Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
- Posts
- 5,046
- Reaction score
- 4,554
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Other Teams
- The Exers
I had been planning to fly to West Horsham this week to catch up with Malcolm Blight – an old adversary – when on impulse I boarded a plane bound for the Gold Coast. In light of last week’s loss, something more than verbal sparring was required. As we flew over the clouds, I wondered to myself: what is happening here? Where is this current taking me? Upon arrival, the same question was posed by the taxi-driver. I replied spontaneously:
“Take me to John Northey’s house!”
The drive took twenty minutes or so. Glumly, I thought back on my life as a Melbourne supporter. I was born on the very day that Norm Smith was sacked, so perhaps I am the Curse Incarnate. I remembered the five year old boy who had joyously received the woolen jumper from his grandmother with my Uncle’s number – 8 – emblazoned upon it. As a seven year old, I had stood in front of a crowd at Shoppingtown and sung ‘It’s A Grand Old Flag’ to no-one’s acclaim – not even my six sisters voted for me. Sadly, I had parted company with my ’82 membership ticket when Jacko and Healy ran riot. The euphoria, much like the background radiation from the Big Bang, was still detectable from the 1987 Elimination Final when Robbie let the boys out to decimate Norf – was the Promised Land nigh? But how much darkness has accumulated over the years. Indeed, my allegiance to the red and the blue has been nothing less than a sinkhole thus far.
Swooper lives in a high-rise above the Pacific. With trepidation, I pushed the intercom button in the foyer.
“Biff, I thought you might drop in this week for a chat. Come right up.”
A firm handshake greeted me at the door. John has always looked old, even when he was tearing up the flanks for the Tigers – consequently, he had aged little since we last met. His brown eyes are the fieriest in existence. He led me out onto the balcony and offered me a beer whereas he brewed up an English Breakfast for himself. In wait, I cast my eyes over the expanse of the Pacific. One day, inexorably, it will devour this ocean-side skyscraper and its neighbors; but for the moment, it was content to chew away at the shoreline.
“You’re not happy at all, are you Biff?” Swooper commented after the pleasantries had stalled. “And it is not hard to guess why.”
It took me a minute or so to gather my thoughts. The beer assisted.
“John, thanks for your time. Yes, you’re right on the money. I have seen many Melbourne coaches come and go over my lifetime. I recall – for better or worse (mainly the latter) Tiger Ridley, the Chimp, Dennis Jones, Big Carl, the Messiah, your good self, Neil Balme, Greg Hutchison, Neale Daniher and the present incumbent. To my mind, you were the best of the lot. Yes, bad days came – not just the train-wreck of ‘88; there were maulings here and there; but by and large you re-energised the brand, for the lack of a better word, made us walk tall and our boys played hard, accountable football.”
“That’s nice of you to say so, Biff,” Swooper nodded his head appreciatively, “but the credit goes to the players: Hughes, Grinter, Lovett, Spalding, Obst, Willo, Viney, Yeats, Strawbs. There were no superstars among them but my god they put their bodies on the line – and even when the side fell short, they threw their weight around. And we had a couple of special players in Jimmy and Gazza.”
I shotgunned down the rest of the beer.
“Did you watch the fiasco last week, John?”
He nodded his head. “Yes I did. It was abysmal. It was like watching a dog-fight between a pedigree pooch, straight from the clipping salon, and a street-hardened mongrel. I turned it off after half-time. There was nothing to be gained by watching it any further. Sadly, we have seen it all too often – and don’t forget Biff, I also suffer at the hands of the so-called Tigers. What is a man to do?”
A raven, blacker than Satan, perched on the railing at that point. No scraps, however, were forthcoming.
“Swooper, I can handle losing,” I steamed. “I don’t like it one little bit, but it is less unacceptable when the players give their all, only to be bettered on the day (like Round 22 of last year). But when they display the intestinal fortitude of a cockerspaniel and seem disinterested from the first minute, why not post off some sheep’s hearts to the Club? Cale Morton would be the first recipient, followed by Aaron Davey! Moloney might be the only exclusion. The meek shall NOT inherit the earth. Bring on a Night of the Long Knives – this cancer has to be excised, once and for all!”
Sagely, John looked to sea. Our plasma is saline, which is indicative of genesis. It might be our ancestral home, but on this occasion the Pacific offered little solace.
“There is a very fine line between ruthlessness and blood-letting,” he observed slowly. “You can cull the present team, but which of the incomers will transform the dynamic to its betterment? McKenzie and Scully alone are not the answer. There are the other guys on the list but I’m not conversant with them.”
