in a "different game", never mind getting admired by those of us who follow both codes. And he's got smarts, having done an MBA while playing, and now professes "I'd really love to run a footy club one day". K.Jack, Salut! Admitted to the Swans Pantheon, forthwith. It aint over yet.

The Great Reg Grundy has already been covered to bits in these pages over the years as Odd Head's partner in crime during the Glory Days. The love child of a man who was among the chosen few and a good Norwood boy, Heefy became a superstar backman with a uniquely languid old-fashioned style and ended up as one of the club's elite champions, for which there is a special corner reserved in the Pantheon. Sadly, his glittering career also petered out in Sick Bay and he appeared at the ground in a regulation Swans suit and tie, along with the "forgotten man"...

The Great Nick Smith. As far as is known, no-one ever wrote a single word about Nick Smith in any of the Melbourne papers, ever. He was just never the kind of player to attract any attention; he had a job to to do and he got on with it. A distinction he holds in high regard is the fact that he's the only player in history to play 200 games without scoring a single Brownlow vote, but it's difficult to recall if Smiffy ever played bad game. One of the best back-pockets to grace a football ground in history - Mr Reliable personified - and by all accounts, a champion club-man, loved by all. It's just so easy to forget he was integral part of the "brick wall" that played in that pennant winning side of 2012.

Then there were two - just a pair of survivors from that '12 Grand Final side now, who will play on next year - JPK and Beanpole Reid. [Not counting Parker, who was picked as the reserve for that game, but didn't play].

Well, that's more than enough nostalgia for a year - nay, a decade - which has now come to an end...not in harsh words and bitter recriminations that some other clubs that failed to make the finals went on with, oh no. They were in the mood to warm the cockles of the hearts of the die-hard rusted-on; a fairytale finish to the season, not going out with no whimper, but with a genuine dead-set End of an Era. Those blokes over there with the binoculars looking out at the horizon with those far away eyes are realistically thinking about 2022, and what sweet timing that would be - a decade between premierships.

And it'd be a safe bet that Mad Monday was one of the better ones in years.

SYDNEY: 6.2, 6.3, 11.4, 17.7 (109). Goals: Franklin 4, McCartin 3, Kennedy 2, Papley 2, Parker 2, Blakey, Rowbottom, McVeigh, Jack.
ST KILDA: 2.5, 5.9, 7.12, 8.16 (64). Goals: Bruce 2, Ross 2, Membrey, Long, Steven, Steele.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 33,722.

Meantime, over in Tigerville, the rugby league season continues to blunder on, starting earlier and finishing later than the AFL. And, as if by some miracle, The Mighty Tiges chances of reaching the finals remain alive. The meagre crowd of faithful who turned out at the Cambelltown Sports Ground were going absolutely apeshit at half time, after some routine Benji Marshall magic had them leading the hapless Knights 30-0. And they continued with the steamroller treatment after the break, toying with the Knights before taking the foot off the pedal. That said, if you can't beat Newcastle at Campbelltown, then you might as well pick up your ball and go home. As everyone knows, it's been a long time between drinks for the Tiges, and if they make the Top 8 it will be the first time they've got there in eight long years. How long have you been hearing that Balmain are a goddamn hard team to follow? The Miracle Year of 2005 is now in clear & present danger of being lost in the mists of time. There's two matches to go, both eminently winnable, and they really must keep on winning, for a change, to be in with a shot at just sneaking in at the pointy end of the season. Then, all bets are off and anything could happen.

You can't buy tickets to the last match of the regular season against Scummo's Sharks at the Spiritual Home - Leichhardt Oval - for love nor money. With the Best Leb in the Game appearing in his final game in prospect, the joint sold out mid-week. Hope still springs eternal, for those of us who should know better.

WESTS TIGERS 46. Tries: Nofoaluma (3), Matterson, Jennings, Marsters, Garner, Chee-Kam. Goals: Momirovski (7).
NEWCASTLE KNIGHTS 4. Tries: Guerra.
At Campbelltown Sports Ground.
Crowd: 11,107.

the fire in the belly

The Great Robbie Farah sits on the historic Wayne Pearce scoreboard at Leichhardt Oval ahead of his 300th game. Publicity shot: NRL Photos.

