Blame Emma Quayle for this one - "Oh Cyril"

 Emma Quayle, AFL writer for the age specialising in coverage of the national drafts, has brought to my attention the fact that it is Squirrel Rioli's 100th AFL game this Friday night against Essendon. Bringing delight certainly to Hawthorn fans, and hopefully to many other football lovers around the country, Cyril has a unique skill set that not many other players in the league could hope to replicate. With that (and the carrot of a wonderful prize for the best entry) in mind I have penned my ode to Cyril with the help of those great rockers Australian (Rules Football) Crawl. I give you "Oh Cyril";

Update: I may just have won the competition...

Going anti-clockwise, autographs from Cyril Rioli 33, Ben McEvoy 5, Brad Ebert 5, Trent Cotchin 9 and Patrick Vezspremi 13

 
"Drafted way late,
debuted '08
this Hawk's a high flyer.
Collingwood,
it's understood,
wished they had picked higher.
He leaps up and,
on shoulders stands,
his marks you admire.
With a little shunt,
kicks a drop punt,
that goes through post high and then we sing;

Oh Cyril, I would give anything just to play like him.
Oh Cyril, I would give anything just to play like him.

The taggers all,
will scream "no more!",
he runs 'til they tire.
With poise and guile,
and a cheeky smile,
he's gonna get by ya.
When tackling,
he is the king,
he lays the giants low.
He waits to pounce,
then takes a bounce,
and sets up another goal, I say;

Oh Cyril, I would give anything just to play like him.
Oh Cyril, I would give anything just to play like him.

Don't sign for the the Roos,
I don't wanna hear about it.
Don't sign for the the Blues,
I just don't wanna hear about it..."

What the puck? The dummies guide to the Stanley Cup finals.

Australian Rules Football was invented to keep cricketers fit. Cricket was invented from the Dutch term for Hockey, met de (krik ket)sen. And Hockey? Well, if you believe my all time favourite player former NHL super star Brett Hull, hockey was invented to stop men talking about their feelings. And while that may or may not be true, the fastest sport in the world deserves more than a passing mention as the puck is about to drop on the 2012 Stanley Cup finals. So please ladies and gents, sit back and enjoy my light hearted preview of the greatest show on ice that doesn't involve Disney characters as the Los Angeles Kings prepare to do battle with the New Jersey Devils...

The Sacramento Los Angeles Lakers, um, Clippers, um, Kings?

If you are unfamiliar with the sport of ice hockey, as people in the small, insignificant market of Los Angeles are, you could be forgiven for not knowing who the Kings were. So we can't fault the poor sub-editors at the tiny little operation known as the NBC confusing one ice hockey team in California for a basketball team in California some 400 miles away, can we?

Oops.

But can we really blame them? Where Cameron Diaz is a regular at Lakers games, we have Alyssa Milano live tweeting Kings games. Where Jack Nicholson fist pumps when Kobe drains a clutch jump shot in the final minute, James Gandolfini stands and applauds when "Brad Doty" breaks up another odd man rush. And even when the Kings contrive to make the finals for the first time since some guy called Gretzky single handedly took them there in 1993, you can rest assured basketball was the top highlight on Sportscenter, presumably because some guy dunked the ball. It's not exactly fair is it?

Fortunately the good people in the Kings' social media department got on board and set the record straight and now, with not only Beiber but Beckham in frequent attendance, maybe the Kings will get their due because this is a scarily good hockey team and will start the finals as favourites.

THE DEVILS!!!

You may, however, be a little more familiar with these guys.

It isn't why you should be though. Unlike their Californian counterparts, cup finals are no mysery to the Devils as this will be their 5th visit in less than twenty years already having achieved the ultimate success three times. The name Lou Lamoriello is legendary in hockey circles with the veteran General Manager once again putting together a team that steamrollered through more fancied opponents in the Eastern conference. Where the Kings are scary good, the Devils are scary competent. That is a mighty complement in a lightning fast game where mistakes can make all the difference and it is an asset that will have New Jersey right there until the end.

California, know how to party...

It's the summer of 2011 and Philadelphia Flyers General Manager Paul Holmgren has a problem. He has re-signed two key young players of the team that went to the cup finals in 2010 but struggled to deceive the next season with allegations of late night boozy partying coming to the fore. Of course it hasn't helped that his starting goalies have proven as adept at preventing goals as a hybrid of Zac Dawson, Ryan Schoenmakers and Cale Hooker. So in a desperate attempt to light a fire under his team, he trades captain and heart and soul player Mike Richards to Los Angeles, and lethal scoring weapon Jeff Carter to Columbus. This gives him the salary cap relief to sign star goalie Ilya Bryzgalov to a monster ten year deal that will pay him a cool fifty million dollars.

It starts off well, Richards plays for a Los Angeles side that concede very few goals but score even fewer. Carter throws a tantrum upon his arrival at a terrible Columbus team and promptly spends half his games injured and the other half indifferent. Philadelphia start the season strongly with the play of young talent Claude Giroux ensuring the former star attractions are not missed.

And then something happens to cause consternation. First, their solution to the goalie problem starts philosophising about the cosmos on national TV. Then he becomes a human seive as the Devils eliminate the Flyers in the quarter finals.

But the heartache doesn't end there.

Realising that their star acquisition would rather be anywhere else than in Columbus, the Blue Jackets trade Carter in the hope of getting some return on investment. With his indifferent play and large salary, teams are not kicking the doors down with offers. But one team has a pressing need for goals in order to make the playoffs and are willing to take that risk.

Naturally, that team is Los Angeles.

So to re-cap, the Los Angeles Kings decided it was a good idea to re-unite (NSFW warning) the two good time party boys who couldn't get the job done in Philadelphia due to their apparent boozy ways, and to re-unite them in California no less. Hollywood. The beaches. The babes. The nightclubs. As expected, it was a disaster.

For Philadelphia, of course. For L.A.? Notsomuch.

Ilya Kovalchoke? Not anymore.
Ilya Kovalchuk was rich but Ilya Kovalchuk was not happy. The high scoring Russian winger had just signed a contract worth One Hundred Million dollars over fifteen years but after playing on an awful Atlanta team his whole career, suddenly and dramatically the New Jersey team he signed for were no longer competitive. In situations like these, media experts begin to wonder if the common denominator is not the quality of his team but the quality of his play.

It wasn't as absurd as it sounded. What was the point of being the most consistent goalscorer in the NHL over ten seasons if your style of play meant the opposition scored twice that number while you were out on the ice?

His team-mates said all the right things in his defence. Consummate professional. Great guy in the locker room. Is willing to change his style, to help his comrades, to do anything to win. The heart and desire of Russian players had long been questioned by the xenophobic contingent of the Canadian hockey media so much so that when two Soviet players of the Nashville Predators were caught drinking at 4am the night before they were due to play, it became a national outrage.

Not that Ilya Kovalchuk cared. He was too busy putting into place a new style of play that came from a season's worth of drills from the famed Devils coaching staff. He cut off passing and shooting lanes. He harassed defenceman into bad turnovers with the puck. He even fought for the honour of of his team-mates laid out by a dirty hit. But most of all, he kept on scoring.

Now, Ilya Kovalchuk is rich and he is happy. I won't be calling him Ilya Kovalchoke anymore. If the Devils win the cup he may just become Ilya Kovalclutch.