“That leaves the coach,” I whispered back. “Harry Truman had that sign on his desk in the Oval Office: the buck stops here. Why should Dean Bailey be exempt?”
Swooper shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps, being an ex-coach – and a sacked one at that - he was unwilling to break ranks.
“Coaches come and go. The current malaise runs deep,” he murmured at last. “Deep enough to run all the way back to Queen’s Birthday, 1965. That’s the epicentre.”
Now it was my turn to look out aimlessly to sea.
“John, the most obvious question would be to ask what should be done to turn around the culture,” I said at last. “We both already know the theoretical answers to that, as do the boys on our Forum. The better question is this: how will it all end? So much has been said about our so-called ‘potential’; all I can see is another sponge of vinegar on the end of a hyssop stick!”
Swooper laughed. “Do you think I am some sort of seer, Biff? If so, you are mistaken.”
He went quiet.
“There is a growth spurt occurring at the moment that’s going to change the game forever. Gorillas such as Collingwood, Hawthorn, Geelong, Essendon and the Cheats are becoming King Kongs. Sure, smaller clubs such as the Dogs and the Dees are growing too – and the salary cap is in place - but an abyss is widening up between the two camps. Sooner or later Collingwood will have 100,000 members – and it won’t stop there. The back-of-house stuff is becoming more and more important on game-day. Recruitment is now a science. Limited free-agency is bearing down upon us. You know what that all means. The days of a pipsqueak club such as Norf winning a premiership or two are probably over. So how do I see it ending?” He stared into his cup and swilled around the last of the tea leaves as if to read the future. “A hard rain’s gonna fall.”
“I don’t have any solace for you Biff,” he added grittily after a pause, pregnant or otherwise. “The Dees will be crunched on the weekend, particularly if they skate around in the first quarter. Perhaps this is the crisis that we – yes, we – needed to have. They say that a Phoenix can arise anew from the flames, but to my mind, the coals went cold long ago.” He looked down morosely at his feet. “I have nothing more to add.”
We sat there uneasily. The raven croaked. Irascibly, I shooed it away. Surely there was a carcass lying nearby that awaited its ministrations.
“You’d better get moving, Biff,’ my host advised at last. “There’s a storm coming.”
I rose to my feet and bade farewell. Yes, if the clouds banking up on the horizon were any real indication, a tempest was amassing. There was a taxi waiting outside the foyer. Its driver was grinning like a gargoyle. I brusquely told him to take me to the airport, but for all I cared, he was Charon taking me to the Underworld and beyond.
Crows by seven goals.
“Take me to John Northey’s house!”
The drive took twenty minutes or so. Glumly, I thought back on my life as a Melbourne supporter. I was born on the very day that Norm Smith was sacked, so perhaps I am the Curse Incarnate. I remembered the five year old boy who had joyously received the woolen jumper from his grandmother with my Uncle’s number – 8 – emblazoned upon it. As a seven year old, I had stood in front of a crowd at Shoppingtown and sung ‘It’s A Grand Old Flag’ to no-one’s acclaim – not even my six sisters voted for me. Sadly, I had parted company with my ’82 membership ticket when Jacko and Healy ran riot. The euphoria, much like the background radiation from the Big Bang, was still detectable from the 1987 Elimination Final when Robbie let the boys out to decimate Norf – was the Promised Land nigh? But how much darkness has accumulated over the years. Indeed, my allegiance to the red and the blue has been nothing less than a sinkhole thus far.
Swooper lives in a high-rise above the Pacific. With trepidation, I pushed the intercom button in the foyer.
“Biff, I thought you might drop in this week for a chat. Come right up.”
A firm handshake greeted me at the door. John has always looked old, even when he was tearing up the flanks for the Tigers – consequently, he had aged little since we last met. His brown eyes are the fieriest in existence. He led me out onto the balcony and offered me a beer whereas he brewed up an English Breakfast for himself. In wait, I cast my eyes over the expanse of the Pacific. One day, inexorably, it will devour this ocean-side skyscraper and its neighbors; but for the moment, it was content to chew away at the shoreline.
“You’re not happy at all, are you Biff?” Swooper commented after the pleasantries had stalled. “And it is not hard to guess why.”
It took me a minute or so to gather my thoughts. The beer assisted.
“John, thanks for your time. Yes, you’re right on the money. I have seen many Melbourne coaches come and go over my lifetime. I recall – for better or worse (mainly the latter) Tiger Ridley, the Chimp, Dennis Jones, Big Carl, the Messiah, your good self, Neil Balme, Greg Hutchison, Neale Daniher and the present incumbent. To my mind, you were the best of the lot. Yes, bad days came – not just the train-wreck of ‘88; there were maulings here and there; but by and large you re-energised the brand, for the lack of a better word, made us walk tall and our boys played hard, accountable football.”
