Balanced and weighted with clinical assurity, a ballpoint scores the paper in lines and dots that somehow make more sense than the chirps and squeaks that escape our lips like breakouts from a lunatic asylum. The voice that we hear is calm and firm, it rolls with practised ease to caress the insulated walls of the room.
‘Another heart-breaking loss? Really? Why don’t you lie down on the couch and tell me how it made you feel.’
Give North Melbourne fans a dollar for every time they have heard that utterance uttered to them during their Monday morning consultation this year and the proceeds will see the 30,000 capacity, carbon neutral Arden St. Stadium (with full size gasometer) completed by 2019.
Indeed, as ecstatic as I am with the possibility of a year of free road-side assist from Mazda and a $100 Roo Shop voucher courtesy of Powershop, if the back room staff that sit behind the dark glass at Arden Street predict a heightened chance of North’s 2017 form continuing into the 2018 season, maybe they could have a chat to Medicare and throw in a couple of free counselling sessions with next season’s memberships.
I wonder what the 2018 slogan will be?
North Melbourne: help us help you.
There are only so many times a sympathetic ear can listen to how, “North really did deserve to win!” without quietly ducking out for some chicken wings.
Sunday. Somewhere around 4pm. Supposedly our home ground. The final siren blared its disdain upon us like the taunting laugh of a desert jackal. This but moments after Goldstein’s follow through had followed through our souls like a rusty chain dragged by a demon-possessed dockside worker.
This followed Ziebell’s miss which followed McDonald’s miss which followed other little moments and other littler little moments that eventually gathered together (as like-minded sub-culturalists can do when left unattended) to make yet another unwanted and disturbing public spectacle.
I was sitting directly in line with Goldy’s approach to goal.
‘Just kick it to me, mate’ I murmured.
Unfortunately some Fremantle knob sitting four bays over must have said the same thing, only louder. It was enough to distract the big guy who kicked the sherrin like he was half way through a can-can routine. Oh well.
As Ned Kelly and Ben Cousins’ stomach have taught us: such is life.
Although to be fair to us, at least Ned only got hanged the once. We seem to be copping this sort of ritual abuse every week.
Such is life. And in it there exists for men, women and no doubt some forms of alien sub-culture, moments of choice. Moments in which those concepts that during periods of rationality would normally be judged as ‘sketchy at best’ are (when pondered in the context of profound self-doubt) treated with a plausibility that they in fact do not deserve.
Leaving Etihad on Sunday was one of those moments. To weep or to chuckle? To blaspheme or to ponder a higher power? To throw a half-eaten pie at a random Fremantle fan, or to place it gently into the hands of a hungry, North Melbourne supporting child?
Hopefully I’ll be able to unpack these issues at my next consultation.
But thinking back to the first quarter didn’t score many points in the ‘glass half full’ side of the ledger.
Maybe we’re too used to starting Sunday games at 4.40 – because for the first 20 minutes it seemed as though the Kangas were still enjoying a pre-game schooner in the Victory Room rather than actually taking part in the goings on over the players’ side of the boundary line.
For his own safety this passionate North Melbourne fan is temporarily removed from society.
Certainly, those of you that find yourselves drawn to the skeptical parts of the internet (websites that contest the ‘official version’ of the moon landing and JFK’s assassination perhaps) may find even more reason to ponder the existence of the Golden Clipboard, after North Melbourne spent the first half of Sunday’s game allowing Nat Fyfe and Michael Walters to roam the expanses of Etihad Stadium with the swaggering confidence of union reps on a striking dockside.
And if I say to you – ‘Outside and out the back’ – no, I’m not talking about highlights from the Christchurch District Sheepdog Trials on late night ESPN.
I’m talking about where we were beaten on the weekend.
They stretched us like hand-made spaghetti, we chugged like hand-made asthma pumps.
If only they awarded points proportionally, depending on the amount of effort expended on scoring each goal. We’d be breaking all-time percentage records.
Indeed, our scoring efforts must be something akin to juggling a family of Tasmanian Devils – both require an unreasonable amount of concentration and can quickly turn to complete disaster.