Grandstanders,

It was only fitting that The Great Robbie "The Best Leb in the Game" Farah should score a try in his 300th match in the National Rugby League. And it was a trademark try from dummy half too. Farah, without fear of contradiction, has been among the very best dummy halves of his generation; it's very difficult for any defence to figure out which way he's going to switch the ball, or who it's going to go to, how long or short he goes, or if he throws the dummy and decides to go himself. The crash or crash through set play in a desperate attempt to ground the ball in the in-goal before half dozen man mountains pile on top of him and try and roll him on his back. He's done it dozens of times in his 69 tries, and it's not even his job to score tries. Being the team point-man, directing traffic, is usually a thankless task, but Robbie brings a rare flair to the position. And he's one of the finest exponents of the deft little inside flick pass as he's hoofing it on the blind side. And he played the full 80 minutes in his 300th as the Tigers never had another hooker to pick on the bench. That takes genuine courage given his advanced years. At least the team came up trumps for him - unlike losing The Great Benji's 300th a couple of weeks ago - in a see-sawing, nail-biting cliff-hanger that would have seen off most of Balmain's cardiac patients.

The Stats Guru was moved by the occasion to go through some very early scoresheets and reckons Farah is probably the only Balmain junior who's appeared in 300, coming from the fine stock that he does. Born in Campsie, playing his all his jnr footy for the Enfield Federals and the Leichhardt Wanderer's, and debuting for the Mighty Tiges as a 19 year old in 2003, just like his partner in crime, the Great Benji Marshall. He was front and centre in the Miracle Year 2005 and had a glittering representative career, hooking for Straya, among the first picked for New South Wales at the peak of his powers [2010] and Lebanon; yep, Lebanon [7 matches]. His first and last appearances for the Cedars are worth noting in passing only because they spanned an astonishing 17 years. Farah is very much in favour of honour, bravery, blood, guts & glory, and he epitomises them all.

These pages are littered with crazed caustic rants about the worst coach inflicted on Balmain in living memory, Jason "Squeak" Taylor, a cruel, vindictive bastard if ever there was one, and his shameful and disgraceful hounding of Farah right out of the club. The tawdriness of the entire episode was beyond belief. [https://crazycraves.blogspot.com/2016/07/beneath-my-dignity.html].It was one of most appalling periods in club history in those bleak and lean years, support hit rock bottom, and it wasn't that long before the dysfunctional board were finally forced to act, and sack Squeak, under intense pressure from, and the eternal relief, of the long-suffering rusted-on supporters. [https://crazycraves.blogspot.com/2017/03/karmas-bitch-so-long.html].Robbie was forced kicking & screaming and in tears to take refuge at Souths, and played 26 half-hearted games in the Wilderness, before eventually being dropped, and running round in the Redfern reserves, a shadow of his former self. Thinking for all the world he was all washed up, Robbie was unexpectedly rescued and welcomed back to the Spiritual Home by current super coach Mr Magoo at the start of last year. And he's been playing out of his mind and out of his skin like a man possessed ever since his triumphant return. All's well, that ends well.

And then, mid week, to quell any rumour, Robbie promptly and with good grace and humour announces his retirement from he caper at the end of the season. Not because he hasn't got the fire in the belly anymore, it's just at age 35 his body is a shot bird. He admitted on interview that during the season for the last four years he's more or less been on the physio's bench 24/7 just to keep going in what is one of the most brutal sports on the planet, and his brother Eddie - who's the Chief Physio at the Rabbitoh's - is starting to get a bit tired of all that pro bono work he's been doing for him. Most people thought this year would have to be his last hurrah, but Robbie was honest enough to say he can't guarantee where his "headspace" will be next year and doesn't want to end up in a wheelchair. So, that's the End of an Era, right there. Leichhardt will be a lesser place without him, but The Great Robbie Farah can rest very easy on his laurels amongst the other god's in the Balmain Pantheon, to which he was admitted, along with The Great Benj, many many moons ago now. Thanks for the memories, mate. You won't be forgotten.


