63 not out.

hughes

What a desperately sad, awful, tragic day. There were more than a few glassy eyes in my office when the horrible news came through that cricketer Phil Hughes had died. The Australian batsman was struck in the head by a ball earlier in the week and despite a collective crossing of the fingers from everyone, his life support was turned off this afternoon.

25 years seems like barely enough for someone who was so loved by those who knew him and liked by so many who watched him from afar.

Hopefully the immense outpouring of love and support from not just Australians but cricket fans worldwide will go a long way towards helping his family, friends and team mates through this incredibly difficult time. I also hope that the media give those who knew and loved Phil the space to grieve privately.

There were many, many beautiful messages posted and pieces published this afternoon about the much loved test player – this is my brother‘s, which sums it up beautifully.

“Sometimes in your life, you hear of something happening – something tragic. It reels you, it knocks the wind out of you. You take a deep breath and think to yourself that what you’ve just heard couldn’t be real – that it just couldn’t happen. It numbs you and renders you senseless, upon the realisation that it is in fact reality.

Today was one of those days.

I never knew Phillip Hughes the person – but I admired and respected him as an athlete and a role model – as someone who made cricket a better sport.

Digesting this tragedy as a die-hard cricket fan is difficult enough – but I can’t comprehend what Phillip’s family, team mates, friends and supporters must be going through.

Spare a thought, too, for Sean Abbott.

Thanks for so many wonderful cricketing memories, Phillip – to watch you bat was just amazing. What a shame that those memories have been cut so tragically short.

Rest in Peace.”

Send help.

international rules lift

I’ll be honest, not a lot of women who’d be too disappointed to be stuck in a lift with that group. (Myself absolutely included.)

The Australian team assembled for tonight’s International Rules game is an absolute cracker and it’s been good seeing so many top players get involved – every single one is part of this year’s All Australian team. Kicking myself now that I didn’t cough up for a trip to Perth. Will be great to see how the game’s best play alongside each other and hoping for a big Aussie win over the Irish.

Photo via Nic Natanui’s Instagram.

The junket.

manuka oval

I originally wrote this about seven years ago but after seeing Manuka Oval on TV tonight showing the cricket, I re-told it to one of the young ‘uns at work. This was an awesome day and I still love telling the story.

I never liked those girls much.

Well, when I say I never liked them, what I probably mean is more I never knew them. There were a lot of divisions between departments where I worked and they simply didn’t move in the same circles as me. I was the funny girl who hung out at the lunch table with the boys and talked footy, whereas they were more like the “cool” girls from school who gossiped at the back door in between drags of cigarettes.

So, I never knew those girls much.

One day my employer happened to have a dozen tickets to an AFL match that was being played in our town, a rare occurence indeed. I didn’t particularly like either of the teams playing but would probably have headed along anyway given we hosted so few football games. However my eagerness to attend wasn’t translating so well amongst our valued clients so there was a single spare ticket.

I made sure my boss knew I was happy to take the ticket off her hands, particularly as I knew the seat would be good (ie an expensive view). They held out until the eleventh hour before finally acquiesing and handing me the precious ticket.

The three girls would be the other employees attending, plus a number of clients that, to be honest, I couldn’t have given a stuff about. What I did care about was the fact the ticket was not only for a prime seat but also a fully catered lunch beforehand. Including drinks.

I spoke to one of the girls who lived in a nearby suburb and she offered to pick me up on the way to one of the other girls’ houses, whereby we’d all get a taxi or a lift to the ground to avoid drinking and driving. As I didn’t have a car it worked out perfectly for me so we agreed she’d come past my house early the next morning to give us plenty of time.

One of my close friends had attended the previous game and I asked him what I should expect. “Not much time to do anything,” he said. “Pretty boring, you just have lunch, make small talk, watch the game then leave.” Huh. Well, it was still a free ticket.

He then told me that John Fairfax had attended his game so they had been told to wear a suit a tie and maintain the appropriate standard of decorum at all times. Right, well I know Fairfax isn’t coming to my game but what the hell should I wear?