Banjaxed by Flapjacks - Pancake Penner.
It was an awful time to be Dustin Penner. The marquee trade deadline acquisition less than one season ago was playing on a poor Kings team that couldn't score to save themselves. It was largely because he couldn't score to save himself. Usually when you are contributing in other ways by blocking shots, throwing hits and creating chances for your team-mates such things can be overlooked. When you turn up to training camp overweight and out of shape however, you get cut a little less slack.

Then when you injure your back eating pancakes, things just get ugly.

At the time I gave Penner great credit for his honesty and for accepting that although he was already a laughing stock, that didn't mean he couldn't see the funny side and joke about it either. It didn't get easier for him. His wife left him, he was left out of the lineup on many an occasion and the rumour mill had him being dealt for a bag of pucks and a 9th round draft pick in draft that no longer goes 9 rounds.

In the background, however, Pancakes Penner accepted he had hit rock bottom and started working harder than ever. Devoid of confidence he at least could fall back on the fact that he had been a good player before, a key part of the Anaheim Ducks one and only cup winning team. So he got fit, got back in the lineup, started doing those little things that hockey players should do when the puck is not bouncing their way. He was able to do this because his Los Angeles Kings team-mates never once gave up on him and kept looking out for him the whole time because they knew he was hurting and they hated to see it.

The playoffs started. He scored a couple of timely goals. He used his big frame to protect the puck, keeping possession for the Kings and creating scoring chances for his team-mates. Then something wonderful happened. Something he worked hard for and deserved.

As Bruce MacAvaney would say, redemption was "delicious" for Pancake Penner.


The Wash, who wins the Cup and why.
It's not the cup finals that everyone wanted, the Kings and Devils struggle for attention in their own markets let alone on a national level. There is no doubt however that the two teams that are in the finals have comfortably proven themselves as the best two in the league.

The other good news is that they are pleasures to watch. New Jersey have long been derided for their defence-first, clog the neutral zone, borderline legal clutch and grab tactics that have also been the blueprint for championship wins. Those Devils are gone.

These Devils can be likened to an AFL side that plays with a perfectly executed press, getting the puck in deep to the attacking zone and then trying to regain possession and keep it in that zone like crazed terriers employing what is called a ferocious "forechecking" system. You can liken it to winning the tackle count laid inside the 50m arc; their forward pressure is only matched by their skill. Turn the puck over and players like Kovalchuk, Zach Parise and Travis Zajac will make you pay.

And yet, these Kings don't make those sort of mistakes and if they do, they have a goalie who will likely bail them out. Jonathon Quick is exactly as his surname describes; athletic and agile with incredible reflexes and completely on top of his game. It's hard to believe the Kings will have an edge in netminding when the Devils boast the winningest goalie in the history of the NHL, a man who has been stellar in backstopping them to three championships. At forty years of age, Marty Brodeur has shown signs of slowing but is having a late career renaissance that has had hockey scribes out with the superlatives once more. It's going to be a great battle to watch.

The Devils will also believe they have home ice advantage and yet, against Los Angeles this season all teams have had home ice disadvantage. The Kings are a perfect 8-0 away from home this season, a feat made all the more impressive by the fact the home team in hockey gets two huge advantages aside from playing in their own arena. Firstly, an away player is made to put his stick down first during a faceoff, the equivalent of a rugby scrum if you will. It's an enormous advantage to the home player who can likely anticipate how to block his opponent's stick and win possession of the puck for their team. Secondly, at most stoppages in play it is the away team who must choose which unit of five players they will deploy first, giving the home team an opportunity to select a group of five players that may cause a mismatch on the ice.

Neither issue has been a problem for the Kings. Why? Because they have three faceoff specialists in Anze Kopitar, Mike Richards and Jarrett Stoll who are so adept at the skill that they will likely gain possession of the puck first despite the disadvantage. This does not bode well for a New Jersey team who have been horrible in the faceoff circle this postseason, dead last in the statistic.

As for the issue of creating mismatches? When every Kings player has not only held their own but also contributed on the scoresheet it makes it almost impossible to steal a march on them. Although New Jersey likely have the deepest set of forwards the Kings will have faced in these playoffs I'm not certain it will matter if L.A. can, as is likely, keep the puck away from them for large periods.

My light-hearted look has taken a more serious tone. The Devils will have enough talent to win at least a couple of games off the Kings and if L.A. contrive to let the nerves of a first championship run get to them then New Jersey could defnitely win it all. But I don't see it happening. It's destiny for the Kings. They are the best team in the league and it is their time. I'll take them in six games with only one thing that can possibly stop them.

I picked Vancouver to win last year. It only turned out so well.

Yellow and Black!

I'll wear it. It's all my fault. It was innocent enough too, a throwaway comment that was more of a backhanded compliment than a malicious put down, but it was there nonetheless. It was the 4th of March and game day in the German footballing capital of Dortmund and it was something the likes of which I've never seen. So I tweeted:

Ninety Thousand rabid nutters making a sea of yellow and black. I mean I can even imagine what it would be like if Richmond ever got good...

So I'm sorry Hawks fans but yesterday was my karmic comeuppance. The worst thing is what I was trying to say is that like Dortmund, Richmond have a wonderful, passionate supporter base just waiting for a premiership contending team they can get fully behind. From what I saw yesterday, it may only be so far away.

Mind you, no AFL club's support can hold a candle to what I experienced over there. When we first watched Dortmund play an away match in the amazing Olympiastadion in Berlin we were told that thirty thousand Dortmund supporters had made the trek North to watch their beloved top-of-the-ladder side play a team placed 17th in the table.

Collingwood have a very special fan base, but thirty thousand of them are not getting on a train to go watch Greater Western Sydney play anytime soon.

The view from the "Jesse Owens Allee". This photo doesn't do the sea of fans justice.

And that would only ring true if it were the mere thirty thousand who went. I think they exaggerated the claim somewhat. It appeared to me to be closer to forty thousand.

This one, however, just might.

In any event, the experience of eighty thousand supporters in a veritable football cathedral all singing and dancing and only so fussed with the final result is something I won't ever forget. There is nothing, nothing in Australian sport that could ever compare with it. This is not to deride Aussie Rules Footy or Cricket or whichever sport is the poison of your choice, Australian sport has its own uniqueness that cannot be found elsewhere. It's just that this was something else entirely.

Does your team have its own Monopoly game? Can you see the AFL releasing its own drinking game?

But there is one thing us Aussie neanderthals can teach our cultured European brethren. The chant of "Wir wird Deutscher Meisters! (We are German Champions) Bey Vey Bey Borussia!" is wonderfully spine tingling when heard the first time, a little tired by the 176th rendition. So my tribute to Borussia Dortmund football club is to give them a real song and as every footy fan knows, Richmond have the best club song in the AFL, so here is my tribute to them as well. Apologies in advance...

Signal Iduna Park, Dortmund's home ground. Less a football stadium, more a place of worship.

"Oh we're from Dortmund land

we're fighting für ja and we're Dortmund fans

in rotten weather you will see us shiverin'

guards on both our shins

if scores are tied then nevermind

sometimes we score and win oh we're from Dortmund land

we never give up 'til the final whistle blows

like the kaisers of old,

we're damn bloody cold but we're from Dortmund

YELLOW AND BLACK

oh we're from Dortmund land" 

Borussia Dortmund FC. Deutscher Meisters 2010-11 and 2011-12.