Especially so when one accepts that Freo have something that we don’t have at the moment. A handful of run and carriers that know how to use the footy.
I’m looking at Walters, I’m looking at the Hill brothers, I’m looking at Blakely. Man, did these guys carve us up in the first half.
I don’t buy into any doom and gloom about Freo. Their midfield is pretty stacked, and (courtesy of The Golden Clipboard perhaps) Fyfe all of a sudden looks like he feels like playing like a Brownlow Medalist again.
Cheers, Nat. Appreciate it being this week, champ.
And hey, is there anything more ‘North Melbourne’ than welcoming a fresh faced, never-played-in-the-forward-line-before debutant into league footy with a match winning, four goal haul?
You’re welcome, Nyhuis.
Sigh. I hope this guy ends up a legend of the game, because at least then we’ll be able to look back on his Midas-like performance as the genesis of a sparkling career. At the moment I’m looking back on it with the embarassed grimace that comes with being beaten up by the new kid on his first day at school.
Nyhuis’ third goal was a ripper. On the run, outside fifty, bit of an angle, thank you very much.
His fourth (the match winner) was a bag of wet mice. It twisted and complained and floated and somehow went through.
Remember when your mates used to come back from the toilet and say, ‘Don’t you just hate it when you piss on your hands?’ before trying to wipe them on your shirt?
It’s ok. I’m not really a conspiracy theorist. And I don’t mind Scott waiting to see how the troupes fair in wrestling back control of the game themselves before making defensive switches at the start of the second half.
Gibson on Fyfe, Wagner on Ballantyne, tick – both matchups worked. In particular Gibson, the most unassuming player in the AFL. One week he’ll rack up 30, the next he’s tagging Fyfe out of the game (as much as one can). And his (Gibson’s) ability to run hard and fast when not in possession is worryingly visible from aisle 27 of the North End.
Not worrying at all was Daniel Neilson, a debutant who more than any in recent history fits the ‘kicked the door down’ category of first gamers. He played and played well. He looked assured and confident at the tempo. As the weeks go on we’ll see more and more of his intercept marking skills. Welcome to the North Melbourne defence, Daniel. May you shine there for many years.
In fact, in the second half our midfield got rolling and so did North. We actually got right on top.
Ziebell and Cunnington (28 possies each) got their hands dirty and found the footy. If Ziebell can start putting together a string of +25 games, things will change quickly and for the better.
Cunnington was actually bursting free from centre stoppages – emulating the joyous capering of a Western District steer placed in a fresh paddock. At one point he even ‘don’t argued’ Ziebell in his fervour to carry the footy away from congestion.
I like seeing Garner get physical across half forward. I love seeing Simpkin slide across half forward with the lateral movement of Michael Jackson and Zorba the Greek.
And I loved Mitchell Hibberd’s game. 22 disposals, composure and plenty of foot speed. He has the build to be a midfield bull in years to come.
On midfield bulls, McDonald continues to play his best season to date. Tell me you don’t love seeing him breaking free of multiple tackles like a bush walker throwing pesky drop bears off his backpack.
And that mark. Awe inspiring, Shinboner stuff.
Indeed, from out of nowhere we have McDonald, Atley and Aaron Mullet all finding career best form. Atley forward of centre is a gift of manna from above to our key forwards.
Our half back line is looking more like a secondary half forward line – once MacMillan and Williams are back to sure up the defensive patterns we may finally be able to imagine a fully functioning defensive unit with genuine scoring ability.
And Mullet – where’s this come from? From nowhere he has now joined (or re-joined after a hiatus) McDonald in the: license to shoot from within 60 metre club.
If he has 3 metres to spare in or around the 50 metre arc, give him the footy.
It’s a left footer thing. Marley has it as well. So does Lindsay. Who has taken to the back line like a pro.
It won’t get a run, but Scott’s decision to move Thomas to the backline should be getting talked about this week. His decision making and foot skills have had immediate and exponential benefits to the team. He’s as tough as nails, will hold the ball long enough to make a measured decision and has the confidence and ability to hit targets in the corridor, an area of the ground we tend to avoid (when we don’t we have a tendency to turn it over and the other mob generally score).
