on "the pink stink"

Aghastees,

Pup would never have had a bar of it.
Not one to try to channel Clarkey [he's too busy seeing his accountant, adjusting to having a wee bairn in the house, and learning how to sail a boat to Hobart], but if he was still the Strayan Captain, he would have seen straight through this day/night test cricket nonsense - "the pink stink" - for what it is - a money grubbing excercise of the highest, most flagrant order.
And he'd know.
[Let me explain here. Many years ago, a few of my friends hired a car, in Alice Springs if memory serves me right, and the only vehicle available was a bright pink VW beetle. After parking the car in the motel car park overnight, they awoke next morning to find a huge, freshly-laid, steaming human turd neatly curled up on the bonnet of the car - the vehicle became known, of course, as "the pink stink". Over the years the term "pink stink" has morphed into something that describes anything from a particularly foul smelling object, to any kind of cockup, usually rather minor and of little consequence, right through to a gigantic goatfuck in the affairs of state. Now we can add day/night Test cricket to the list].
Sure test cricket has evolved over time.
You have to remember that when the first Australian [all Aboriginal] team turned up in England in 1868, overarm bowling had had only been legalised for two years, after a long and bitter shitfight over the issue.
When the first Australian test team arrived nine years later, there would have been plenty of underarm and roundarm bowling still going on.
In fact lob bowling persisted in first class cricket right into the 1920's when it finally died.
With the way this pink ball swings which way and that at night, and loops, spins, bounces and goes round corners for the slow men, we might was well go back to the future by playing day/night test cricket with lob bowling on a hessian matting pitch.
At least that would be far more interesting.
The very first test of all was played over three days on little more than a used dog track, but as the art of pitch curation developed and the draw became the most common result, they went to the completely opposite extreme of timeless tests, which people soon got sick of, not because of the tedium, but because it took time as a factor out of the game - before they mucked about forever and finally settled on five days.
Got no problem with shortening test matches to four days, like other first class matches, but the first pink ball test lasted two days and five and a bit hours - and it was as boring as batshit.
Bugger the result, let's face it, who wants to watch a bunch of fairly ordinary bowlers get away with 1st degree murder?
Test cricket has long been a delicious combination of runs, wickets and time - all utterly unpredictable - long periods of slow play interspersed with extreme excitement and high drama.
You can even look at it as a Shakesperian play in five acts if you wish, and the Indian Hindu sect that has cricket as its cult take it to another level altogether.
But since when did the actual time of day become a major tactic in the Captain's arsenal, with the vast majority of the wickets being taken at night, when the batsmen can't see the pink ball - they can't even see the seam on the ball at any time of day.
To play the four innings would have been even shorter, except for the number of dropped catches - a direct result of the inability of the players to see the pink ball off the bat at any time, especially if it's hit hard into the slips cordon.
Even Skipper Smiffy dropped a few, and he must have among the best set of catching hands in the world game.
There was nothing unequivocal about Smiffy's disgust then he turfed what ordinarily would've been a sitter.
As for the true traditionalist and the die-hard, they would have been horrified by the demise of Australia's cream-coloured uniform; in day/night test matches, everyone plays in white.
As an experiment, it's a complete dud.
Could not stand how the commentators on Channel Grime continuously talked up the idea as if it was the best thing since bottled Scotch.
Really?
How many people pay Warney to say it is "amazing" "fantastic" "brilliant" ad nauseum.
He thanked everyone bar his grandmother for coming up with or encouraging the "most innovative" concept the game has ever seen.
Sickmaking.
Only Chappelli refused to tow the company line...you could hear in his voice he was desperate to mark the whole shooting match down as an epic fail.
Nearing the end of the game he actually said "at no time in this match has any of the batsmen had a genuine chance to really get settled".
Blasphemy! According to the edicts from on high.
Then there were the fudged crowd figures.
On the first two days official crowds of 40K+ were posted, but My Spy at the Ground says 15-20 thousand of those were out the back getting pissed as parrots in the salubrious surroundings of the manicured lawns of the Members relaxation area, [the number of Members far outweighing the number of available seats] featuring comfortable garden chairs and tables, fully stocked bars, picnic hampers etc.
Most, if not all, of these people never saw a ball bowled.
For the great unwashed in The Outer, they would have spent hours pre-loading in the many pubs that surround the ground before getting to the game for a 2pm start.
After the so-called "dinner break" [no one seemed to know what the breaks were actually called, probably because no-one at the powers-that-be had bothered to think up names for them], the entire crowd was as the newt.
It was if the good/bad old days had returned, when you allowed to take your own esky full of beer onto the old hill at Adelaide Oval, but at least back then they had the decency and sense to impose a 24 can limit, per person.
Yet it still only got a touch messy after tea.
My Spy at the Ground had vivid stories of hoards of legless drunks pouring and stumbling out of the ground.
Of course, you'd expect to see a few pot-bellied piss-suckers at any game - nothing wrong with that - but in this day and age - the whole crowd?
If it aint broke, don't fix it.
If it is, as the money changers in the temples seem to think it is, and you can't fix it with a good length of fencing wire, then it aint worth fixing.
And as the blokes who hired the pink VW soon found out - you can't polish a turd.