When they can see the Light, but Choose not to.

A day to test the temperament of even the most faithful of cricket fans.

It started so well too. The poster boy for bespectacled cricketers everywhere enhanced his already widely respected reputation with another wonderful display of counter-attacking cricket. Australians are largely unanimous in their belief that Dan Vettori would have saved us some serious selection heartache when it came to picking a spinner since Warnie gave it away. I beg to differ. I'm glad that Vettori plays for New Zealand for had he been born on these shores, this test match would already be out of our hands and a boring victory would be on the cards instead of the prospect of an entertaining test match. The only disappointment was in his cruel denial of a century, even if he did it to himself. His captaincy then turned an intriguing over before lunch into two.

Dave Warner, your day will come. Yes, we've knocked blokes for poor shot selection, forcing the issue on balls that weren't there to be hit. But Dave, I've seen you belt that one to the rope before with pure contempt. Don't be afraid to do it next time.

When Phil Hughes was undone by some good bowling and fielding, our South African heroes Uzzie and Punter went about recovering the situation. They were doing very well until the first delivery after tea. I remember the analogy a junior coach proffered me as to running between the wickets.

"It's a bit like driving a car. You'll make poor decisions at times, but strangely enough if you stick with a bad decision instead of changing your mind halfway through, you'll be right more often than not".

It has served my cricket career well, more often than not. Had Williamson not hit the stumps, we wouldn't even be debating which batsman had erred. As it was, Punter failed to acknowledge the give way sign, Uzzie correctly responded as sending Ponting back would have been suicide, and almost made it despite starting flat footed. It happens. We love dishing out blame and as such, I feel Ponting probably erred a little more. We've all been there though, it's a sickening feeling to have run out or to have been run out by your mate, and Punter went about rectifying the situation the best way possible, by continuing to make runs.

This brought us to incident number one that made my blood pressure rise. Michael Clarke, who was looking terrific, got caught in two minds as to play or leave, and played on to a nothing delivery. Bad luck mate. Except that old mate Rauf Mauf, an umpire I actually have a lot of time for, decided it might have been a no-ball. Better have a look.

I believe the correct term these days is LOLWUT?

I mean honestly, that is farcical. You cannot decide that just because a batsman has been dismissed that you want to look at the replay. Not unless you are going to do that for ALL deliveries that might have been a no-ball. Which umpires clearly do not. If they did, those who hate the advent of technology and how it slows down the game really would have a drum to beat on. So what is the solution?

For me, it is simple. The umpires either call no-balls themselves, or they have that responsibility taken away from them.

Think on it, if the third umpire had a camera to look at the front foot of every bowler (clearly they do), it would be a relatively quick process to say into the central umpires earpiece "Stick your arm out for that one mate".

No confusion, no farcical scenes, and justice for both sides. And whisper it quietly, if umpires didn't have to check the feet of blokes bowling at 150 clicks an hour, maybe, just maybe umpiring standards would improve.

Is that idea so far fetched? I doubt it.

This was the time I had hoped to have come down from off my soapbox, and to enjoy the rest of the cricket. More fool me. There was a time cricket was played on uncovered pitches. A time before full face shield batting helmets. A time before floodlights. They still played with a dark red ball. And yet, a machine was telling the umpires it was too dark to play.

To be fair to the umpires, when they were interviewed by Alistair Nicholson of ABC Grandstand radio who was happy to put the hard questions to them, they were contrite, articulate and even a little embarrassed. "I feel for the spectators who have come to see cricket" said Asad Rauf. "We cannot judge the light by ourselves, the ICC gives us our benchmarks and we don't get to choose based on our perception on what is more dark or less dark" said Aleem Dar (another excellent umpire). "The red ball is harder to see in these conditions than the white ball"; Rauf, talking truth, again. "You could call the conditions dangerous, by what is outlined by the ICC, yes"; Dar, when questioned on the matter.

It isn't their fault. They admitted as much! Shame the ICC, choosing not to play cricket when the alternative option is available. I love test cricket so much but with the disgust of the crowd ringing so palpably on the TV and radio's speakers, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd choose to watch it from my loungechair rather than the ground from now on. The price will be right for the cricket I am not guaranteed to see.

But the ICC don't care. All they care is that their coffers are full whichever way they get it. And they usually get it from 20/20 cricket. And it usually comes from the BCCI and the IPL. So whatever they say is likely to be what goes.

Is this pure cynicism from me, or is test cricket dying a slow death? Go to a match, look at the empty stands, as early as the first day when a nation other than England is not playing.

It really hurts me to type that, but I'm afraid that it's true. I've had not so much a debate, but a conversation with a disinterested sports fan about this very issue. He has been trying to tell me for a while that Cricket is losing its appeal and its lustre. After today I am struggling to come up with a counter argument. Don't kid yourself that the authorities don't know the problems, they merely choose to ignore them. They can see the light, they merely choose not to. That's the most disheartening thing of all.

May the rest of the test match overshadow such negative thoughts. It's certainly set up to give a positive result.

Just because Bali Ha'i may call you, please don't call her Bali High...

* A word of warning, if you don't understand the reference in the pun then please look it up. If you care not to expand your mind even that much then this blog post is likely not for you.

What's in a name?

I cannot deny that I've never understood blind patriotism. To me it smacks of people desperate to prove that they love their country or city more than their fellow man. It also smacks of giving them the opportunity to decry those of another nationality or culture as something beneath them. "Un-Australian" is the term in this country I believe. Whatever that is. I would've liked to have believed that Australians by their nature are an inclusive people, that allow other people to be free to live whichever way they choose just as long as they are respectful of their fellow Australians and the laws we abide by. Sadly I sometimes find the opposite to be true, and opportunities for exclusion based on race or ethnicity abound. That it is happening right at this moment, and moreover that is calculated and it is callous, has me quite upset. I mean, what did the Balinese people ever, ever do to us?

I'm deathly serious, with no pun nor disrespect intended. What have the people of Bali ever done to any Australian other than be a welcoming and gracious host? If you don't believe me then please, at least give me an opportunity to explain myself. A little word exercise if you will. Can you repeat after me; "The Javanese Bombings".

"Abu Bakar Bashir, mastermind of the Javanese bombings".

"Imam Samudra, Huda Bin Abdul Haq, and the smiling assassin Amrozi, the Javanese bombers" (executed for their crimes may I add).

Sure, the bombings happened in Bali, but if we are to go around with this misnomer then suddenly we would have to start considering 9/11 as "The great American aviation disaster of 2001". How offensive would that be to the victims and their families? And yet we are comfortable to call them the "Bali bombings" when in reality, apart from the second highest number of casualties being Balinese, they are absolutely anything but.

This is not a matter of semantics. The vast, vast majority of the Balinese population are extremely peaceful and benevolent people. They study the Hindu faith, the major tenet being the worship and idolisation of the human body and life cycle. Not that I wish for faith to enter the equation, to mark the bombings as anything but the act of despicable people as opposed to "Muslim terrorists" is misleading and wrong, but the facts remain. For fear of what karma may bring, the beautiful Balinese would not hurt a fly.

And they did not perpetrate the Javanese bombings, that happened to occur in Bali.

Why do I care so much? I'm not sure. I guess I don't want the happy memories of our honeymoon besmirched by the garbage that is freely flowing on the radio, on TV, and on the web as I type. It's odd because as Kristel will tell you, I often have problems with large volumes of people. The honeymoon was no exception, I found myself wishing the other tourists of varying nationalities would shut the hell up so I could listen to what the wonderful locals had to say.