In the end we went smart footy casual, which generally consists of neat jeans, roll neck jumper and requisite black coat. So I waited out the front of my house for my new friend to arrive, cold but excited, dressed as such.

My lift arrived and we tried to make conversation in the tiny car, stumbling over questions about shared acquaintances and work areas. I was probably stuck for something to say when I asked her which managers were attending the day’s festivities. “Managers?” she said. “Managers? There’s only you, me and the two other girls today.”

Righto. Should be interesting. Let me tell you that interesting doesn’t even begin to describe it.

What followed was nine hours of drinks, footy, drinks, new mates, drinks, an extremely uncomfortable trip in a two door hatch, drinks and more. Then drinks. I can unequivocally say that it ranks amongst one of my best ever days at the footy and I saw stuff all of the match.

My friend had warned me that there wasn’t really enough time to get drunk so don’t worry too much about the free alcohol. He was wrong. We started on the drinks from the second I got there and as the table filled up with various clients, we only proceeded to drink more and get increasingly raucous as inhibitions and nervousness wore off.

The majority of the clients were youngish blokes in their late twenties, plus an older couple. The older couple spend most of the day networking around the room while we finished of plenty more alcohol washed down by a three course lunch.

Two of the gentlemen owned a gym equipment business and a bar on the side. Two more worked in the hotel industry. All of them were football fans so there were plenty of sporting jokes being bantered around as the teams and umpires got ready for the match.

It was the kind of cold day that only Canberra can truly provide – bright and sunny and about three degrees. The eight of us decided we were well and truly comfortable at our table by the glass window overlooking our seats in the pavillion and opted to stay inside. For the first quarter anyway. We’ll see how we go.

We. Never. Left. As the saying of the day went, “Match stats? Well I’ve watched about six percent of this match!” We were too busy stockpiling middies of beer and glasses of red and white wine, perfectly chilled by their close proximation to the glass looking out on to Manuka Oval. Any time a hapless waiter walked around the room with a full tray we were more than happy to relieve him of it.

At half time all of us were pretty merry and the party pies and sausage rolls provided welcome relief. Only problem was, I had a pale blue jumper on and didn’t appear to be able to manoeuvre a pie to my mouth without spilling tomato sauce across my decolletage. There was now a scarlet smudge that didn’t look particularly classy scarring my jumper. Uh oh.

I dashed to the toilets, returning ten minutes later with all traces of sauce gone. “Look!” I proclaimed to my new friends. They couldn’t believe it until I showed that I’d turned my jumper back to front, leaving my long hair to cunningly disguise the stain. And so on we went.

The day continued in blurry friviolity, mucking around with knitted scarves and lasso-ing patrons with them, waving to amused children on the other side of the glass and stealing the floral centrepieces from the tables.

There was also something called “Shannon Noll dancing” which I can’t recall in its entirety but I believe constituted walking into the middle of the room and doing some kind of haphazard bootscooting. Why the honour went to Shannon Noll is long beyond me but I do remember it was funny.

As for the game itself, it ended with the Western Bulldogs winning by a single point against North Melbourne and I think I read in later reports that Brad Johnson kicked the winning goal only seconds before the final siren. An umpire also broke his leg so all in all you might say it was a fairly uneventful game…

In any case, we were eventually kicked out when they turned the lights off on the oval. Our happy, singing, drunken group made their way down two sets of stairs, slowly and with stolen flowers in hand. One of the girls managed to stumble down the stairs, full red wine glass in hand and break the glass without cutting herself or spilling it all down her front. I think there was some fairly nasty bruising later but for now, the pain was well and truly dulled.

From there we piled six of us into a very small car and proceeded to navigate our way to the fancy bar the two of our new friends owned. I think one bloke was in the boot and I cannot remember who actually drove (or whether they should have driven). We proceeded to settle in and when one of them asked what I would like to drink, I said “surprise me” and suddenly we were all drinking watermelon cocktails made with fresh fruit and served in a short glass. There would have been a substantial amount of alcohol in them but we managed to consume several of the delicious drinks – on the house of course – before tiredness set in.