Baron Aaron Mullet of the prodigious left foot.
That’s the funny thing about Sunday’s game though.
The result and the nature of the result will be the primary narrative, but beneath the surface it was in many ways the most positive game we’ve had since the Adelaide fantasia, simply because our senior players finally began to stand up and deliver.
And for once, we were the team coming home with a wet sail. Instead of being run over yet again, North was steaming home with a dominance in both possession and intensity.
During which, quietly, modestly and without a fuss, Ben Brown continued to deliver as an A-Grade key forward of the AFL.
Ben Brown is currently fifth in the race for the Coleman Medal.
Ben Brown has kicked 38 goals and is 5 behind whoever is currently leading.
This in a team where forward entries have the predictability of an Italian bus service and the efficiency of a Persian attack on Thermopylae.
The bloke has taken his game to another level – not only in terms of his goal kicking, but also his ability to pressure and provide multiple efforts across a contest.
On Sunday he was dominant in the air and even at ground level. He’s turning into the player that fans turn to when things need to get done.
‘Kick it to Benny!’ now rings around Etihad when a midfielder seems momentarily indecisive.
His snap that put us in front was the enforcer-type action we haven’t seen since Corey Mckernan ploughed his way through enemy defences in the late nineties.
Brown deserved for that goal to be a match winner, because he played like a match winner on the night.
It’s always midnight on this Big Ben.
But alas, its poor old Goldstein that will be remembered for one thing and one thing only as far as this match is concerned.
Which is why this crappy blog will one day serve as an important historical document.
For despite his last kick, Sunday was the first time in about 12 months that (in the second half in particular) I thought: ‘There’s the old Goldy.’
15 disposals. He was running. He was linking up. He was scrapping and tackling and winning the ball at ground level after contesting the ruck. He was (praise be to Odin) taking the odd contested mark.
If that final miss was the universe trying to even the score for our prime ruckman finally getting back into the old groove, then maybe it’s a price I’m willing to pay after all.
Mod Goldstein: it’s not the result that matters. It’s the whole show.
And – hey man – I’m not a selector. So I choose to believe Brad Scott when he says that having to choose and balance between Goldstein, Preuss, Daw and Brown is a good problem to have. It’s not my problem, that’s for sure. And that is a good thing.
Majak continues to demonstrate to us all that he’s a very good ruckman. Only from the ground level of the stadium can one truly appreciate just how high this guy can jump when given an unimpeded run at the ball. Unfortunately, the more savvy defenders are quick to realise that ‘unimpeded’ is the very adjective of Majak’s game they need to make sure does not occur. The challenge lays before him: learn to adapt as a forward.
He doesn’t need a hack like me telling him to push off his opponent early so he can mark the ball with two hands. He has time now, we’re going to find out what he can do. Not to mention, the mere fact that Maj is around dramatically increases the chances of something awesome occurring at any given moment.
Dammit guys, there are always so many things to love about North games.
Shaun Higgins is the player we all wish we were. He’s our architect, our line-breaker, our delivery man and our sharpshooter. His goal was the sublime product of skill, hard work, balance and supreme confidence. He kicked it on his non-preferred foot.
If I tried that I’d end up concussed.
It was the sort of goal that belongs in sporting montages with classical music playing in the background. It belongs with Beckham free kicks, Ali one-twos, Nadia Comaneci floor routines and Tendulkar cover drives. When sport becomes fine art.
Even as the roar of the crowd slowly diminished, in the stands there remained the bubbling murmure of thousands of people, still standing, who just had to confirm with everyone in the vicinity, ‘Did you see that?!’
I think the old bloke beside me put it best.
He doesn’t say much but knows a lot. A brief shake of the head can predict a turnover or breakdown in transition three disposals before it happens. When he applauds it’s normally for something the rest of us didn’t catch until watching the replay: a smother, a shepherd or perfect defensive timing in the contest.