NEWCASTLE KNIGHTS 26. Tries: Ramien, Ponga, Hunt, Moga, Kenny-Dowall. Goals: Ponga (3).
WESTS TIGERS 28. Tries: Thompson (2), Marshall, Farah, Momirovski. Goals: Mbye (4).
At International Sports Centre, Newcastle.
Crowd: 21,029

After Tom "Farking" Hawkins kicked his 5th soft goal for the Cats, My Spy at the Ground tapped out mssg on the ticker tape "The Swans haven't replaced Reg Grundy Jnr" which is true. There is just no replacing long experience and large footy smarts overnight. But some of these new kids on the block are keepers - there's always one or three who make the grade every year - but it's when these rookies become 50 Gamers that the Red & White will be competitive again. just for a for instance, always though Callum "The Saw" Mills was the goods from first time he appeared; got all the skills for a backman and he'll replace Reg in due course. In this game where only pride, and most importantly, contracts are the only thing to play for, The Saw put in a Best on Ground showing in a losing side, for mine. They could have been flogged by ten without him. Everybody is making a song and dance about all the Swans veterans falling by the wayside this year and their only dedicated ruckman also doing himself a mischief, but the newbies will come on. Buddy won't play again this year after now coming down with a dose of sciatica, and he's got his hands full anyway, being a brand new father. The Supreme Optimist is dreaming of a new look side in the mix for the Top Four by 2022, and then, as Donald J Trump and New Zealanders keep saying..."we'll see what happens".

SYDNEY: 3.3, 6.5, 7.6, 12.8 (80). Goals: Dawson 3, Heeney 3, Ronke 2, Papley, Kennedy, Blakey, Parker.
GEELONG: 1.1, 6.5, 10.10, 16.11 (107). Goals: Hawkins 5, Clark 2, Dangerfield 2, Duncan 2, Ratugolea, S.Selwood, J.Selwood, Parsons, Atkins.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 32,911.

Footnote: As far as this bloggy-blog-blog thingy is concerned, the footy season might was well be dead, buried, & cremated and we've just arrived at August; oh woe is me, woe and the gnashing of teeth etc. However, seasons come and seasons go, and with The Ashes about to get underway in the Old Dart in the hope of long awaited redemption against The Old Enemy, folks will inevitably begin asking "What would Pup do?"

streaking towards immortality

Grandstanders,

It was only fitting, right and proper that a fully noood male streaker should appear on the ground with two minutes left in The Great Benji Marshall's 300th game of first-grade rugby league. It was like some kind of bizarre allegory of Benji as old man re-enacting his first appearances as a wild young man breaking free, letting it all hang out - the jink, the step, the weave...outfoxing his opponents at every turn...and then the soaring acrobatic leap through the air and clean across a veritable brick wall of defenders before crashing to the ground with a triumphant thud, deftly planting the ball in the in-goal, underneath the black dot for TRRRYYY! Sadly, the pudgy streaking basketcase who was rudely ejected from the ground clad only in a hi-viz vest half wrapped around his waist with his prodigious flabby arse still in clear view, was bought down in a crashing gang wedge tackle by some 6'9" Tongan security guards before he could reach and embrace his hero.

So, just where do you start on Benji's glittering career? How to do justice to it? The Stats Guru is having a field day with the numbers. Only four other players who have pulled on the Black & Gold at some stage or another in the 111 year history of the club have played more games. 89 tries, 402 goals, and 15 field goals speaks for itself. And usually you would not give a Kiwi an even break, but Benj has also played 28 test matches for New Zealand [only recently re-called after a seven year absence]. It was a shame the team contrived to lose in his 300th, but true to form, the dead set Superstar put on the final passes after orchestrating the set-plays for two tries, and came within inches of scoring himself. In the end, Benj was given an impromptu haka and chaired off. Enough said.

Call me a one-eyed Balmain tragic if you like, but It's not too far of a stretch to call Marshall the finest five-eighth of his generation, possessing a gifted talent, all the skills and then some, a football brain the size of a watermelon, and he's always been a superlative master in broken play - don't care what anyone says, running rugby league remains the finest sight in world sport. He had Class written all over him when he debuted in Match 1 back in the olden days of 2003 as an 18 year old, became famous as "The Entertainer" and "The Magician", and he certainly played that role beautifully in the Miracle Year 2005 towards that famous Grand Final victory against all odds. And he's as passionate about the game as he was 16 seasons ago. Too much old growth forest has been felled to tell the tawdry story of how Benj was forced out of the club in a stoopid disagreement over money that should have easily been resolved, then played 67 games in the Wilderness, before making a triumphant return to Leichhardt in 2018. He still wants another Premiership after all these years, but at age 34, he replied honestly on interview after the game on whether he would play on next year: "Dunno. Suppose they will want to talk to me about that soon." It matters little - been saying in these pages for yonks - the Great Man was admitted to the Balmain Pantheon of all-time out-and-out Legends a long long time ago, and can rest on his substantial wreath of laurels whenever he damn likes.