only three nags can win the Melbourne Cup

My dear departed father's System for picking Melbourne Cup winners {"The System"} has been around since the Great Depression.
The System has thrown up close to 40 winners since the war, so that's a strike rate of more or less one in two Cups.
After an unusually prolonged drought, The System finally found a winner in Protectionist last year.
But who can forget the glory days with winners like Delta Blues, Ethereal, Brew, Rogan Josh, the legend surrounding Doriemus, and of course Tawriffic, who had the race won at the turn and saluted the judge at 33/1!?
The System usually identifies a handful of runners that can win the Cup, and this year has found three - then the choice is yours; or back all three, or trifecta them, or do nothing, or go mad with it.
Rob's modus operandi was to back the longest priced runner until your nose bleeds, and keep the others safe.

So here's my little annual form guide to the only three nags that can win the Melbourne Cup:

4. OUR IVANHOWE [GER] 56kg. 6yo h. T: L&A Freedman. J: B.Melham. (22). Well travelled import who has raced in England, Germany, France and Japan. Noted mudlark who revels in heavy conditions. Has form to go on, and came into The System with an impressive 3rd Caulfield Cup. Should get the trip. Extreme outside barrier and weight will play against him, but in a canny stable and set for this race a long way out. Will be among the favourites on a wet track. Respect.

10. TRIP TO PARIS [IRE] 55kg. 5yo g. T: E.Dunlop. J: T.Berry. (14). Out-and-out stayer. Won on all kinds of tracks in England, and at this distance. and is nicely in at the weights. Rocketed into the system with an eye catching 2nd Caulfield Cup, running on, looking for extra distance. Only a short preparation this time in, but will stay the two miles. Ideally drawn. Deserved second favourite behind Japanese raider. Should be prominent at the Clocktower, and right in this at the finish.

19. PRINCE OF PENZANCE [NZ] 53kg. 6yo g. T: D.K.Weir. J. Ms M.Payne. (1).
Dour stayer. Rank outsider in this, having been spelled for almost a year before this preparation. Now has plenty of miles in the legs.Trip a query. No form to speak of until he crept into The System almost un-noticed with a creditable, if plodding, 2nd Moonee Valley Gold Cup. Absolute boil over if he wins this, but at his best on soft going and has the country's best female hoop on board who knows her way around Flemington. Back on the nose to win a small fortune.


Enjoy!