It would have been about 9pm, nine hours after that first 12pm beer, when i stood up from the padded cube I was sitting on and announced I was going home. The girl who picked me up announced she was folding as well so we shared a taxi back to our homes on the other side of town.

I wish I could say that we all became close mates afterwards and hung out every lunch time, talking and painting our nails like girls do. Well, we didn’t. After the fun of relating the battle stories to an audience of co-workers on Monday morning died off, what we actually did is went about our daily actions as per usual. With one very suble but important difference – we were now friends, bonded by one special shared experience.

I have told the story of this day many many times, both to those involved, mutual friends and other people entirely independent of the situation and it never fails to make me smile. I’m glad to have recorded it here as I probably forget a detail or two with each re-telling since 2003.

Last weekend I was a guest at the prestigious President’s Lunch at the MCG for the Carlton v Collingwood match. The day was wonderful and we couldn’t have been looked after any better with great food, expensive alcohol and fantastic speakers. But for all its perfection, all its standing and tradition, a small part of me would still loved to have been standing in front of the glass at Manuka, hiding a sauce stain on the back of my jumper.

In the wash.

I can personally vouch for Cheyne Webster’s passion for AFL because he happens to be my brother. He’s spent nearly 20 years watching, playing, coaching and talking shit about the game and now I’ve convinced him to write about it. He’s chosen the subject of recycled players though I have to admit I’m a little put out he hasn’t included Paddy Ryder in his top five predicted success stories (this may be the last piece he writes then). He’s also put Sydney – the team he happens to barrack for – as number one when it comes to the ability to recycle a player well. So no bias there, then.

Cheyne’s lived overseas a number of times and had to beg, borrow and steal to watch games so I understand why he picked the 2012 grand final win as his special moment. For me personally, I have two favourite footy memories with Cheyne. The first is when we headed to ANZ Stadium (or Stadium Australia as it was known back then) to watch the Swans play the Lions in the 2003 preliminary final and Cheyne was wearing a Swans mask we’d bought God knows where at some point in time. You’d think people attending a Sydney game would appreciate the mask and understand its relevance but some punter still came up and asked my brother why he was wearing a duck mask. The second memory is when we went to see Port Adelaide play North Melbourne at Manuka Oval in 2005. Port had had a solid lead (around 60 points from memory) but went to sleep and got done. Ouch. Cheyne waited with a very sombre me after the game for quite some time then patiently took around 47 photos of me with Stuart Dew, who remains my all time favourite player. Maybe he’s not such a bad brother after all. Oh, and I still have that mask.

Well, it’s that time of year again. That time of the year as a footy fan that has you in a state of emotional limbo. The premiership action on the field has ended, and supporters of 17 teams this season have periodically broken up with their sporting bed fellow. After the ensuing period of enraged emotions and looking within for answers to their teams inadequacy to win the flag, footy’s answer to the dating scene has now hit full swing. Teams looking for a fresh start and fresh blood to put on their books, head to the national draft to reinvigorate their core groups to keep their dream alive. A raft of unfulfilled players already on club lists then for reasons unbeknownst to many become hot property. Like an out-of-town leggy blonde that struts into a far flung country pub – no one has seen her before, yet at first glance they all clamour at her feet to charm her socks off. She may look like the perfect woman, but those smart cookies in the shady drinking hole can see through the facade – why hasn’t she made it yet? How has she ended up at this last chance saloon?

One of football’s harsh realities is that on club lists that near the half century mark in number, some players just don’t make it. It would be hasty to judge these players who simply can’t get the opportunity that others get ahead of them, for a range of reasons. So many cards have to fall your way to forge a successful AFL career. As a supporter, it seems so straightforward – train hard, play well when you get your chance, and the rest takes care of itself. However, the hardest working people don’t always reap the rewards. When footy clubs fly the white flag at the end of seasons they’d rather forget, you can’t help but feel that a combination of exasperation and desperation sets in. Not all players have got it in them to be great but when their club spits them out the side and they all of a sudden become ‘available’, it amazes me how desirable some these players become.

