LeverPuller
BigFooty Tanker
- Jun 23, 2011
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Time had not been kind to Punt Road. While most of the AFL sides had folded after the Greater Western North Melbourne Bulldogs had won their 25th consecutive flag in 2082, a few still fought on.
Richmond was not one of them. Historians had argued for decades over the origins that let to their folding in 2079. Some point to the death of Matthew Richardson in 2056 after coaching the Tigers for 15 years for a record of 2 finals appearances and 10 9th places. Others suggest that the great pidgeon manure dump of 2062, led by the cloned head of Kevin Barlett screaming obscenities, forced it to come apart at the seams.
I was not so sure. Punt Road Oval was soon to be demolished for yet another interstellar highway, although the Greens continued to fight for a North-South road - the Bandtists screaming blasphemy at the words East-West. But more to the point, the plans had been at the council for the past 30 cycles and no protest had been made (although this may be because the remaining Richmond supporters were considered illiterate).
Walking through the remnants of the old Richmond store, there was little left. A mug here, a commemorative DVD there. A rack of Tyrone Vickery guernseys sat pristine, brand new. Shocked, I then watched as a spider dropped onto the front one before melting into radioactive goo.
Scared, I pressed on. The grandstands were decrepit, but one redheaded Tigers supporter remained. Nursing a bucket of KFC, he stared at a holograph, swearing and throwing food around at the images. Rising, he roared and then flopped back down, shaking the fragile stands with his backside crashing at the chairs.
Pushing through, I worked my way into the old Richmond training facility. The cobwebs were thick, although an area of the floor remained spotless as various people undertook push-up contests under a giant framed image of Jake King.
From here, I found the old coach's office. Fumbling with the handle, I tried the door. Locked. I tried to shake it. The door appeared stuck. I tried looking inside but the windows were covered. Taking a breath, I hip-and-shouldered the door open.
The walls were covered in newspapers. Photos of Melbourne players, arms raised in victory. Other pictures of Richmond players despondent. The papers all shared the same date: April 25, 2015. ANZAC Day. Lest We Forget.
There was a skeleton in the chair. Its skull appeared to have exploded outward, with pieces of bone scattered around the room.
I wiped the dust off the coach's nameplate on the desk. Damien Hardwick.
Dees by 25.
Richmond was not one of them. Historians had argued for decades over the origins that let to their folding in 2079. Some point to the death of Matthew Richardson in 2056 after coaching the Tigers for 15 years for a record of 2 finals appearances and 10 9th places. Others suggest that the great pidgeon manure dump of 2062, led by the cloned head of Kevin Barlett screaming obscenities, forced it to come apart at the seams.
I was not so sure. Punt Road Oval was soon to be demolished for yet another interstellar highway, although the Greens continued to fight for a North-South road - the Bandtists screaming blasphemy at the words East-West. But more to the point, the plans had been at the council for the past 30 cycles and no protest had been made (although this may be because the remaining Richmond supporters were considered illiterate).
Walking through the remnants of the old Richmond store, there was little left. A mug here, a commemorative DVD there. A rack of Tyrone Vickery guernseys sat pristine, brand new. Shocked, I then watched as a spider dropped onto the front one before melting into radioactive goo.
Scared, I pressed on. The grandstands were decrepit, but one redheaded Tigers supporter remained. Nursing a bucket of KFC, he stared at a holograph, swearing and throwing food around at the images. Rising, he roared and then flopped back down, shaking the fragile stands with his backside crashing at the chairs.
Pushing through, I worked my way into the old Richmond training facility. The cobwebs were thick, although an area of the floor remained spotless as various people undertook push-up contests under a giant framed image of Jake King.
From here, I found the old coach's office. Fumbling with the handle, I tried the door. Locked. I tried to shake it. The door appeared stuck. I tried looking inside but the windows were covered. Taking a breath, I hip-and-shouldered the door open.
The walls were covered in newspapers. Photos of Melbourne players, arms raised in victory. Other pictures of Richmond players despondent. The papers all shared the same date: April 25, 2015. ANZAC Day. Lest We Forget.
There was a skeleton in the chair. Its skull appeared to have exploded outward, with pieces of bone scattered around the room.
I wiped the dust off the coach's nameplate on the desk. Damien Hardwick.
Dees by 25.
This the banter thread for the game ?