doctored pitches & hopeless selectors

Aghastee's,

With the footy finals upon us -- let us not forget; the horrible 3-2 mess, as it quickly gets expunged from the brain when the reality of it is too frightful to contemplate.
But, as Glenn McGrath will tell you, and MJ Clarke is likely to agree after recent experience, when in England, it doesn't really matter if you win or lose that Stupid Little Urn [because you'll will win it back again, at home, anyway].
So long as you win at both grounds in London.
The Poms can have that provincial rubbish that masquarade as cricket grounds.
Straya doing OK on that score given they haven't been beaten at Lords for a million years, and love playing at Kennington Oval.
And Ooh Aaah knows a thing or two about Lords [always said there should be a a small bronze bust of McGrath near the Grace gates].
The Poms have got a curious set up going there.
While the Marleybone Cricket Club is by far the most important and famous club in the world, why is it that the ranks of its Membership are chock full of "cads, shysters, and bounders" with rather poor reputations.
Lords began as, and remains, a drinking club with a cricket problem.
It's long been known that The Oval has a much better class of clientle, both among the Membership and the mug punter who pays his quids at the gate.
They know their cricket there.
So why is it that a Membership at Lords is the most prestigous, most sought after, and most expensive in the world?
It's because the ruffians still write the rules [or The Laws as they like to call them]; the ICC can go sod themselves as far as they are concerned.
End of story.
[while they're at it they should shorten test matches to three of four days, like it was back in the days of yore]
If only Pup was in form [38,4,7,32no,10,3,10,13,15] Straya would have won the Ashes easily, but he was done in by doctored pitches.
Everybody forgets that Broad had done absolutely nothing in the previous 12-18 months, but give him a tailor-made green-top pitch that seams, swings, and bounces all over the shop like a mad woman's breakfast, and suddenly he's a world beater.
What a disgrace.
Broad topped the bowling aggregates, but the next four best were all Australian.
How's that work?
What a complete and utter fraud, perpetrated, nay flaunted, on the part of the Poms. .
The Ashes were also lost on the back of Straya's Hopeless Selectors.
Wrong-headed decisions on who they would play in each match were mired in selectors mistakes.
Series losing mistakes.
What's the betting MJ Clarke, more than once, led a team out onto the ground that he thought wasn't quite right?
Pup obviously believes in "the buck stops here", and sensibly took the rap and retired immediately [never mind that he was going to anyway].
But what about RW Marsh?
The bloke is as blind as a bat, and surely should have fallen on his sword, along with the three faceless men, by now.
And then there's DS "Boof" Lehmann.
All he seemed to do was wander about the dressing room, looking worried or glum.
They lost out, so sack the lot of them, for mine, then someone else can start looking after the next generation.
Whatever Michael decides to do in retirement, standing in the queue at Centrelink won't be one of them.
The first thing Pup did on the Monday after The Oval test?
Register Michael J Clarke Investments as a company, with him as the sole director.
Who would have thought that Pup's other nickname was "Moneybats"?
MJ Clarke's taxable income for the financial year '14-'15 is estimated about $5M, with current assets, realized or not, amounting to roughly $17-$18M.
Wanna buy his estate in the Southern Highlands, complete with cricket oval?
It's on the market, at the right price.
Too busy changing nappies to manage a farm.
The fishwraps reckon that Pup is "the most cashed up cricketer to leave the game".
Nonsense.
WG Grace woud have given him a real run for his money in today's cash.
There's also some irony then, that Arthur Morris - "The Elegant Genius" - and probably the best left hand bat to ever play the game - died during the Oval test at the age of 93.
Whenever anyone asked Morris "Arthur, what was the biggest thing that you took out of cricket?" he always replied "Poverty".