"The only attraction to Bali is cheap beer and knock off clothes," I hear those who have never been to Bali opine, "it's just a paradise for bogans". Funny, there weren't too many to be found on the pristine beaches of Seminyak. None to be found in the spectacular mountains of Ubud. In fact, and as I was warned, you find nary a "Westerner" (whatever the hell that is) there, and though I was also told it was likely to be an intimidating experience, I did not find this to be the case. Far from it.

In fact I had a good chat with one of the locals. We had a lot in common as it turned out.

In any case, the events of the last week or so and moreover, the reaction of much of the Australian media to it, have really cut me deep. I know that a fourteen year old boy was offered drugs there. I know that Dean Laidley and his family were attacked in a nightclub, and I believe him when he says it was unprovoked. And I know that it has come to light that a young woman drank a poisonous methanolic cocktail on one of the islands there. But I feel we need another lesson in facts and how they can be distorted to tell any sort of story they want to tell. You see...

"The Bali bombings occurred in Kuta".

"Dean Laidley, and his family, were assaulted in Kuta".

"The young boy was offered drugs, and caught buying them, in Kuta".

Kuta. The place where any travel agent worth their salt will give you the most warning about. The place I genuinely only lasted half an hour in the middle of the day before absolutely needing to get out of there. The first place in Bali to be inhabited by tourists hence the part of the island with lovely "Western" attractions such as night clubs open all hours, cheap prostitutes (until they take what they're really after, your wallet) and drugs. We sure did bring Western civilisation to Bali. Go us.

I'm not saying that because you go to Kuta you deserve to be bashed, casually offered or even hassled for the purchase of drugs, or heaven forbid killed in a bomb blast. Of course you should be allowed to go there and drink your cocktail at 3am no matter your level of intoxication without fear for your safety or that of your friends.

What I am saying, all throughout this post, is the point I hope to make is that bad people can do bad things to good people. Balinese. Javanese. Lebanese. Saudi Arabian. American. Australian. If you choose to hold grudges over a majority of good people for the actions of a few bad, if you choose not to visit the perfectly safe parts of Bali because of the scaremongering so many are fostering, if you choose to keep your mind shut when opening it would lead you to a whole new world of happy experiences, it is then that I truly, truly pity you.

But don't take my word for it. Revisit the bombings and ask the survivors' friends and family if they are deterred from going back to Bali. Are they what, they now make that trip every year! To not do so would be a victory for those that committed the atrocity. And read Dean Laidley's final words on the matter that even the Herald Sun could not suppress at the bottom of their article.

Those of the Hindu faith also believe in Karma, that every action will have its intrinsic consequence. I wish I was so strong in my faith, as strong as the Balinese. I have stated my belief that bad people do bad things to good people, sometimes for no good reason at all. Whoever coined the phrase is right. Karma, unfortunately, really is a bitch.

Whitey.

Hilda Forbes (Gutteridge), 87 Years Young.

"Mark, would you like to meet Sam?'


It was at an invitational cricket carnival that these words were uttered to me and although I knew Sam was the guest of honour, it hadn't entered my head that I'd be given an opportunity to meet him personally. Upon being introduced it was clear that the elderly man had lost most of his sight and hearing and although he still cut a strong figure, frailty was obviously a concern. But I could tell by the animated way he held and fumbled through his worn manilla folder full of old scraps of letters, scoresheets, and black and white photos that this was a man not living in regret of a body that was failing him, but rather reveling in the telling of the stories of his youth. At one stage he turned to me and asked if I would read him a letter written to him in 1954 by a very firm friend. Although I cannot remember it verbatim, it read a little like this;


"Dear Sam. Good luck on your upcoming match with New South Wales, I know how dearly you would love for Victoria to win the Shield on your home ground. I must say that in all my time playing cricket, I never felt at ease at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The wicket plays decidedly slow and I always have trouble when trying to drive early in an innings. I hope you have better success than I and wish you the best in the upcoming match. Your friend, Don".


With a cheeky smile forming in his mouth as I incredulously read the words aloud, Sam asked me to turn the letter over. Before I could read what Sam had scribbled on the back, he spoke that which was written there to me from his own memory. "Don Bradman played 11 tests at the MCG with a batting average of 130! He made nine hundreds there me boy, and he wants to try to tell us he was ill at ease? I'd hate to think how he'd go if he felt comfortable; that's what you call a cricketer!".


In the ensuing hour the enormity of what I was experiencing was dawning on me; this man and the stories he told WAS cricket in the 1940's and 50's. Each story was just as fascinating as the last and many are now committed to my memory not to be forgotten. I was grateful he was unable to hear those trying to interrupt him with their own anecdotes or questions that betrayed just how little they understood of what this wonderful old man was trying to tell them. "Would you please be quiet?" I thought to myself as I strained to listen to Sam, "I could sit and listen to this man talk all day and not dare open my mouth for fear of interrupting or missing something interesting he might say".


The man was Sam Loxton, one of Bradman's "invincibles". However this was not the first time I'd felt about someone this way. I'd already had the pleasure of meeting someone every bit as remarkable, and I didn't have to concern myself with missing out on any of her stories...

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I had been dating my then girlfriend Kristel for nearly three years when she turned 21, and a party was thrown where I felt the slightest bit uneasy at not knowing her friends as well as I do now. Coupled with the fatigue that came with playing a pre-season game of football in still very summer like Australian heat that afternoon, it was ensured that it would be a quiet celebration for me. I did manage come speech time to tell everyone how proud I was of her for (or despite) setting an Australian record for the quickest time from getting a provisional license to having an accident* but the best stories did not come from the guests, nor were they delivered during the speeches. They were told to two most unsuspecting guests who were transfixed upon every word this incredible lady had to say. My news to dad that the footy club had seemingly signed a star player soon became trivial compared to what Grandma Hilda had to say when introduced to her. Football was slightly less important than the events that followed in Britain following the invasion of Poland by the Germans in 1939.


We were told of how gas masks became standard issue in England that year, the request from the Government being that practice of their use was to be maintained regularly for if they should ever urgently be needed. There were Mickey Mouse themed ones for small children, and there were large box shaped ones for small babies in which the entire infant was to fit inside.


She told us of the Battle of Britain, the very real air fights to her (and very surreal to us) where the planes could be quite high to the point where you couldn't tell which ones were "ours" and which ones were a "blooming Gerry", and when one exploded in mid-air Hilda always gave a sigh of relief to see a parachute open.


We were told of the bomb that demolished three large houses around the corner from Church Road in Kent where she lived, the trees of her family's back yard covered with curtains and clothing and debris from these houses, the doors and windows of their own home shattered by the reverberations from the impact and most scarily of all, the realisation dawning that a direct hit on their house proper would render their underground shelter utterly useless. They would not be safe.


She told us of how she was conscripted into the Royal Navy. Just think about that sentence for a moment; she was conscripted into the Royal Navy. She didn't choose it, she was made to. Later, she was also made to travel to Australia with them, a voyage she had no desire of making but one that would shape her life when she met her future husband Bill. It's astonishing stuff, a story that belongs in our distant past but can live in our closest relatives.

It was at this time I started thinking about just how good I had it living in a country that had never experienced, just how exactly comfortable my soft little life was compared to hers at the same age.


