Deestroy
Norm Smith Medallist
AFL Premiership Round 15
Melbourne V Essendon
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Sunday Jul 11
MCG 2:10 PM (Local Time)
Melbourne Forecast Melbourne Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
Melbourne V Essendon
________________________________________________________
Sunday Jul 11
MCG 2:10 PM (Local Time)
Melbourne Forecast Melbourne Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
The Melbourne Perspective:
Originally Posted by [NAME]Biffinator[/NAME]
PLEASE NOTE THIS INTERVIEW IS FICTITIOUS
“So Fred is pissed off with me now, too?” I said in exasperation.
“Yep, and I can hardly blame him!” Deestroy growled. “Hits are down. You’re giving this forum a bad name. You’re forgetting to tip the winner and the margin. What’s wrong with you?”
I hung my head in shame. “Give me a chance to redeem myself. What’s next?” I asked.
“Well next round is Melbourne versus Essendon,” Deestroy sighed. “I have lined up a meeting with Sheedy. He is still Mister Essendon.”
I screwed up my face.
“Hasn’t he already moved to some McMansion in the west of Sydney? And I hear that he is as grouchy as hell.”
“He’s still got his place in Park Orchards. Be there in an hour. He’s expecting you. And remember: he is a living legend - don’t be a smart-arse!”
Fifty nine minutes later, in the shadow of the pine-trees, I was rang his door-bell. There was no answer so I walked around the side. And there, stripped to the waist, was the quadruple premiership coach himself, making inroads into the woodpile with an enormous, wicked-looking axe.
“Ahhh, Biff, you’re here at last.”
He swivelled around on his heels and brought the axe down on a thick log, cutting it clean in half. I ducked for cover.
“Yep, if you’re gonna chop wood, the woodchips are gonna fly – so get out of the way, you Melbourne pillow-biter!” he laughed curtly.
As I watched on, I noticed that he had a number of gashes on his body.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” he sighed after landing a few more blows. “Let me have a quick shower and we’ll have a chat. Come with me.”
He led me inside to his wood-lined study. Each of the four walls was adorned with photos: Sheedy sparring with Muhammad Ali; Sheedy sharing a joke with Bill Clinton; Sheedy dining with Tony Blair; Sheedy passing a beer to Nelson Mandela; Sheedy addressing the UN as Kofi Annan watched on; Sheedy teaching Margaret Thatcher how to handpass, and so forth. Starting with John Gorton, Australian Prime Ministers were legion. As expected, there were plenty of photos from the four premiership years. One of Sheedy’s daughters wandered in and offered coffees. After requesting a flat white, I was left to my own devices. I spent the ten minutes scrutinising the gallery.
Freshly showered, Sheedy returned at that point and sat behind his enormous desk. The coffees made an appearance not long after.
“Kevin, I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” I ventured, “but I could not but help notice those gashes on your torso. You actually played against my uncle. He’s in a worse state than you – he can barely walk. Two hundred games of VFL do that to a man.”
Sheedy snorted. “So your uncle is XXXXXXXX? What a character! The best thing he ever did was punch Don Scott. Sure, I carry wounds from my playing days, but those marks on my body,” he revealed, dropping three artificial sweeteners into his frothy cappuccino, “come from my initiation ceremony into the Pitjantjatjara people. I am an elder.”
For whatever reason, a twitch must have shot across my face.
“Have you got a problem with that Biff?” he asked belligerently.
“No – not at all. All power to the Brothers. That’s one of the reasons why I voted against Johnny Howard. We owed them an apology in the very least. I am appalled by what we have done to them over the years.”
Sheedy glared at me. The temperature dropped in the room. I coughed. It was time to say something placatory.
“Kevin, I was disappointed when Dean Bailey – of all people - beat you for the gig at Melbourne. If nothing else, you instil toughness into a playing-group. And it’s not as if DB has set the world on fire. In my estimation, you would have been a much better choice.”