One of the things I love about footy is a successful recycled player. Something that annoys me though are players who become huge currency at this time of the year and then seem to float into another footy club without reprisal. They are either drafted highly and fail, don’t fit into the club’s culture, or have had a bad run for one reason or another. Whatever plot lines are churned out by clubs, player managers, or the players themselves, someone is having supporters on. Are all players who don’t get a shot worthy of another chance? Like all employees at workplaces, some get the job done regardless of the circumstances, whilst others grasp at excuses like clutching straws. Perhaps young players on club lists reflect the young people in Australian society today. In this world of instant gratification, where we want everything now without having to earn it – perhaps its the wrong attitudes that are at fault.

James Frawley is a great example of this. The saga that played out all year was difficult to digest for all footy fans. Here we had a player who clearly didn’t want to be a Melbourne footballer – he decided well before the season’s end he wanted out and yet strung Demons fans on with the notion that he was waiting until season’s end to make a decision. He played some downright ordinary football this year in a fledgling team that needed strong leaders to convey some strength and credibility to the group. Coach Paul Roos used him down forward in a move which surprised many, but I cant help but feel was a method of awakening Frawley from his apathetic slumber. It’s worth noting that only four years ago Frawley was the All-Australian fullback. Leigh Matthews was particularly scathing of him on radio this season, claiming that, “…if Frawley wasn’t a free agent this season, his name wouldn’t even be mentioned. He’s not even in the top 100 players in the game.”

At the end of the day, however, not all players requesting to be recycled are footy’s big names. Twenty-nine players found new homes over this limbo period with most of them only playing a handful of games at their former clubs. There will be more to come. It is an exciting time of the year for these players – they’ve broken up with their football partner, dolled themselves up and thrown themselves into the meat market. Footy’s dating scene. Pumped up by their managers, telling all and sundry they’re not cooked yet, just resting on the warming rack on top the barbecue. Managers are playing match-maker, shoving their clients in the back towards the smiling group of singles in the middle of the footy dance floor.

So who are these singles strutting their wares, parading their premiership desires to the masses? Carlton, Western Bulldogs, Melbourne and Brisbane all played the jilted lover in 2014. Success has not come to these clubs for a considerable amount of time. Draft picks have failed (or flown the coop), experienced players have wilted in the ladder’s bottom half heat and players on the cusp have not lived up to expectation exacerbated by this flirtation with the dreaded wooden spoon. Has their spiral into singlehood driven them to drink one too many at the delisted free agent table? Sure, there’ll be recycled players who’ll prove their ex-lovers wrong. They’ll ‘go steady’ with their new flame, grow their mutual admiration and respect, work their socks off to make the relationship work, and – if all goes to plan – slip their finger into a ring on grand final day.

As supporters, now we wait. We wait for the flirting to materialise, we wait for the perception to become reality, we wait for the water to turn into wine. While it doesn’t always work out, I think supporters of clubs love a good recycled player. Looking far and wide at the competition, not only do successful ones enhance club rosters in the short term, provides them with huge impetus to drive towards a premiership sooner rather than later. They’ve ended up at the last chance saloon, and there’s only one thing they can do – drink up, or shut up. I can’t wait to see how they unfold.

My predictions? My top five recycled success stories for 2015 will be Mark Whiley (from GWS to Carlton), Allen Christensen (from Geelong to Brisbane), Shaun Higgins (from Western Bulldogs to North Melbourne), Travis Varcoe (from Geelong to Collingwood) and Jason Tutt (from Western Bulldogs to Carlton), An honourable mention also to Jack Crisp (from Brisbane to Collingwood). My top five likely recycle failures for next season are Liam Jones (from Western Bulldogs to Carlton), Sam Blease (from Melbourne to Geelong), Jeff Garlett (from Carlton to Melbourne), Tom Boyd (from GWS to Western Bulldogs) and James Frawley (from Melbourne to Hawthorn). This time the not-so-honourable mention goes to Jarrad Waite (from Carlton to North Melbourne). Finally my top five clubs who do the recycling this best are Sydney, Port Adelaide, Hawthorn, Collingwood and, so far, GWS.