It was then that Hilda told the story that remains entrenched in my mind and I daresay will for all time.  Attending the cinema with her father at the height of the war, while the film was showing a notice appeared on the screen; "The Air Raid Warning has sounded. The performance will continue". Apparently this was a normal enough procedure until moments later it was replaced with "The Immediate Danger is sounding, the performance will continue". Not long after that there was an explosion that shook the building. Hilda said to her father "Come on dad, let's go!" to which he replied "sit tight gal, if it's got your name on it you'll get it no matter where you are. You're just as likely to walk into the flippin' thing".


I think it was at this time Hilda had been talking for two hours non stop to which she suggested we must have been getting tired of hearing her talk. "Not at all" was my dad's reply "I could happily listen to what you have to say all night my dear but tell me if I can be so rude, how old are you?"

"Why I'm 82 years old" came the reply to which my father remarked "no you're not, you're 82 years young". And he was right. Hilda beamed a smile to us, one she had been wearing for most of the night, and one that was very familiar to me because it was one that lit up the room, and it's one I'm lucky enough to see every day.


It was there beaming at me on my wedding night when dad in his duties as MC naturally related my marriage to Kristel being like a partnership in cricket. When one partner is freely scoring and batting well they have to support the other who may be having a tougher time of it. Alternatively, the partner who is struggling must try to hang in there for their partner who is putting the runs on the board. "And Mark," he boomed, "you had best be ready to struggle mate because I can tell you Kristel is going to be scoring most of the runs in your partnership".


Bloody fathers. Little were we to know that that one small analogy was to unearth another of Hilda's gems. A couple of hours later dad came to me with that incredulous look on his face, the one he gives when you can tell somebody had told him something truly astonishing and sure enough, Hilda had. The cinema was not the only place Hilda's father ever took her, he took her to the Oval in 1948 to watch the final test of that Ashes series. The final test of a certain Don Bradman. Hilda knew we were cricket tragics in the White family, indeed one of the first times I met her was in her Strathfield family home when she was perched in front of the TV as Australia were giving England their routine beating and me an opportunity for some routine lip service. Still, she hid this little gem from us for seven years and upon reflection, my best guess is because it was only another moment in Hilda's life. Family and friends were far more important things besides, and she failed even to give this story any mention in the little autobiography she wrote that helped jog my memory of her stories of the war and time in the navy.


Unfortunately, like bombs dropped from a German aircraft, cancer does not discriminate who it chooses to strike and as your life goes on, greater is the chance you will develop it. The diagnosis for Hilda could not have been more than five months ago but it was terminal news. So it was that Hilda Forbes, nee Gutteridge, passed away this weekend after an illness so vile it could suck the life and energy out of such a wonderful person so full of these qualities. But what it could not do is suck the life out of those that loved her. Long is the drive from Henty to Bathurst yet grateful are Kristel and I that we were able to make it to visit her on a couple of occasions before the inevitable happened and the sad phone call came. Hilda's legacy surrounded her in her death however; not in a hospice or hostel or palliative care centre, but in the unit made for her by her loving daughter Jo (one of Hilda's five children born within the space of four years!) and surrounded by her doting family where they denied this despicable disease its victory. They were there until the end, holding her hand, kissing her forehead and making sure she was as loved as she had ever loved them.

Hilda Gutteridge and Kristel White, 1998ish, all smiles as usual.

Fortunately we get to choose what we remember about people and it isn't in any of the stories above that you will find my fondest memory of Hilda, but rather at our engagement party nearly five years ago. One of my closest friends at the time, who has had no small struggle with health himself, was born and raised in England until emigrating to Australia at age nine. Somewhat of a misfit, with the English football that he loves being completely alien to a small farming community in rural Australia, it was with great delight he met someone from the south of England and they began talking. Attending to other guests as one must on such a night, I could only keep half an ear on the conversation but I had seen the hallmarks before; Hilda had weaved her spell once more. A couple of hours later he sought me out to exclaim that my grandmother (I'll claim her!) was the most remarkable lady and could you believe it? She supported his beloved Portsmouth football club as well! What were the odds?


At the end of the evening, knowing the odds were quite small, I asked Hilda if indeed she really did support good ol' Pompey and the answer she gave will never leave me.


"Well maybe I do, and maybe I don't. The most important thing is that I will support any small thing that will make somebody happy".

To say a nice word, in order to make someone happy, whenever it is possible. That is how I will remember Hilda Gutteridge, that is her legacy. Maybe it's time I set out about making it mine. Maybe we all should too.


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* Hilda would be frowning upon me right now if I didn't tell a story to bring a laugh. The Australian record for crashing a car after obtaining your provisional driver's licence is held by Kristel White and stands at 2 minutes 32 seconds. It was managed after she drove to my house, excitedly told me the news and in a rush to hurry off and tell her other friends, reversed my car out of the driveway, hit a stationary post, and ripped the entire front end off the car. When pressed on how she felt about the record, a tearful Kristel exclaimed "I'll understand if you want to dump meeeeeeeee..."


There was never a chance of that happening baby. After all, you have your grandmother's smile. :)

Stop the (Gravy) Train, I Want to Get Off.

Pretty big week hey? Everyone got their moral dignity pants on and had their tuppence to say about Ross and Harvs and of course, I have to do the same.

*Yawn*

It was a lovely distraction from the real issue that we should all be up in arms about but for some strange reason are not. And no, I don't mean the great Campbell Brown shown shirtless and somewhat prostrate in a pair of handcuffs  (although I don't doubt the "Browndawg" minded the distraction out west). What I felt slipped through the cracks was far more significant for the future of the game than boys being boys, and men behaving like boys.

Yet you all barely batted an eyelid.

It was in this space that recently I suggested the AFL would do well to have looked at the Collective Bargaining Agreements (CBAs) of North American sports with salary caps in order to have implemented a fairer system for the handling of the signing of Free Agents by the two new "franchises", the Gold Coast Suns and Greater Western Sydney.

I also recently posted of my pride at one of our own, one of Albury/Lavington's favourtie sons, and how he was spreading the gospel of Australian Rules Football around the world. An impossible dream? Well, it could be soon enough.

Yes, the standoff between the AFL and its Player's Association to sign terms on a new CBA and their refusal to come to an agreement seemed headed for front page news but apparently some squabble about musical chairs with coaches was far more important. Let's think about that; it was far more important than the possibility of there not being an AFL season at all in 2012. Never mind. It's no biggie.

So, many of us didn't get to read the smug Matt Finnis suggest that our game isn't a game, but rather closer to a business and as such, the players couldn't agree to guarantee us five more seasons of AFL football. This is because such contracts never, ever exist in the "business" world where what may happen in three years time is unpredictable, let alone five.

Sure, the AFLPA should be given credit for backing down from demands for a percentage of league revenue but because nobody was paying attention to that, they all missed the odious and arrogant retort from Andrew Demetriou, a man who DOES get paid dependent upon the amount of money the AFL makes. Unlike the AFLPA, he made no retraction from his stance that the AFL's offer to the players was fair and equitable. He described their rejection of the deal as "disappointing" and I imagine many of us would be disappointed that neither side could come to agreement, if only we were paying attention. Especially disappointed with your refusal to budge Mr. Demetriou. Then again, we've come to expect nothing less from you. You're always right, even when you're wrong.

