Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
Six years or so had passed since I last saw Bucks. I remembered that occasion all too well, what with his man-boobs of steel, endless skinfold tests and a trophy cabinet that commanded pride of place in his penthouse. Aeschylus tells us that “He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.” Or to use the vernacular, takin’ it up the clacker means that one drops the strut for a limp. For sure, I was aware that Collingwood had dropped away precipitously under his imperium. Even so, I didn’t know what to expect when I pushed the bell and held my breath until I went blue.
A minute or so later, the door swung open. “Hi Biff!” Bucks greeted me sullenly. His pallor was cadaverous. With the barest of gestures, I was issued inside. As before the trophy cabinet dominated the atrium but its lights were off and the silverware looked tarnished and tin-like. I could neither hear nor sense his consort – Jugosaurus - elsewhere in the house. We were alone. He offered me an anti-oxidant-suffused smoothie with extra electrolytes. I declined it. We sat down in his lounge room as gloom amassed.
“Bucks, thanks for your time! It’s good to see you again. The last few years have not been easy for you. How are you travelling?”
He clenched his jaws. I sensed resolution, pride, dignity. Then his mobile rang. From where I was sitting, I could see it was Chris Mayne whose man-perm is a terror of the Underworld. Bucks looked up at the ceiling as if evoking a higher power: succour, however, was not forthcoming. He killed the call, muttered an imprecation and turned his attention back to the question.
“In life,” he rumbled, “one is accountable. That was true of my grandfather at Gallipoli, my father up in PNG against the Japanese and yours truly at Collingwood . . . . . . . While the last month has been strong for us, I stand by my words from last year: it’s finals or bust. From here, the Board will make a call. I will accept their decision with magnanimity. I’m proud of my boys. There’s so much upside there. Our percentage is a better indication of our standing in 2017 than our win-loss ratio!”
His mobile buzzed again. He squinted at the screen. This time it was an SMS from Daniel Wells. From what I could tell, the prized recruit from Norf was informing Bucks that he had spent the last two hours in a jacuzzi in an attempt to mitigate his calf-soreness. Yet again Bucks looked towards the heavens. Strain was evident on his face. As before, devastation was finality as if he read an evil zodiac in the stars above.
“Bucks,” I ventured, “is Collingwood going to be Resurrection City next year? I doubt it. I worry about your forward line. Darcy Moore is a talented player but I see him as a polished second-tall rather than an anchor-head of the forward-line. Down back, as much as I like Dunn, he’s a stopgap measure. A gun midfield – your current strength – will only get one so far! And even then, Pendles aside, they lack physicality!”
Bucks was about to reply when his mobile rang yet again. It was Eddie. With a sigh, Bucks took the call. From where I was sitting, I could hear its gist: Eddie wanted Bucks to appear on the Footy Show in a chicken-man suit.
“Sure Eddie . . . . anything you want!” he muttered. A twitch came momentarily to his face. I was overwhelmed with compassion. Terminus is the Roman God of Boundaries and Ends; somehow or other, Bucks was now enslaved to his sovereignty. Ajax’s last words also came to mind: “Light, light, if only to die in!”
“Bucks, allow me to ask you this. Is there a retributive – nay, corrective force in nature? One that punishes hubris?” I paused. “It otherwise goes by the name of Victory Disease. For sure, the result went against the Maggies in 2011 but come the new season, a dynasty beckoned. It was not to be. How does one interpret this Decline and Fall other than in the terms that I just expressed?”
Bucks pondered these questions and more. In doing so, he resembled Rodin’s Thinker. I thought to myself: Bucks has changed intrinsically and for the better. What a pity that his career as a coach will peter out. Then someone rang the front-door bell. Using an app on his mobile, Bucks scrutinised the intruder: it was Brad Hardie. Seconds later, baseball bat in his hand, Bucks was striding towards the commotion. It was time to leave. I exited via the back, climbed a fence into an alleyway and made good my escape.
Every heart beats true. Dees by 30 points.
A minute or so later, the door swung open. “Hi Biff!” Bucks greeted me sullenly. His pallor was cadaverous. With the barest of gestures, I was issued inside. As before the trophy cabinet dominated the atrium but its lights were off and the silverware looked tarnished and tin-like. I could neither hear nor sense his consort – Jugosaurus - elsewhere in the house. We were alone. He offered me an anti-oxidant-suffused smoothie with extra electrolytes. I declined it. We sat down in his lounge room as gloom amassed.
“Bucks, thanks for your time! It’s good to see you again. The last few years have not been easy for you. How are you travelling?”
He clenched his jaws. I sensed resolution, pride, dignity. Then his mobile rang. From where I was sitting, I could see it was Chris Mayne whose man-perm is a terror of the Underworld. Bucks looked up at the ceiling as if evoking a higher power: succour, however, was not forthcoming. He killed the call, muttered an imprecation and turned his attention back to the question.
“In life,” he rumbled, “one is accountable. That was true of my grandfather at Gallipoli, my father up in PNG against the Japanese and yours truly at Collingwood . . . . . . . While the last month has been strong for us, I stand by my words from last year: it’s finals or bust. From here, the Board will make a call. I will accept their decision with magnanimity. I’m proud of my boys. There’s so much upside there. Our percentage is a better indication of our standing in 2017 than our win-loss ratio!”
His mobile buzzed again. He squinted at the screen. This time it was an SMS from Daniel Wells. From what I could tell, the prized recruit from Norf was informing Bucks that he had spent the last two hours in a jacuzzi in an attempt to mitigate his calf-soreness. Yet again Bucks looked towards the heavens. Strain was evident on his face. As before, devastation was finality as if he read an evil zodiac in the stars above.
“Bucks,” I ventured, “is Collingwood going to be Resurrection City next year? I doubt it. I worry about your forward line. Darcy Moore is a talented player but I see him as a polished second-tall rather than an anchor-head of the forward-line. Down back, as much as I like Dunn, he’s a stopgap measure. A gun midfield – your current strength – will only get one so far! And even then, Pendles aside, they lack physicality!”
Bucks was about to reply when his mobile rang yet again. It was Eddie. With a sigh, Bucks took the call. From where I was sitting, I could hear its gist: Eddie wanted Bucks to appear on the Footy Show in a chicken-man suit.
“Sure Eddie . . . . anything you want!” he muttered. A twitch came momentarily to his face. I was overwhelmed with compassion. Terminus is the Roman God of Boundaries and Ends; somehow or other, Bucks was now enslaved to his sovereignty. Ajax’s last words also came to mind: “Light, light, if only to die in!”
“Bucks, allow me to ask you this. Is there a retributive – nay, corrective force in nature? One that punishes hubris?” I paused. “It otherwise goes by the name of Victory Disease. For sure, the result went against the Maggies in 2011 but come the new season, a dynasty beckoned. It was not to be. How does one interpret this Decline and Fall other than in the terms that I just expressed?”
Bucks pondered these questions and more. In doing so, he resembled Rodin’s Thinker. I thought to myself: Bucks has changed intrinsically and for the better. What a pity that his career as a coach will peter out. Then someone rang the front-door bell. Using an app on his mobile, Bucks scrutinised the intruder: it was Brad Hardie. Seconds later, baseball bat in his hand, Bucks was striding towards the commotion. It was time to leave. I exited via the back, climbed a fence into an alleyway and made good my escape.
Every heart beats true. Dees by 30 points.
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