Cheyne Webster

Name: Cheyne Webster

Age: 32

Recruited from: Canberra, ACT via country NSW, Taiwan, the Maldives and Thailand

Occupation: Teacher and local footy coach for Eastlake

AFL team followed: Sydney Swans

And why: The most parochial fans are those that follow their home – home is where the heart is. I am a born and bred New South Welshman, so I’ve got to support the Swans. I started to seriously follow footy in the mid 90s when the Swans brand exploded and I haven’t looked back. It’s a wonderful club to support.

All time favourite footy moment: It’s hard to go past the Swans’ grand final wins – the 2005 grand final was amazing but I’d have to say 2012. I was overseas at the time in a crowded Aussie ex-pat pub and I was literally the only one in the room wearing a Swans jersey, surrounded by hundreds of rabid Hawks fans. Needless to say I was the drunkest man in that pub and didn’t leave for quite some time afterwards, letting everyone know what I thought of the game.

 

Port Adelaide proud.

MCG

I wrote this after Port Adelaide lost the 2014 preliminary final to Hawthorn by three points at the MCG, a game I attended. It’s been a big two years for the club and supporters definitely have something to get excited about. However losing a prelim always aches and I was feel pretty down for the next couple of days – writing definitely helps.

One of the questions I get asked fairly often is why do I barrack for Port Adelaide. I’m not South Australian; in fact, I’ve only been to Adelaide three times in my life. I grew up in country NSW in a family that supported rugby league teams and played rugby union. AFL never even factored in our lives until the Sydney Swans made the 1996 grand final and we started to show an interest.

The reason I support Port Adelaide is simple: I just do.

I’m honestly not entirely sure how it came to be. They were the new team in the competition in 1997 and for some reason I picked them. I picked them over the team that represents my people and my home state, I picked them barely knowing a single player, I picked them with no SANFL Port Adelaide Magpies background. I think a friend at the time had shown some interest in them and I simply went along for the ride – new team, new football supporter.

It’s probably fair to say that when people pick a team to support in any football code, they choose the one with qualities they identify most with. They want to feel like a winner so they choose a team with recent success, they feel like an underdog so they choose the battlers, for bravery and toughness they might find a team with a player who signifies this. Even those who choose a team based on family loyalties or physical location are choosing to be part of something greater than themselves, something that unites them with the people they love best.

Yesterday I watched my team – the team I have chosen – lose by three points in a preliminary final. The same team that two years ago finished second last on the ladder, broke and hopeless. The team that sacked it’s coach mid-season and had to cover the sea of empty seats at home grounds with teal coloured tarps to disguise the lack of interest. The team that was in such financial strife it seemed hard to believe it could keep going. The team that lost one of their own in a devastating incident on an end of season trip.

Somehow, at their very lowest point, Port Adelaide found a reason to keep fighting. They picked a coach who was effectively the last man standing, a man who had to be convinced to even apply for the job. They found an underrated captain who could lead by example. They propped up their young list with recycled players that found a niche in a  new home. And they recruited a president who could reinvigorate supporters’ love for the silver, teal and black and white.

There is a massive amount of belief both in and at the Port Adelaide Football Club these days. It’s that kind of belief that in two years has taken us from that spot at the bottom of the ladder to effectively finishing third this season. And with one of the youngest lists in the competition you can only feel that things are going to get better and better for us. Our self belief – for both players and fans – is back with a vengeance.