The only silver lining that I can see is that players and league alike have expressed that they would not be willing to strike over their disagreements and have promised that season 2012 is not in any danger of being compromised at all. Hopefully they are being truthful because they only need look over the Pacific to see the damage a lost season can inflict upon a sport. The NHL has been down this road, a season lost due to a player strike in 2004, and are only just recovering.

Strangely enough, the situation in this case was reversed; player salaries had spiraled out of control due to the lack of a salary cap and as such, the richest clubs in the league were paying in some instances three times as much on wages than what the poorer clubs could afford. The owners of these poorer clubs, losing millions of dollars due to their inability to ice competitive teams, were dying slow deaths. Eventually, even the wealthy clubs agreed the madness had to stop; they were cutting each other's throats throwing more and more money at free agent players. So the league and the owners demanded not only a salary cap to limit the spending but to tie that salary cap to the revenues raised by gate takings and TV money that the league negotiated. Sound familiar? The players, knowing they would earn considerably less under such a system, went on strike. It was a strike that lasted well into the season proper before the brutal reality that there was not going to be a season came to fruition. And for what? The players to accept the terms outlined by the league the following season. Those Ferrari leases weren't going to pay themselves, so little Jean-Paul Canucklehead and Magnus Puckardsson decided to take the $4 million per season on offer instead of the $9 million they once earned. Boo-hoo-hoo, you're a breakin' my heart.

Except that they did break the heart of not only me but millions of Canadian ice hockey fans. Not that they needed worry about that, those that truly loved the game were always going to come back. Yet hockey is Canada's national sport and not that of the US, the nation that gives home to 25 of the 32 clubs of the NHL. So what happens to Joe in Atlanta who has never seen his hockey club play a playoff game in the history of his fair city? Well, there are many sports he can spend his money on. It was Joe, the casual fan who went from having a passing interest in his team to having none at all when he didn't get to watch them for 12 months. Only now are these type of fans returning to the game.

Can you see where this is going?

Sure, you and I will return to following the AFL (won't we?) should the inconceivable happen and we lose a season, but aside from the damage done to newly established teams and markets, who would also suffer most from the AFL locking out its players? I'll give you a little hint: they may not be so keen to practice their drop punts in Reykjavik next season.

So here is my most sincere, heartfelt plea to the powers that be on both sides of the rift: Can you please lock yourselves in a room, sit your fat-cat arses down, engage on some dialogue that is people talking to people as opposed to sniping each other through cocky, self-righteous media statements, and not emerge from said room until you have agreed to terms on the next three to five AFL seasons. Don't worry, if it takes some time we will make sure you have enough caviar and bottles of Penfolds Grange to get you through but let us make one thing clear. Crystal clear.

Should you balls this up and make the outstanding efforts of Brett Kirk spreading our game to the world redundant then I will never, ever attend an AFL match again nor buy any AFL related merchandise nor be a club member ever, EVER, again.

I, and the collective footy world, are putting our faith in you blokes. Please don't let us down lest I not be the only one who gets off the train. THAT, is what you call "disappointing" Andy and Matt; biting the hand that feeds you.

I had best leave you now as my blood pressure has probably risen high enough for one evening. Should you be attending a preliminary final this weekend I wish your club that is not Collingwood (sorry guys!) the best of luck and who knows? Should you be in Melbourne to support your club and want to tell me I'm wrong over a beer or several you can hit me up on twitter at @White_Ox and that would be great. Until then, stay well good people,
Whitey.

The Cat's in the Cradle - To Boldly go Where no Man Has Gone Before...

"Hey Mate, have you seen what Kirky's been doing for a living these days?"


"Yeah dad, I follow him on Twitter. He's been traveling the world from country to country as an AFL ambassador or something. Even been to Scandinavia I think, bloody cold place to go to teach someone how to kick a drop punt!"

*Obviously Deflated* "Oh, you knew? What's a Twitter?"


"Atwitter is when people are excited about something and chat incessantly about it, you taught me that when I was about five I reckon. Seriously though don't panic mate, when the world is run solely by computers I won't leave you behind you old dinosaur".

"It's pretty amazing though, isn't it? You'd think the AFL would be covering all his expenses and that of Hayley and the kids, probably pays him a decent wage for it, and all this to go see the world showing people what Aussie Rules Footy is. Not a bad gig if you can get it!"


"He'd be king of the kids wouldn't he? I wonder where he might have picked that up from..."

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The idea that there would be such a place as a "Lavington East Public School" is a bit of a laugh, twenty years ago Lavington was barley large enough to be anything more than North of North Albury let alone its own suburb. And yet, L.E.P.S. was my public school, it was the one where my father committed 25 years of his life, and it was where another little tacker a few years my senior began to grow into the man he would become. The footballer however? No so much, and not one of us could have imagined that at the time.

Not that Pete didn't think that Brett Kirk was anything but a player capable of playing at the top level. Many were the afternoons he spent watching Kirky play for North Albury after his first de-listing from the Sydney Swans. I would come back from University on the Friday night to largely do as we do to this day, talk garbage about footy and cricket and life over a few beers, and make donations to the Keno coffers. But during this time dad was like a broken record; "I can't believe Brett can't get on an AFL list Mark. You can't tell me he's not at least as good a player as some of the blokes who run around in Melbourne. He'd be no star, but he dominates the Ovens and Murray competition. Surely he could have a solid 50-100 game career, I don't understand it!".

And dad would have to have been blinkered in that respect. He had no choice. It wasn't that he had a major hand in Brett's football, the closest he ever would have got to "coaching" was taking Kirky and his Lavi East teammates to their various intra-school matches. But he had something better going, the opportunity to teach a well grounded and intelligent kid during years 5 and 6, and the opportunity to play kick to kick with the young fella who had the uncanny knack of consistently winning the footy off his classmates.

It must have worked two ways though, for you see Kirky's immediate future after leaving High School was not having his name read out at the AFL draft, but rather attending teacher's college at Charles Sturt University in Wagga. To become a primary school teacher. I can't say if it was the sessions of kick to kick, the games of T-ball, or the everyone vs Mr. White games of basketball held on the school grounds that convinced Brett that his preferred choice would to be a teacher. What I do know is where he decided to complete all his practical placements for the University; under the watchful eye of Peter White at the school they both loved so dearly. No, dad did not have a hand in shaping Brett as a footballer. He merely made the transition from mentor to mate.

I won't ever forget the day dad came home in as close to a rage as he gets. Soon after Brett got his second opportunity from the Swans via the rookie draft, someone he knew had made the mistake of suggesting to him that Kirky was overrated, not nearly up to the demands of AFL football, and would be delisted before he played his 20th game. That was an affront to my old man and it was personal; you do not talk about his mates like that. Not being one to get himself into arguments, Pete suggested to this man that perhaps he'd like to wager a carton of beer on Brett playing 100 AFL games. Stewing at home dad suggested to me he knew he'd likely lose the bet but it was the principle of the thing. "Even if Brett only manages twenty games it will be a fantastic achievement, better than anything that prick will ever do in his life!"

And although dad was right, he was also very, very wrong. I don't think I need elaborate on Captain Kirk's career as I think we all know exactly how his football career turned out. We still shake our heads in disbelief.

