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Something seems to have gone wrong with this week's ghost - so for those who care, here it is.
The Hare and The Tortoise
We did everything we could to lose the Freo game. Everything. Gave them a head start, fell asleep during the third quarter and took the long roads home. We missed shots my dog could kick, missed passes Hannibal took the elephants through, missed handballs and tackles and instructions. We were sheep in Bluebagger clothing; we were Icarus flying so high it seemed we were destined to fall into the sea of lost games…
or so I thought.
But this Carlton is not a story for children. This Carlton is not some Johnny-come-lately rabbit exposed for a soft underbelly and a tail only useful as a key chain. We may have rabbits feet (keep practising Jordy, it’ll come) when we kick for goal but underneath we are finding the Bluebagger heart of old.
In times past, when Jezza soared, when Johnno smashed packs, when Swan grew blisters on his palms from leather poisoning, when Big Nick tapped down Gags’ throat and Gooldey ran the flanks, when Sticks stuck marks and SOS scragged opponents (or went forward and kicked goals Matthew, not scared of any position on the field was our SOS so lay off and find your own glory), when Braddles paddled the ball and Ratts was not yet captain let alone coach, in the great times, the flag times, the high five times, there were still times when the boys played like dogs.
Yet in those times the thing that remained was the Bluebagger spirit, was the uncanny ability to etch out a win from a disgrace of a game. In fact, great sides win badly. So the game on Saturday was traditional (and not just because it was played at the right time, on the right day without a roof to block out the sky) because this Carlton side is starting to find the same feet as Carlton sides of old.
Like the Hare, this side did everything it could to lose to the Freo turtles, everything except the most important thing. It did not give up, did not surrender the Bluebagger pride, and did not forget the victory sown into every Navy Blue thread in very Bluebagger jumper. This side, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and so warmed the cockles of this old Bluebagger heart, put a spring in the step and a laugh in the voice as I sang the great song at the end until my voice was lost in the sea of Navy Blue joy.
Special mentions - first to AB, the lad just puts everything he is, everything, in to each and every tackle. I am certain his parents are proud, the lad leaves nothing on the table and I love him for it. ‘Give me a thousand Adam Benticks, and I’ll give you Rome! (Hannibal circa 212BC somewhere in the Pyrenees)
Next to Gibbsey – his tackles, that handball and another game where the kid just shows how important he will be to the future of this club.
To Griggsey - just getting better and better.
And lastly but not least – to the Irishman, to our own Berserker! Great game from him on the weekend, so good that you could see the joy of the contest just growing and growing in him. Carlos began to enjoy himself on the weekend and that’s when he is at his most dangerous, that’s when the Warrior spirit rises and becomes a force to be reckoned with.
And that is a good a place as any to turn our attention to this week’s game: To the mighty Cats. Now, please, can all those whispering about the loss, all those biting fingernails or staring into haunted mirrors, relax. This is not about Geelong. Not in the least.
So the Cats come out claws extended, so they come out blazing, ferocious, determined to eradicate the pain of last week’s loss – so what? Who cares? They can have as much kitty litter as they want; it makes no difference to us. We have our own goals.
We want to play the Cats at their absolute best. We want them angry and ready to explode and all the rest. Bring on the clichés! Bring ‘em all on. It’s what we want.
This side will only get better by being tested by the best. We are young, we are learning and we are ready for Geelong.
Let them worry about our rucks, let Ottens chase their tails, let him think ‘bloody hell I should have waited until next week!’
Let Mooney regret that he is a forward and must line up against our defence, let young Hawkins feel the wrath of the Irishman.
Let Bartel and Ablett, Ling and Corey work their butts of against Judd, Stevo, Gibbs and Murphy.
Let them worry about Fev and Edwards and Eddie and the rest. Let them watch Simmo run, Russell tackle, the Pieff fiddle with their forward structure, let them feel the fear of failure begin as a worm in their boots and grow into a giant serpent - Ragnarok approaches for these Cats, the day of reckoning, the day when past deeds count for nothing.
See, the thing is, in this game we are not the hares, we have nothing to lost. We are young and our years of glory lay ahead of us. For us, this is simply another step on the path, another mountain to overcome. But for Geelong, oh like Rome, they know what a loss means, they know that the best defence is the aura of invincibility; they know that if they should lose to us then their empire teeters on the edge of collapse.
So bring it on I say. Lets give this leaning tower called Geelong a good hard shove, lets watch their columns topple; we are Samson reborn! This club was shackled, shorn and blinded, but we are rising again, we are the giant, the nightmare, the Bluebagger Scythe that will sweep all before it and we’ll not leave a Hare untouched (sorry couldn’t resist)!
Edwards for 4
Gibbs Bog
Setanta to claim another scalp.
Go Blues!
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This type of slight is alien in the more cultured part of the world - Walsh. Its up there with mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun!
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FAQ
very unusual for a drummer I should think....
I write these in 30 minutes every Wednesday so, you know, cut some slack....