By John Harms
It was pretty quiet in the MCC Members during the third quarter late on Saturday afternoon of the Preliminary Final between Collingwood and the GWS GIANTS.
As fluke GWS goals gave way to very classy GWS goals, and the rain came down, the only sound to be heard from N37 was the gnashing of teeth (or was it gums) and the sound of people on their mobile phones changing their Grand Final plans
The Giants were suddenly well clear – with no sign of slowing down.
Not that our party was out there with the Collingwood throng. My host, Moon, was grumpy. He thought the standard of footy was appalling (“Terrible game, this!”), his Pies were suspect (“What are they doing?”) and he was still getting over the fact that when he got on the tram in the Leafy East, a bloke close to 80 had stood up to offer him a seat. (“I’m only 68. I recently became an SWR at the Northcliff Surf Club, you know.”)
Moon was so grumpy we had returned to our lunch venue – the Hans Ebeling Room (which served an outstanding lunch – what was that mango dessert?) to have an ale. And to sook really. Me about Geelong. Moon about Collingwood.
It didn’t help that Harro, a lifelong Tiges’ man (and Moon’s brother-in-law) was still on a Friday-night high, even though, in his euphoric state, he’d forgotten this was an evening game and had to abandon his golfing partners at Royal Melbourne when one of them mentioned the starting time. (“We shook hands on the sixth green and I took off.”) And Judy was the Judy she is when fondling a glass of bubbles.
It was both tense and funny at the same time. I bought a round.
“What’s an SWR?” I asked placing Moon’s shiraz in front of him.
“It’s an important job,” he said. “Swift Water Rescuer.”
“Really?” I was puzzled. “Swift water? At Surfers Paradise?”
His Catholic guilt got the better of him. “Shallow Water Rescuer,” he admitted, “but it’s still important.”
Not even a perfect rainbow over the Punt Road end could help. The ugly game of the first half really had been a lamentable rolling maul, a 50-metre diameter scrum of footballers. It seemed like a nod to the 19th century, some re-enactment.
Goals could be kicked, but seldom, and only by chance.
Were both coaches so afraid?
But the game had opened up. And every time we looked up at the TV there was some bloke in orange and charcoal strolling into an open goal or bending one around the corner or hitting a set shot as purely as Adam Scott hits his four iron (and with the same trajectory).
Moon was deflated. Not even the memory of his Clifton Hill childhood could lift him. Nor the comfort of the Catechism he learnt at St Joseph’s North Fitzroy. Nor the imagining of retirement on the Gold Coast.
He was resigned to defeat.
“Come on,” he said, rallying the troops.
Eventually we were sitting in N37 again. The Pies were five goals down. And their supporters were looking like Eeyore (the ones who were still there). I was observing all this (and trying not to giggle).
But then the game stirred. Whether the Giants slowed down under the fatigue of two tough finals, or the footy gods breathed life into the locals, the Pies were suddenly in a hurry. They found space. They scored a couple. “It’s game on,” someone said.
Then Chris Mayne kicked one off the ground and then Josh Thomas brought the Pies to a goal down and the Giants looked gone. You can imagine the Pies supporters. It was just a matter of time.
They had good reason to think that because the ball was permanently in their forward line. Jeremy Howe was a kick behind the play and the Giants could not get the ball past him.
The scrum of the first half was now a manic scrum. The Pies had 10 minutes to nose in front. Even Moon was excited. I could tell because he unfolded his arms for the first time in an hour. But the Sherrin would not fall. The Pies’ desperation probably worked against them. They rushed kicks which missed.
The clock ticked beyond 30 minutes and then beyond 33 and you just knew the guillotine was about to fall.
When it did I have to say I was disappointed for Moon and the good folk of Carringbush – and especially for Nathan Buckley.
I looked at Moon and I wanted to say it, but I couldn’t. That at least he had a summer of life-saving to look forward to.
John Harms is the coordinating editor of Balcony Banter and also of the popular fan-writing site www.footyalmanac.com.au