on the retirement of MJ Clarke

Canine Fanciers,

You could read the writing on the wall as clear as day.
The day before MJ Clarke left for England he announced that he and his broad were expecting a wee bairn.
The fact that he'd retire from Test Cricket at the end of the Ashes tour, win lose or draw, was stating the bleedin' obvious.
He'll be too busy changing nappies in the seaside mansions and sheep stations that he owns, to do much else [let's face it - Pup has now been reduced to selling toothbrushes] while his "beautiful wife" goes about her business, [whatever that is].
The immediate thought was "about time, Pup".
He's coming to fatherhood fairly late in the piece - he'll be 55 by the time the kid is 21.
And he'll probabaly be in wheelchair due to his chronlc case of Shaggers Back.
Not even importing a half-million state-of-the-art machine for the US of A, that shoots gamma rays through your back while rolfing it at the same time, or some such nonsense, did jack shit for it.
Reckons he picked up his first dose at age 18 or 19 and it steadily got worse through his early 20's before it settled down a tad as he underwent a wholesale lifestyle and image make over to make him more appealing to the public [a monumental failure].
This was back in the day, when he still drove a Ferrari, wore sharp clothes, and dined in only the finest restaurants; a surefire winner with the ladies.
Then it became chronic -- as he'll now be able to feel it for the rest of his born days.
"Oh shit, love, me back's gorn, again" - or something like that.
Didn't spend long in first class cricket until he was announced to the world as the great white hope and picked for Straya way too early, and then the wunderkid was very shabbily treated by the selectors, dropped not once, not twice, but three times before forcing his way back in though the weight of first class runs.
In the denoument The Board got sick of it, and told the selectors "Bugger you lot. We'll make the bastard captain if Ponting ever decides to retire".
He was a fine leader of men on the field [maybe not so much off the filed -- buty only the blokes in the dressing room can have a genuine opinion about that - Simon Katich has definite viwews for one - and you know what everyone said about Bradman].
His was a masterful tactician on the field, constantly on the go, never let the game drag, and was well known for a "sporting" declaration or two.
In short, he had a cricket brain the size of a watermelon.
No one in their right mind would think he was anything less than a master batsman [when in form mind you].
Had all the shots.
Although he did have the annoying habit of touching himself all the time - gloves on, gloves off, rearranging his box just to check his dick was still there, the pads had to be just so, the helmet also, and finished off with with tugging at the collar of his shirt - this, between every ball, not just between overs!
So with all the above, why was it that the Strayan public never ever liked him, never warmed to him, never captured their imgaination, never put him close to the pedestal on which national heroes sit?
Who knows?
Perhaps it was his ill-judged first engagment to what's her name -- but somehow thinking it ran deeper than an a woman with ridiculous breasts.
What it was, or what combination of factors were involved, we'll never really know now that he's gone.
Said it before, say it again, but will never forget seeing MJ Clarke play for the first time in the flesh.
He was but a pimpled yoof, not long after his debut for NSW, and well before he was considered for Strayan selection.
It was a Sheffield Shield match at Newcastle No.1 Ground.
Who NSW were playing has been lost in the mists of time.
It was a hot day, the third day if memory srves me right, with NSW looking for a big lead to set a target.
Me and me best mate were sitting in the shade offered by the huge stand of Moreton Bay figs trees, guzzling beers, and watching play from almost directly side on to the wicket.
In comes this kid no one had heard of.
He knocked the ball about a bit for a few overs, then the trade mark shots came out; the leg glance, the crisp cover drive, straight hitting par excellence.
We were struck by just how good his leg side play was, and simultaneously remarked to each other "this kid can play".
Then, out of the blue, Pup dances down the pitch to some hapless spinner who's name escapes me, and smote the ball with one almighty blow.
It sailed high over the head of mid-on, the ball was still on the up as it cleared the boundary rope, then went over the ground's perimeter fence by some distance finally landing on the netball courts out the bck, where it bounced a few times then rolled across six netball courts before quietly slipping down the embankment on plopping into Mullet Creek.
The ground ball-boys went out for a quick look, but promptly called "lost ball" [privately thinking 'we'll go back for that one later as a souvenir'].
We turned to each other and said "this kid can play".
Fell in love with the turd, then and there.
And who was batting at the other end?
Mark Waugh - in the twilight of his career.
Immediately thought Pup would be the natural replacement for MA Waugh - and so it came to pass, not so long afterwards.
With the announcement of the end of his career, people called Clarkey and his career many things ["chequered career", appeared to be the most common word used in the fishwraps].
Don't care.
Still love the the big shit.
Always will.
An enigma, it ever there was one.
Vale MJ Clarke.
We'll miss you.
Miss you bad.
But, the King is dead, long live Smiffy - "the baby-faced killer"
My Spy at The Ground sent through a telegraph message from Nottingham "First innings total 60. Clarke's Nadir".
He couldn't go lower, so by now there was no other option but to say farewell after only 46 matches as test skipper.
The Stats Guru will give you any number of numbers; not only can Pup say he scored a ton on debut [in India, of all places}, fewer still can boast they scored a triple hundred, on their home ground no less - he can dine out on free lunches for the rest of his life on the strength of that alone.
Here's a bloke who's won The Ashes [lost some too], won the World Cup [lost a few too], but in the end there is only one number that matters.
49.30.
His test batting average.
His poor form on the current tour cruelled his average, which was in the 50's before going England.
That should be restored by a big unbeaten ton at The Oval, to bookend his career.
He's due.
Anyone who averages 50, or very close to it, over a nine year career, is automatically admitted to The Pantheon of master batsmen of all time, for mine.
The day after Straya lost the Ashes and Pup announced he was giving the game away, popped my head around the front door of the Front Bar of The Local.
The denizens told me the Brown Bros. were out doing what they were meant to be doing - laying footpaths for the council - but in any case they wouldn't know, let alone care, who Michael Clarke was.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner sipping this week's favoured tipple, a tonic and lime which a marachino cherry to top it off.
[The barmaid later told me, much to my astonishment, that he'd sworn off the drink].
He shuffled his newspaper which of course featured bold print and large photographs of that Stupid Little Urn and Pup front and back.
The Prof settled on the back page and poked it with his bony finger and said, his voice trailing away:
"Almost every day, some underpinning slips away..."