The memory remains vivid of when Benj was at the peak of his powers in 2011, finding myself in the latrines under the N.C. [Latchem] Robinson Stand at the Spiritual Home, Leichhardt Oval, straining the potatoes at half-time. Zipped the trousers and almost tripped over a Balmain supporter spreadeagled on the tiles, twitching, while on my way out. No-one was rushing to his aid, they were giving him a wide berth berth, so presuming the poor codger had just over-indulged somewhat, moved on. Soon enough, a bloke dressed in ancient beer-stained Tigers merch with wild hair and a half-crazed look in his eyes stumbled out of the dunnies and scabbed a smoke off me. [Attempting to make polite conversation] - "Did you see that bloke on the floor in there? Doesn't look in great shape, does he? [laughing]". The Wildman replied, "Nah, I just decked him". "What?! Whaddaya mean you just decked him? Why'd you punch him out, he's a Tigers fan?!" "Yeah, yeah, but he was telling everyone at the pisser that Marshall was having a bad game and could do much better in the second half, and no-one bags my Benji like that and gets away with it, so I decked him." Chugged my gasper as quickly as possible, and moved on. Astonished. Never mind back then when every kid on the block wanted to be Benj, that was the sort of true devotion the man inspires.

WESTS TIGERS 18. Tries: Nofoaluma (2), Thompson, Jennings. Goals: Mbye (1).
PARRAMATTA EELS 30. Tries: Takairangi (3), Ferguson. Goals: Moses (7).
At Western Sydney Stadium, Parramatta.
Crowd: 24,125.

And so, it's come to this.

Season over. Plan B, if there was one, never worked. This comes as a considerable shock to the Swans' rusted-on - just pride to play for and it's only July? No chance of going deep into September for the first time in a decade? Well, the Stats Guru - being the eternal optimist - reckons the "mathematical chance" remains. In the highly unlikely event that they win all their last six games, they'd finished the season at 12/10, which might be just enough, just, to scrape into the Top 8. However, after the embarrassing inability to beat - let alone flog senseless - the hapless second-last Carlton at HQ, the Red and the White know, deep within their heart of hearts, that they'll be had like kippers for breakfast by any genuine Premiership contender.

As the wheels fall off and teams drop out of contention like birds from trees in a heatwave, it's that "Coach Sacking Season" time of year again. Under normal circumstances, that would put Super Coach Horse under the proverbial cloud. Of course, Longmire unpragmatically calls Sydney home these days, and has knocked back a "big money offer" to nudge out his protégé Rick Shaw and take over the reins at North Melbourne. It's a decision he may yet come to regret. You can only go out to lunch on yr reputation for so long. What happens if the Swans board puts all sentiment and track record aside in the ruthless race for the top, and decides that SC Horse is all washed up at the end of another unsuccessful season in 2020, pulls the rug out from under his contract extension to 2023, and unceremoniously pushes him out the back door without so much as sausage? With quite a few old blokes due for retirement, and a mob of 18 year olds running around, the Swans won't be competitive again until 2022 at a minimum, so someone has to be thinking a breath of fresh air might be a good idea, surely? Just saying.

Never mind the future, back to the present. After the lamentable performance against Carlton in a bitterly cold, howling westerly gale that made goal scoring a lottery, My Spy at The Ground pushed through a melancholy two word message on the Bush Telegraph that neatly summed up Sydney's most recent escapades: "Swans unwatchable". Enough said.

SYDNEY: 2.5, 3.10, 5.12, 8.14 (62). Goals: Parker, Dawson, Jack, Rowbottom, Papley, Heeney, Reid, Lloyd.
CARLTON: 2.5, 5.8, 6.13, 9.15 (69). Goals: Casboult 2, Walsh, Fisher, Gibbons, Lang, Murphy, Silvagni, McKay.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 32,570.