Three points. Three fucking points. But from 30-points down mid-way through the final quarter I watched my boys give absolutely everything they could out there on the MCG. I watched them attack the game and kick goal after goal until the final siren put an end to their efforts. It absolutely hurts to lose and so it should but I couldn’t be prouder of their efforts. We are a team that could walk off that ground with our heads held high knowing that on any given day, our best is going to be enough.

I cannot wait for 2015. Yes We Ken indeed.

What Hinkley, Boak, Koch, Thomas and everyone else at Port Adelaide has achieved in just two years has been unbelievable. They’ve united the club and it’s supporters, created a brilliant new home for us in Adelaide Oval and reinvigorated our spirit. The right people at exactly the right time.

I last watched Port Adelaide lose a preliminary final in 2003 to Collingwood and I went to the toilets and cried. Last night there were a few tears as well, especially when my family called me. Today a friend called me to check I was still going to an event we had on today and she asked how I was going. “Great,” I said. “Don’t lie,” she replied, “I saw the game yesterday.” “OK then, shithouse.” And I meant it. Today I have been sad in that kind of way you feel on the day after your birthday or the 27 December. All the fun and excitement is over for another year.

One of Port Adelaide’s mottos is ‘We never give up’. And we haven’t. We didn’t give up at any stage during this finals campaign, fighting as long and hard as we could against Fremantle and Hawthorn. We didn’t give up after simply making the finals last year, when no one respected us enough to believe we could do it again this season. We didn’t give up when our club was at its lowest point ever – no coach, no money, no support, no hope. Instead we chose to collectively believe, a decision that has infinitely paid dividends.

When we unite to sing Never Tear Us Apart we mean it.

Respect. Pride. Determination. Courage. Commitment. Belief. If I was picking a team today I’d choose one that had all those qualities.

Lucky I already do. And that’s the reason I support Port Adelaide.

#weareportadelaide

Welcome.

Is there anything more frustrating than hearing someone say, “it’s just a game”?

Because for many of us, it is something far greater and more precious about that. We live it and breathe it and study it and feel it like almost nothing else. Your team wins and you’re the king of the world – lose and it’s a week of heartache and ribbing from friends and colleagues (and family if you’re truly unlucky).

I’ve started this blog because there are few things I like to talk about more than AFL and I have some really great friends. I also wanted a space to record essays, thoughts or photographs about our great game. It’s slightly ironic that my first post comes around six hours after the 2014 grand final has been played but hey, timing isn’t everything. My aim over summer and into next year will be to publish some of my friends’ observations about football and my own thoughts on what’s happening in the AFL. My thinking at this point is to publish either pieces my friends have written themselves (short or long) or first person style interviews, but I’ll see how I progress.

I also wanted to have an online space around AFL that wasn’t the arguing idiocy that forums can devolve into, the incredible bias of Facebook pages, Supercoach anything, or purely match review style pieces. I want posts that are interesting to read on a theme or issue and I’m always infinitely keen to hear other people’s opinions when they’re delivered in a thoughtful manner.

Some quick information abut me – my name is Natalie, I live in Melbourne and I’m a Port Adelaide supporter. A proud Port Adelaide supporter, I should say. I’m also the black sheep of my family as they all follow the Sydney Swans, though consequently I do hold the Bloods very close to my heart as well. I grew up in country NSW watching rugby league and rugby union and we were horrified at the idea of this “aerial ping pong” business until Sydney made the grand final in 1996 – first game I ever watched was the Brisbane Bears v Essendon final that year while I was studying for my HSC. I decided to go with the new team Port Adelaide in 1997 and the rest, as they say, is history.

In that almost 20 years since I’ve seen my team finish minor premiers then lose preliminary finals. I’ve seen them win a grand final and then leave the ground in tears when they’ve lost one. I’ve been through four coaches and god knows how many players. I’ve been a paid up member and a somewhat lapsed and disillusioned fan. I’ve seen them play in nearly every state at almost every AFL ground. And I’ve cried and I’ve cheered and I’ve laughed and I’ve dug my nails in so hard I’ve drawn blood.

Because in every way, with no doubt about it, it is absolutely “more than a game.”