here endeth the the blog

Loyalists,

After 42 days in hospital, some things are bound to fall by the wayside -- and the football blog is one of them.
I have different perspectives now, and after eight-and-a-half years on the job, I no longer find any pleasure in meeting the Thursday deadline.
The hundreds of posts and the thousands of pirated photographs will remain archived in the cloud at:
http://crazycraves.blogspot.com.au/
Of course, this space will remain open for comment on the exploits of MJ Clarke, particularly in the upcoming juicy Ashes series, but the football blog is finished, kaput, gorn.
Many thanks to the GTW [otherwise known as The Good Lady Wife], My Spy at The Ground, The Brown Bros, the Stats Guru, and particularly The Philosopher, without whom the blog would not have been possible.
In the words of John Arlott: "to report the doings of Parliament; the development of business or industry, the progress of a war, may be a grave and historic matter. A game, though, is serious only in the extent of the pleasure it may give. Its reporting should be a record of pleasure."
So here endeth the blog.
Thanks for reading and thanks for all the fish.

Crazy Craves.

unbeatable, invincible?

My fellow Stoics,

Due to circumstances beyond my control which extended to some minor surgey for chrissake, this week's bloggy blog blog is limited to some coach's comments.
Scoreboxes are included for the sake of completeness, on account of they never lie.
With any luck, normal services will be resumed next week.

Coach Squeak Taylor of Balmain:
"we should have won, anyway you look at it, we should have won; never mind the referees and the ridiculous penalty count against us, we should have won, how many times do I have to say it, but in reality, we should have won"
And so he went on, and on, and then some, knowing not the time when to shut up.

NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 32: Tries: Vatuvei (2), Thompson, Johnson, Townsend, Lolohea. Goals: Johnson (4).
WESTS TIGERS 22: Tries: Simona (2), Richards, Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3).
At Mt Smart Stadium, Auckland.
Crowd: 13,781.

Coach Ken Hinkley of Port Adelaide:
"If they [the Swans] can defend like that week in, week out, every week, they are invincible, unbeatable..."
Nuff said.
Speaking of defence, hearty congrats should be accorded to The Great Teddy Richards for playing his 200th game.
He would be as astonished as anyone that he has managed to play in that many games without anyone really noticing.

PORT ADELAIDE: 1.1, 4.2, 6.5, 6.8(44). Goals: Ryder 2, Schulz, Westhoff, Wingard, Monfries.
SYDNEY: 3.1, 7.4, 11.6, 14.8 (92). Goals: Franklin 3, Towers 2, Jetta, Hannebery, Tippett, Jack, Lloyd, Rohan, McVeigh.
At Adelaide Oval.
Crowd: 49,765.

a pair of Easter miracles

True believers,

If you'd want a better go at being resurrected from the dead, only The Good Lord Joisus could top the Swans over Easter.
Even Lazarus couldn't do a better comeback.
After being 41 points adrift at some point during the Champo - in what could only be described a miracle - Sydney, with heavy rain falling, kicked seven goals in the last, as the Bombers just ran out legs.
The opposition, with no pre-season to be speak of on account of the Damocles Sword hanging over them, were completely and utterly rooted at the last break and came to a standstill on a heavy track.
The Swans could see it coming from a mile off and just seized the obvious opportunity to win by 12 points.
SC Horse went along with the ruse and the play acting by hanging his head in his hands at half time, and giving the side an almighty spray at three quarter-time, knowing all along it was never in doubt.
The Stats Guru was on the phone saying it was the worst, the lowest, half-time score by the Swans against anyone in the past seven years.
He reckoned that well qualified for a "slow start to the season".
But not all was what it seemed, and in the end it was a cleverly cobbled together scam.
Mention should be made of Isaac "Mo" Heeney - the "Toast of Cardiff".
Here's a kid who was picked up for nothing in the draft after coming through the Paul Roos Memorial Academy as a home grown talent; being earmarked for greatness, stardom since the under-12's.
With tickets all over himsellf, he walks straight into the starting line-up in a team chock full of last year's Grand Finalists, and after taking his time to find his feet in the big league, looked the goods from the off.
The kiddie can play - sort of a new Rhino Keefe.
And the bloke is just 18, turns 19 next month, for chrissake.
Only made sense that his miracle debut goal in the AFL was the match winner and he was duly mobbed by his team mates.
At the other end of the spectrum, sadly, Goodesy is no longer a yard short, but about four or five yards short.
At 39, the former Strayan of the Year will have rings run around him this season by any number of young fella's bristling with talent.
Let's face it, he should have retired after losing the Grand final, and in the grand scheme of things, actually, probably, should have gone out with Micky O at the height of his powers.
You'd hope he doesn't go the same way as Rhino, who was unceremoniously dropped to the seconds - for good - with the explanation being "yr too old, yr too fat, yr too slow".
Surely Adam can't be that short of a bob that he needs to play on for the money?
At the Sunday morning smoko down by the Magic Waters, Super Coach Longmire conceded that they were "lucky to get away with it" and also mentioned to any one who'd listen some nonsense about "mental toughness".
Bullshit.
Football can be a mind game for sure, but in this one it simply came down to who had the superior fitness in such a long, long game.
Essendon physically just couldn't go on, leaving the flood gates open for the Swans.
Simple at that.
SC Horse will no doubt get an Academy Award for wiping his brow, as he marks that one down into the "we'll take our wins" side of the Coach's Ledger.