There was no comment back. Had I said something wrong? It’s not as if I had dredged up the claim he had made about Richmond at the start of 2009. The forensic stare continued.
“So you’re from the Big Footy Melbourne site, are you?” he growled at last. I nodded. He smirked and lent back in his presidential chair.
“Let me tell you about your precious little Melbourne with all those hyphenated names and the Scotch College ties and those boring, inbred Cordners,” he sneered. “I’m glad I did not get the job at your pathetic little club. I always laugh when I hear about the Norm Smith curse. The NSC has not got nothing to do with how chicken-shit your club is. Forget about it – it does not exist. The real reason is me. Take that back to your ****y Melbourne mates and tell them to smoke it. It’s the Kevin Sheedy Curse!”
I asked him to explain.
“I was zoned to Melbourne. I actually played a few practices games in the Seconds. But the toffs who were running your arse-clown circus decided that bog-Irish Kevin Sheedy was not the right sort of ‘gentleman’ to represent the Fuschias – so I was out. I went to Richmond and the rest is history. When the Demons - what a laugh, by the way - fell off their perch, it was because all the toughness had just gone out the door with Barassi. I could have supplied it in spades, but because my family was not in Debrett’s Peerage, I was told to piss off – and your club has suffered ever since. Clear enough?”
“Well I have heard that -.”
“And that is one reason why I was not in the little bit worried on the eve of the 2000 grand final, unlike 83, 84, 85, 90, 93 and 01. I knew your boys were cream-puffs and nancy-boys. I was right.”
He ranted on in such a fashion for the next ten minutes or so. Richmond and Essendon equally received a spray. Greg Miller – strangely enough - copped the double barrel treatment. I sat there glumly and thought to myself: this conversation could go either way. And why is this guy so irascible? He has achieved so much – why not be magnanimous for a change? Then the thought occurred to me: Sheedy was a human pill-box, and his eyes were the slits. Defensive combat was his natural kinetic state. He invited fire so he could return it with interest. Not a single transgression or slight had ever been forgotten over the years, let alone forgiven. I turned my attention to the nearest of the photos. There was Sheedy with his arms around Al Gore. The rant came to an end. I shrugged my shoulders. An uneasy silence settled in the room.
“Fair enough. So Kevin, why were you offered – or better still, why did you accept the GWS coaching gig? It is going to be extremely hard to top your achievements at Essendon.”
“Biff, there is no point being modest. I am a rain-maker. I bring the rain. No one barracked for Essendon in the 1970s – I changed all that for generations to come. And then there is Anzac Day and Dreamtime at the G, and other stuff like the wind-sock. History says that I do not fail at anything big. And it is a hard rain that’s gonna fall in Western Sydney.”
He looked over to a photograph where he was jamming with Bob Dylan.
“Apart from GWS, what is your next big initiative?” I asked.
“Bringing peace to Afghanistan.”
“You’re not thinking of enlisting, are you? Or becoming a mentor to the SAS?”
“No, shit no. Take a step back, Biff. The allies can send as many troops as they like. They will still be there in 50 years time with no victory in sight. You can’t kill your way out of a place like that. I have got a different plan. Me and some of the Tiwi Island boys are going to play a series of exhibition matches in Kabul and the outlying cities, and run some Aus-kick clinics afterwards. Just you wait and see. Football will transform that mob!”
Let that one go through to the keeper, an inner voice told me.
We talked about the impending match between Essendon and the Dees. Sheedy thought that there was enough of his List still in place (and imbued with his spirit) to ensure that the hapless Dees were put to the sword yet again – this time by 40 points.
I stood up and thanked him for his time. As I was about to leave, I swung around on my heels.
“Sheeds, have you ever heard of a saying: fame is a mask that progressively eats into one’s face?”
“No I haven’t,” he snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How would I know!” I sighed. “You’re the famous one.”
We left it at that. Melbourne by 1 point.
Biffinator.