“That’s nice of you to say so, Biff,” Swooper nodded his head appreciatively, “but the credit goes to the players: Hughes, Grinter, Lovett, Spalding, Obst, Willo, Viney, Yeats, Strawbs. There were no superstars among them but my god they put their bodies on the line – and even when the side fell short, they threw their weight around. And we had a couple of special players in Jimmy and Gazza.”
I shotgunned down the rest of the beer.
“Did you watch the fiasco last week, John?”
He nodded his head. “Yes I did. It was abysmal. It was like watching a dog-fight between a pedigree pooch, straight from the clipping salon, and a street-hardened mongrel. I turned it off after half-time. There was nothing to be gained by watching it any further. Sadly, we have seen it all too often – and don’t forget Biff, I also suffer at the hands of the so-called Tigers. What is a man to do?”
A raven, blacker than Satan, perched on the railing at that point. No scraps, however, were forthcoming.
“Swooper, I can handle losing,” I steamed. “I don’t like it one little bit, but it is less unacceptable when the players give their all, only to be bettered on the day (like Round 22 of last year). But when they display the intestinal fortitude of a cockerspaniel and seem disinterested from the first minute, why not post off some sheep’s hearts to the Club? Cale Morton would be the first recipient, followed by Aaron Davey! Moloney might be the only exclusion. The meek shall NOT inherit the earth. Bring on a Night of the Long Knives – this cancer has to be excised, once and for all!”
Sagely, John looked to sea. Our plasma is saline, which is indicative of genesis. It might be our ancestral home, but on this occasion the Pacific offered little solace.
“There is a very fine line between ruthlessness and blood-letting,” he observed slowly. “You can cull the present team, but which of the incomers will transform the dynamic to its betterment? McKenzie and Scully alone are not the answer. There are the other guys on the list but I’m not conversant with them.”
“That leaves the coach,” I whispered back. “Harry Truman had that sign on his desk in the Oval Office: the buck stops here. Why should Dean Bailey be exempt?”
Swooper shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps, being an ex-coach – and a sacked one at that - he was unwilling to break ranks.
“Coaches come and go. The current malaise runs deep,” he murmured at last. “Deep enough to run all the way back to Queen’s Birthday, 1965. That’s the epicentre.”
Now it was my turn to look out aimlessly to sea.
“John, the most obvious question would be to ask what should be done to turn around the culture,” I said at last. “We both already know the theoretical answers to that, as do the boys on our Forum. The better question is this: how will it all end? So much has been said about our so-called ‘potential’; all I can see is another sponge of vinegar on the end of a hyssop stick!”
Swooper laughed. “Do you think I am some sort of seer, Biff? If so, you are mistaken.”
He went quiet.
“There is a growth spurt occurring at the moment that’s going to change the game forever. Gorillas such as Collingwood, Hawthorn, Geelong, Essendon and the Cheats are becoming King Kongs. Sure, smaller clubs such as the Dogs and the Dees are growing too – and the salary cap is in place - but an abyss is widening up between the two camps. Sooner or later Collingwood will have 100,000 members – and it won’t stop there. The back-of-house stuff is becoming more and more important on game-day. Recruitment is now a science. Limited free-agency is bearing down upon us. You know what that all means. The days of a pipsqueak club such as Norf winning a premiership or two are probably over. So how do I see it ending?” He stared into his cup and swilled around the last of the tea leaves as if to read the future. “A hard rain’s gonna fall.”
“I don’t have any solace for you Biff,” he added grittily after a pause, pregnant or otherwise. “The Dees will be crunched on the weekend, particularly if they skate around in the first quarter. Perhaps this is the crisis that we – yes, we – needed to have. They say that a Phoenix can arise anew from the flames, but to my mind, the coals went cold long ago.” He looked down morosely at his feet. “I have nothing more to add.”
We sat there uneasily. The raven croaked. Irascibly, I shooed it away. Surely there was a carcass lying nearby that awaited its ministrations.
“You’d better get moving, Biff,’ my host advised at last. “There’s a storm coming.”
I rose to my feet and bade farewell. Yes, if the clouds banking up on the horizon were any real indication, a tempest was amassing. There was a taxi waiting outside the foyer. Its driver was grinning like a gargoyle. I brusquely told him to take me to the airport, but for all I cared, he was Charon taking me to the Underworld and beyond.
Crows by seven goals.