Although less so at what he has become today. As we all know time waits for nobody and even to us, some of his proudest supporters, it had become apparent that Captain Blood had lost a half a yard of pace, didn't quite get to as many contests as he once did and although he was hardly a liability, it was hardly a surprise to see him announce halfway through the 2010 season that it would be his last. And in 2011, his life's journey was to come full circle; he would be a teacher at last. He would spread the gospel of the AFL to parts of the world that had likely never even known of the game. He would teach them all to kick, to handball, to tackle, to look after your mates and to enjoy every minute of it. He would be the king of the kids when the chance presented itself and although the odds of the AFL ever catching on abroad are likely slim, they are no worse than the odds of Brett Kirk captaining Sydney to a premiership or representing Australia in International Rules. Others have doubted Brett Kirk before, I would hope they refrain from making the same mistake again.

If anyone can make taking footy to the world work it is Captain Kirk, boldly taking Australian Rules Football where no man has taken it before. Sri Lanka, India, South Africa, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Croatia, Switzerland, Italy, Denmark, Turkey, Iceland (yes, bloody Iceland!), Israel, Belgium, The Netherlands, Sweden, Canada and the United States. I'd love you to have a win there Kirky, I think the AFL could handle a Kobe Bryant or LeBron James nominating for the national draft! To get the biggest sports market in the world to take to the best game in the world? That's one almighty final frontier.

So best of luck to you Brett, Hayley, Indhi and the kids from me, Pete, and the family. We hear the AFL have chosen you to present the premiership cup this year. Remarkable, maybe they're doing a lot more right than I give them credit for after all.

Enjoy these finals everyone and best of luck to your respective sides. Hopefully they'll be lucky enough to receive the cup from a truly remarkable person. We're pleased just to have been lucky enough to have known him. See you later everyone, it's time I came down from my soapbox,
Whitey.

Eight two be a fan? Hardly, it's as good as Six!

Six months ago was the time when the idea was first hatched; go to Europe during their Winter, and have one last crack at a holiday overseas before life and all its commitments contrive to keep me well occupied and well happy at home. It was something I always wanted, and was even encouraged by the management, to do. I had a grin from ear to ear. Sure it would cost a bit, but I'd never been in the financial position to make this kind of pilgrimage before. It is going to be fun.

Yet the main attraction, the big ticket on the bill has lost some of its lustre, and I'm not sure that it had to be that way.

Of course, I'm talking about football. But then, I have a healthy dichotomy of readers when it comes to football and both sets of fans may take exception to me calling either game just that. So to make it plain for those who love only one or the other I'll refer to them as "AFL", or Aussie Rules Football, and "EPL", English Premier League Football.

I'm not here this evening to generate an opinion piece, you will find plenty of those surrounding the troubles that are circling the Arsenal Football Club elsewhere at the moment. What I wish to do is to further explain to my AFL audience what a true free agency could mean to them, and to my EPL audience, show that I don't got much time for money, 'cause money can't buy me love.

Last week I suggested what may happen in the Free Agency world of the AFL. I tried my best to suggest that our loyalties as fans will be tested to the utmost as players we grow to love will jump ship at the first opportunity of greater earning power or potential for success. It will upset many, but it won't be a blip on the madness that is the multi-billion dollar world of the EPL. To demonstrate such madness, I'll use the AFL's most recent powerhouse side, Geelong FC, as my model for how the world at an EPL club can change in just six months (Disclaimer: This hypothetical is the stuff of pure AFL fantasy and in no way reflects what I believe could possibly happen to the Geelong Football Club. They've been the model club on and off the field for almost six years now and I don't see that, nor their playing list, changing. We cool Cats fans? Yeah, we cool).

You see, the Cats (Geelong) have just failed at the final hurdle again. They've lost to the biggest, most popular, and now best club in the league, Collingwood FC, in the battle for the Premiership. As Geelong are an ageing side with many players choosing to retire at season's end, Geelong's opportunity for future success is limited, and although the retirements have given them much money to spend under the salary cap, the club is not an attractive place to come to as of now. They will have to rely on youth to rebuild them to the lofty heights they once reached (sound familiar EPL fans?).

Their star midfielder is Joel Selwood, a hard tackling, fiercely competitive, outstanding user of the ball by foot and is one who contributes the odd goal. He is slated for Free Agency. He is offered an enormous salary by Geelong, but decides he wants to play for the most rejuvinated club in the competition, the West Coast Eagles. His older and younger brother whom he loves dearly both play there. Western Australia has the most beautiful winter weather in the country. The club has won a premiership as recently as 2006 and are on the precipice again. He signs for less money to play with them. Geelong are weakened further.

Another player of the age and experience level that Geelong would like to keep is Travis Varcoe. He was taken at the not unsubstantial cost of a first round draft pick, and so highly thought of was he that he was given the guernsey number 5 worn by club legends such as Polly Farmer and most famously, Gary Ablett Senior. He has precocious talents, terrorising opposition defenders when he has the ball, and capable of creating a goal for himself or his teammates out of nothing. He has yet to reach a level of consistency from game to game that will set him apart as a champion. Geelong are confident this will happen given time but offer him a contract reflective of where they see his talents and development  now. Instead, he is courted by champions Collingwood with contract negotiations only scuppered when the new challengers in town, Hawthorn FC, throw a contract at him that is simply too good to refuse. Hawthorn now have an attack with a talent level that is the envy of every club in the competition; the goals will be flying in from everywhere with opposing defences being able to do scant little to stop it. Geelong must seek adequate replacements and fast.

But as they are beaten to the signings of new players one by one, and are snubbed by other players who see them as a faded force, Geelong enter the new season to one of the most embarrassing defeats in their long and proud history; how was this allowed to happen? Especially after the AFL extended the "Trade Week" and Free Agency periods right until the beginning of the season. No sporting club in their right mind the world over would allow this to happen. Would they?

Welcome to The Arsenal Football Club, the EPL team I love and am practically making the pilgrimage to Mecca for. The team that have lost two of their best, and were before that time, two of my favourite players. Although in the EPL world "lost" can be a misnomer; these players were sold for a net profit of nearly 60 million British pounds. That's not a misprint, it is what it is. Sixty. Million. Pounds. Nearly One hundred million Australian dollars.

For the AFL's Joel Selwood, the appropriate EPL analogy is Francesco "Cesc" Fabregas; Arsenal's captain and one of the greatest players in the world. For Travis Varcoe read Samir Nasri, a precocious French attacking talent who, whilst wearing the number 8 of club legends Frederik Ljungberg and the great Ian Wright, was just beginning to come into his own. Both gone due to the ineptitude of the men responsible for the management of contracts at the Arsenal Football Club, both vitally important to the success of the club, both using their not inconsiderable talents elsewhere in the prime of their careers. Six months ago I thought I was coming to watch these little magicians play and I was as excited as a little kid. Now I don't know who I'll be watching play other than that they'll wear red with white sleeves.

The real crime of the Arsenal Football Club is not for debate however. It is not the sale of these players; both wanted to leave for differing reasons and once that happens there is scant little you can do to stop it. There is a modality, however, to rectify such problems. Unlike the world of the AFL where players are traded, drafted, or as I have predicted, will soon be able to sign free agent contracts, Arsenal are allowed to buy players from other clubs to replace the ones who have departed, much like how they sold Fabregas and Nasri. And yet they have chosen not to.

