fruit for the sideboard

Canine fanciers,

The Knight in Shining Armour on an impressive white steed appears on the ground with Straya at 3/37, and dismounts.
Oh, the Majesty!
The Imperious cover driving, the Right Royal square cutting, the Imperial straight hits, the Celestial leg side play...and it just seemed to go on and on and on, for day after day after day...that's perhaps because it did.
When Pup scored his hundred, found myself in the front bar of the Clovelly Hotel, ready to have a lash at the lunch menu with me ol' mate the Twisted Darkie as the Tasman Sea was over my shoulder a shimmering and a sparkling in the heat.
It was good of the bloke to work his way out of the nineties just in time so all could relax for a chow down as the sun was tempered by the sea breeze starting to kick in.
Never mind Punter on 97.
By the time he got to 200, noticed myself being gripped by a state of delirium somewhere in La La Land, but with the aid of some powerful pharmaceuticals had recovered enough by the time he made 250 to be enjoying a cheeky highball on the terrace of the Customs House Bar at Circular Quay, as if nothing had happened, with the dust and grime swirling about as a classic Sydney southerly buster swept through, like an exclamation mark on an extraordinary day.
A Fleet Foxes concert at the Opera Hoos in the company of the GLW proved to be a welcome distraction from the tumultuous events, and it all ended as a rather late night.
All of these places are within a few kilometres of the cricket ground, so kept kicking myself that of all days to be at the game, this was the one, the only one.
But.
Missed it.
Bad timing.
Pulled the wrong rein.
[Well aware that this is a Drunkard's Excuse, but there were more than a few disincentives to attend the ground; the intolerable temperature for a day in full sun in the "hot seats", the outrageous ticket prices, the exorbitant fee for the execrable light beer only and offal pies, Pup could have been out first ball on Day Two for all anyone knew, and the joint is crawling with fun police hell bent on ruining your day, et al, blah blah blah...]
If you had had a crystal ball and could have predicted how the day would pan out, you would have gladly paid the money and put up with the pain and suffering to see a slice of history in the making.
But not me.
Couldn't find mine - pretty sure there is a crystal ball somewhere down there in Dad's Shed - so it'll just go down as one of those, oh well, "much to my chagrin" days.
There've been a few.
On Day Three, awoke just in time to grogily switch on the digital radio as Pup and Mr Cricket began setting about grinding out some genuine test cricket, just nudging the ball here and there for one's and two's and incessantly running up and down, up and down, up and down between the wickets, with the Captain's eyes only occasionally lighting up at the sight of a bad ball - he duly smacked the rubbish to the boundary where it belongs - so, it seemed the only sensible place to be, on getting the act together, was in the Front Bar at The Local.
Walked in and straight away ran into The Philospher in a rare standing position as he breasted the bar to ask the barkeep for another dose of this week's favoured tipple - a Bacardi and soda with a twist of lemon - you'd have to agree, a refreshing drink on a warm summer's day.
Mainly a football fan [as you know, he takes a keen, but generally silent interest in the aussie rules and the rugby league], The Philospher shakes his head and gives a grudging nod of respect to cricket, largely due to its devilishly clever inexblicabilty and the inabilty of the players to hide their true humanity during six hours in the field - but he's certainly no ardent follower of the game.
He glanced at me sideways and put a bamboo umbrella in his glass and said "well, Craves, looks like your bloke has done alright", before resuming his seat in his usual corner.
The Usual Suspects and the Brown Bros were more boisterous than they would usually be just after one o'clock of a Thursday afternoon, and there was already clear evidence of the piss talking.
Needless to say, the Front Bar went ape shit when Pup scored 300, even the Asian punters in the TAB bar down there through the looking glass, were giving the lone telly with the cricket on it a standing ovation - as some random at the bar commented - at risk of having their citizenship revoked if they didn't.
Thinking it was more spontaneous than that.
By the look of the cables and telegraphs that came in soon after the event, it appears the vast majority of people in this metropolis who have not the slightest interest in the caper were still looking out of the corner of their eye at the outcome, fully aware that MJ Clarke was the talk of the town.
It was as if the whole city was cheering when it was all said and done, while having a collective oomph.
In a clear act of unanimity,The Maori boys purchased three jugs of draught with the small change out of their pockets, and perched them on the bar for anyone to have a drink out of.
It was a touching scene, that was deserving of high-fives.
When things settled down, and Pup continued to plough on, there was some discussion about the fact that he did it all with a nude bat.
Some wag said "I can see someone yelling down the phone in the bat maker's marketing department right now, screaming 'What were you thinking?! I don't care if he wants a head job at every drinks break. Just make it happen!!'".
Marketing blunder of the century.
Got to thinking that KD Walters has been out to lunch for his entire life, and still continues to this day to dine out, on the back of his 242 at the SCG.
Given the small matter of the 329 not out, Uncle Doug will now probably have to have a slight tinker with his well-worn endlessly-rehearsed after dinner patter.
Did like the hand painted banner that appeared at the ground on Day Three that simply read WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?
Summed up the miracle perfectly.
As if the Skipper hadn't single-handedly won the match by a country mile, and then some, wasn't enough, the fact that MJ Clarke managed to deceive the Little Master on what turned out to be the last day of the match with one of his funny left-arm dibbly-dobblers and was entered in the scorebook at SR Tendulkar c.Hussey b.Clarke 80, was just fruit for the sideboard.
We'll be very lucky to see or hear of anything quite like it again in our lifetimes.

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.