Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
It took me a few days to leave Geelong after we had smashed the Handbaggers in Perth. The Corio Bay Roadhouse was my solace. Eastern Beach became my haunt. I spotted Patrick Dangerwank in the Mall – how I sauntered away.
Eventually, I hit the road. With the daylight ebbing away, I drove over to Torquay and parked my car. There beyond the sand-dunes lay my old buddy, Bass Strait, awash with twilight. I was alone which is my preferred state; strangely enough, even the beach was deserted. I took a seat above the dunes and stared out across the oceanic expanse – did not God give us eyes to see such things? Some verses from Walt Whitman came to mind: O my Brave Soul . . . . .
Suddenly there was a disturbance to my right. I looked around sharply. A man was running along the beach, at ocean’s edge. I stood up, galvanised to my marrow. Defiant of colour, the runner was tinted in black and white. His arms were swinging from side to side. Whoever he was, he was an athlete. As he approached, I could see that he was wearing an old-fashioned Dees jumper with a high-collar.
OMG, I whispered after a few seconds of scrutiny: it’s the ghost of Neil Crompton!!!
Onward he ran. This must be some sort of vision, I told myself: it’s identical to the footage from the ‘64 Granny when Froggy runs back to the back-pocket after kicking the sealer against the Maggies. But why here – why me – why now?
Just as he had done so long ago in that grainy footage– oh, when we were kings – Neil swivelled around, looked me in the eyes and pumped his arms in triumph. Immolation befell me. If this was a portent, it pointed to something more than a mere Prelim against the Handbaggers. Did it bespeak victory over the Doggies? Who is to say? Crompton kept running along the shoreline. Soon, he disappeared from view. I darted down to the water. Bass Strait had already erased his footprints and night was falling.
I trembled at the implications. Was he prefacing glory to come? Perhaps it was all trickery. Having been disappointed for so long, does one have the right to dream? I trudged back to the car in the darkness. An SMS came through from an old mate of mine. 'This is the end', it trumpeted. Perhaps it will end badly. What other outcome was possible, I asked myself, with the Norm Smith Curse being so virulent? The rest is silence.
And on that note, I thank you all for your patience and goodwill throughout this season of 2021. Every heart beats true. Dees by 40 points
Eventually, I hit the road. With the daylight ebbing away, I drove over to Torquay and parked my car. There beyond the sand-dunes lay my old buddy, Bass Strait, awash with twilight. I was alone which is my preferred state; strangely enough, even the beach was deserted. I took a seat above the dunes and stared out across the oceanic expanse – did not God give us eyes to see such things? Some verses from Walt Whitman came to mind: O my Brave Soul . . . . .
Suddenly there was a disturbance to my right. I looked around sharply. A man was running along the beach, at ocean’s edge. I stood up, galvanised to my marrow. Defiant of colour, the runner was tinted in black and white. His arms were swinging from side to side. Whoever he was, he was an athlete. As he approached, I could see that he was wearing an old-fashioned Dees jumper with a high-collar.
OMG, I whispered after a few seconds of scrutiny: it’s the ghost of Neil Crompton!!!
Onward he ran. This must be some sort of vision, I told myself: it’s identical to the footage from the ‘64 Granny when Froggy runs back to the back-pocket after kicking the sealer against the Maggies. But why here – why me – why now?
Just as he had done so long ago in that grainy footage– oh, when we were kings – Neil swivelled around, looked me in the eyes and pumped his arms in triumph. Immolation befell me. If this was a portent, it pointed to something more than a mere Prelim against the Handbaggers. Did it bespeak victory over the Doggies? Who is to say? Crompton kept running along the shoreline. Soon, he disappeared from view. I darted down to the water. Bass Strait had already erased his footprints and night was falling.
I trembled at the implications. Was he prefacing glory to come? Perhaps it was all trickery. Having been disappointed for so long, does one have the right to dream? I trudged back to the car in the darkness. An SMS came through from an old mate of mine. 'This is the end', it trumpeted. Perhaps it will end badly. What other outcome was possible, I asked myself, with the Norm Smith Curse being so virulent? The rest is silence.
And on that note, I thank you all for your patience and goodwill throughout this season of 2021. Every heart beats true. Dees by 40 points