I could likely accept this if the remaining players in the squad were of similar standard and quality. But nearly every Arsenal supporter, even if they disagreed exactly whether it was the manager (in AFL parlance, coach), board or owner who was to blame for not re-investing that money, nearly every supporter agreed on one thing; the remaining players were not good enough to compete for the championship. We didn't have to wait long to find out either. The only time in Arsenal's history that they have conceded eight goals in a game was in 1896. Well it was, until Sunday, against a club that used to be our nearest rivals, the Champions Manchester United. The scoreboard said it all, United 8, Arsenal 2. It didn't take long for the pun; wouldn't you eight two be an Arsenal supporter right now?

I don't hate to be an Arsenal supporter. I love my Arsenal, yes I do. An irrational love? Perhaps. I have explained my reasons as to why I do love them the first time I ever had an article posted on the web, an Arsenal FC Blog's guest post titled "How Arsenal have ensured Arsenal will host the World Cup in our Lifetime'" (Although with hindsight I may want that title back; isn't hindsight a wonderful thing?). And I'm still very, very excited about the prospect of attending a couple of home matches in North London at the magnificent Emirates stadium. There's just a tremendous amount of regret at the moment that I, like nearly every "Gooner" (Arsenal supporter) the world over, has seen their club decline; our one time stars shining elsewhere, their replacements playing for other clubs with the club unwilling or unable to pay the price to lure equally talented players to our club. Six months ago I was excited about Cesc and Nasri. Today I'm more excited about the prospect of seeing the Czech Republic and Germany.

All is not lost. As is my eccentric want, as is my taste for the romantic, Arsenal did go out and buy a player I've become a big fan of in a short period of time. This time last year, a young lad not yet out of his teenage years named Carl Jenkinson, sat in the stands of Arsenal's home ground to watch the club he loved play in a pre-season tournament called the Emirates Cup. He was a professional footballer plying his trade for Charlton Athletic, a team well below the quality of a Premier League club. Yet someone saw something special in young Carl and offered Charlton a million pounds for his services and a professional contract to play for Arsenal, the club he supported since childhood. His interview upon joining the club is quite remarkable, he is literally blinking back tears of disbelief that he has signed up to play not only for one of the biggest and best clubs in Europe, but one he has loved all his life. He's merely a wide defender and not a star striker, he's technically limited and he has a lot to learn about top level EPL football. This was evidenced in the 8-2 demolition in which his inexperience led to two poorly timed challenges that saw him receive two yellow cards and a sending off.

But he's one of us, a proper Gooner, and will never long for pastures greener nor take defeats as anything over than a heavy weight in his heart. It's for this reason, when I find myself at the Arsenal "Armoury" store I'll be buying myself a "Jenkinson" shirt even though there are far more star turns at the club. I'll get behind one of our own with nothing but my full support and will sing his name with gusto. After all, I'll let you AFL and EPL fans alike argue whether the song I've penned is a pun on a song written about Tony Lockett or Dennis Bergkamp...

"One Carl Jenkinson, There's only one Carl Jenkinson!"

And all is not yet lost, Arsenal still have but two days to spend on players before the so-called "transfer window" closes and have already signed a Brazilian international defender and are being heavily linked to Germany's champion central defender Per Mertesacker. Should he sign for Arsenal I may, just may, become a little more optimistic about this season. Maybe the club does care about the supporters. Maybe they do want to right the wrongs. Maybe they will spend again on an established attacking star. But you best get on with it lads, the time is ticking!

Of course, I can't help but leave you without an awful pun. You see, I'm glad there is only one Carl Jenkinson. After all, it's better than six!

Until next time guys,

Whitey

Dream Team Spirit (Trade Out Again...)

It's prelim finals time in Dream Team and Supercoach. That means that half the teams remain (four in the major finals, four in the minors) and that those fantasy fanatics are frantically working the waiver wire to organise the perfect trade to get them over the hump and into that one day in the first week of September.

It's a precarious course. Lost are the Carlton stars to the bye; those with Judd, Murphy and Gibbs would be most concerned indeed. They would be further troubled by the ever reliable Pav finally being any less than reliable, even if it is no fault of his own. As for Col Sylvia? You've further muddied the waters mate, tuck it all in, no elbows! What's that? You did? Oh.

Quite the dilemna for a great few and yet, I can't help but think there's an opportunity for me to prosper from this. Step aside Greg, there's a new Coodabeen in town and I plan on being the champion.

Disclaimer: I sing pretty average. And I'm not suggesting you should trade Jack Riewoldt for Mzungu; that horse has bolted. But hopefully you'll enjoy this little song about the dramas that face a "supercoach" every week as much as I enjoyed making it. I give you Radiohead's "Dream Team Spirit". May your ears not bleed too badly. :)

Cat's in the Cradle - Review

That was ugly. So I'm going to get this over with as painlessly as possible so you can all dance on the grave of our predictions.


**  Hawthorn, as predicted by many I've spoken to, defeated Carlton. But Carlton had a spirited fight-back in the second half and showed they'll mix it come September.


Pigshit they did. If people want to over-analyse this game as anything but Hawthorn putting them to the sword before deciding at half-time "we'll just do enough to win the game from here" then they may. The truth is if that were a final, Hawthorn don't let up and win by ten goals or more. They manhandled Carlton's midfielders and were too tall in the key positions. There's a reason Hawthorn haven't lost to these blokes since '07; it was obvious Friday night. Don't over-analyse it.


**  Which is exactly what I did with Melbourne. Passion can take you only so far in footy if you don't have the quality. This Demons team brushed Richmond aside with ease barely six weeks ago. It's a Richmond side that recently lost to the Gold Coast. Things are very wrong at Melbourne and the supporter discontent is palpable. They were supposed to kick on from a terrific improvement last season. The truth is their list has been exposed as soft and not nearly good enough. Would you stay if you were Tom Scully? I got this one wrong badly; I over-analysed it. Disclaimer: this prediction was my doing and Pete wanted no part of it. Always listen to your father!


**  Well, perhaps I was right that Sydney aren't in a good way but they passed that mantle onto St. Kilda on Sunday. Passion did take Sydney far on Sunday because they played exactly the way they have for the last 10 seasons of success; every player gave everything and played their part. Kirky (Brett) once told dad after Sydney won the 2005 flag that they were a team of "21 cloggers and a superstar (he was alluding to Barry Hall which may have been unfair on that Adam Goodes fella)". That strikes me as how they performed Sunday. St. Kilda now have a do or die against North Melbourne this week. They aren't in a good way and yet, this is where they've been before and often they have succeeded.


**  St. George continued on their losing ways, albeit this time with a good performance against a premiership contender but not good enough to stop the rot. As it stands they may need to win four finals in a row to repeat as premiers. Not impossible with the side they have, but highly unlikely. I will choose to take the NRL line in situations like this should we not be successful; "Thanks to Wayne for everything you've done for our club and we wish you and Darius all the best at Newcastle. We won't forget your contributions in a hurry. Well done St. Benny".


So in reality, the only two AFL games played on the weekend that could be considered swing games we contrived to tip incorrectly. I had a 3 tip lead in the competition at the Henty Bowling club, I've an anxious wait until Friday night to see how much damage has been inflicted. I have a sneaking suspicion the lead will only be 1. Then again, that certainly makes for an exciting couple of rounds. North or St. Kilda? North or St. Kilda? That's the one I'll agonise over all week.


And I'll be sure to let you know on Friday so you may tip the opposite way and get it right. Happy Monday!
Whitey