After I’d sat back down and rearranged my disheveled parker the world returned to its normal perimeters and I heard the old bloke murmuring to himself, perhaps five times in total:
‘What a beautiful goal.
What a beautiful goal.
What a beautiful goal.’
That’s why we go to the footy. To witness things like that.
When you’re this good, just point to the replay on the big screen.
So again, we pick up the pieces. The stats have been trotted out again and again this week like a prize colt. In games decided by 15 points or less, North have won something like one out of their last 300. At least that’s what it feels like.
Neutrals are slowly cottoning on to the patchwork of emotional scars that Shinboners have worn across their glaring faces like the whip lashes of masochistic monks for the past forever.
‘Gee, how bad must you be feeling at the moment, bud?’ they quip with a hidden smirk that oozes through the feigned concern of a furrowed brow.
To which we reply, ‘We’ll, I’m alright.’
And it’s the truth. I mean, really… You call this pain?
Get serious, guys. This isn’t even the worst loss to Freo we’ve had this year.
Call me back when Shane Kirsten kicks the winning goal against us at Etihad after coming back from 5 goals down in the last ten minutes; maybe then we can have a chat.
Except we can’t. Cos that shit already happened when Petrenko drove me to contemplate taking up tai-chi after that Adelaide comeback in 2013.
This isn’t even the first time our ruckman has missed a shot to seal a crucial victory. Hamish McIntosh took those honours with his post-siren missed against Essendon in round 1, 2012.
Do you hear me?
Against Essendon. After the siren.
You think this is pain?
Don’t even get me started about the Geelong game under the open roof, or Hawthorn last year, or the Bulldogs this year, or all the other times I’m better off discussing with a professional than mythologising here.
Let’s understand one another. For the seasoned Shinboner there is nothing new about the ignominy of ridiculous, ludicrous, preposterous defeat.
And in fact, as stinky as they most certainly are, these steaming turds of experiencing close loss after close loss are the manure with which we are fertilising our growth as a club and supporter base.
I had to laugh when Brendon Bolton observed that his group of Carlton players will be galvanised via the hardship of their weekend loss to Melbourne.
Hardship? Fair enough. Call us back in two years. If Carlton are going through hardship in 2017 then Scott is entitled to commemoration on the next five dollar coin.
All this crap – the losses, the close losses, the closer losses still, the frustrations, the tempatations, the butchering of the footy, the butchering of your footy record, the missed tackles, the missed shots, the missed passes, the non-passes, the criticism, the laughter, the mocking from your mates, the mocking from the media, the non-attention from the media – bury it deep inside and let it stew.
Let it burn.
Because things are going to turn around (maybe faster than you think) and when they do it will be the hardship that you’ve banked that will return the highest interest.
When we’re rolling again you might not be grateful for what you’re going through right now.
But whether you know it or not, by God it’s the reason that the success will mean so, so much more when it happens. Because you invested and stuck fat through the tough times.
Standing tall and hanging in there. Together, we can do both.
Speaking of, Port Adelaide at Adelaide Oval this Saturday. No one gives us a sniff, which suits me down to the ground.
Get away from Melbourne, get away from the spotlight and have a crack.
I have no expectations except effort and a willingness to take the game on. And despite recent results, we’ve shown time and again that we have the cattle and the intensity to score heavily against anyone.
Clarke, McKay and Fordham all tore it up for Werribee on the weekend. They’re pressing for selection.
Preuss was even better, but he hurt his back in the third quarter and didn’t finish the game. Will be tough for him to get up.
Larkey and Zurhaar were likewise rested; but for them to be selected for a trip to Adelaide would be just the sort of head-turning decision I’m starting to think Scott might be in the mood to make.
Don’t think so? Put your hand up if you thought you’d see Lindsay Thomas playing as a permanent back pocket.
If you’re going to Adelaide, God speed.
If you’re not, settle in with a hot Actavite and an open mind.
Watch to win, yes, but watch to enjoy the ride.
I’m sure your therapist would approve.
Come on you Roo boys.
O'Shanassy street 