SYDNEY: 0.1, 2.7, 3.8, 10.12 (72). Goals: Franklin 3, Tippett 2, Bird 2, Laidler, Jack, Heeney.
ESSENDON: 4.3, 5.5, 9.6, 9.6 (60). Goals: Cooney 3, Daniher, Colyer, Watson, Heppell, Melksham, Goddard.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 23,274.


Just after half past three on Easter Monday afternoon the bush telegraph in the corner of the lounge room chattered into life.
It was my spy at the gound
Ripped the tickertape off the machine and found the message that read "Parramatta 6 Balmain 4 at the break. Stop. A dour affair if ever there was one. Stop. It would be good if something actually happenend, Stop."
It's alway been a ploy by coaches early in the season when players are still trying to find their feet and build up some match fitness to play the most defensive of games, just try to grind the opposition into the dirt, and then run over them like Sherman tanks in the back half of the game to steal the premiership points.
Bugger the enjoyment of the spectators.
Radio commentators suggested that Easter Monday would have to be the worst day of any of the 365 to play rugby league, given that you couldn't help yourself but eat too much of the Bro Roasts, boxes full of chocolates, and drink too much piss with family the day before, so the dietary/alcohol regime had gone clean out the window.
It wasn't until 70 minutes into the match that the Tigers at last decided to do something and nail the Eels to the cross, with the Pat Richards Miracle Try.
No one at the ground could actually work out what happened, and even on the television replay, it remains a mystery.
It appears Richards miraculously saved the ball from going into touch as he danced down the line with masterful skill and judgement [while all the time having a touch judge up his arse ready to raise the flag at any moment], and as he somehow managed to stay in the field of play while being thrown onto his back, just managed to get the ball on the toe into the waiting arms of the Tedesco Kiddie, who planted it in the in-goal with half an inch of grass left in the score zone.
The Eels were flabbergasted, and knew then and there they were gorn.
On interview after the game, even Richards himself admitted that he had no idea how it occured.
No concept.
If you were a Parramatta supporter, you could find it spooky and have very bad dreams about it.
It's a funny game -- Coach Squeak will tell you -- but the miracle, however it occured, was the finest of examples of the fact that there is no finer sight in world sport than running rugby league.

PARRAMATTA EELS 6. Tries: Peats. Goals: Sandow (1).
WESTS TIGERS 22. Tries: Brooks, Naiqama, Richards, Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3).
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 35,510.

PS: A note on the crowds.
It's quite rare that a Balmain game out-attends a Swans game on the same weekend, let alone at the same venue - that's probably never happened at Cathy Freeman Stadium.
But when it does happen, the margin is usually quite small.
Sure, Parramatta and Balmain both have huge supporter bases to call on and played on a bright sunny day, but the Swans fell short by more than ten thousand this time.
OK...the weather was shite, no-one went to the Easter show next door in the rain, everyone was out of town for the long weekend; the Swans Marketing Dept can, could, and will come up with any number of excuses.
But you also get to thinking how Sydney crowds are very fickle and demanding.
They hate losers, and can't get enough of winners.
The diehards apart, a lot of Swans fans won't start going to the game until the team looks like it's starting to atone for the horrendous debacle of last year's Grand Final.
That memory won't go away in our lifetimes.
And let's face it, there are 24 weeks, and then some, of atonement to be done.
Everybody knows.