Murph's Age Column

Murph's Age Column
Now I'm not sure if Murph started this in round 1, but I certainly didn't find anything on The Age website and certainly kept my eyes out for it (it, along with the Hun are getting unbearably hard to troll through daily to find Dogs related stuff - no, not all is replicated under the team's sub-categories). If anyone stumbles across Murph's possible first column, please add in here! Thanks :D Unrealistic expectations take their toll Robert Murphy | March 27, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/look-at-it-our-way/2008/03/26/1206207208769.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 I CAN'T help but think of late that the life of an AFL footballer is getting tougher. Forget the gut-wrenching training sessions, day after day through summer's heat. I'm talking about a different kind of stress and strain — meeting the demand for perfection. The game itself asks so much of its players and is now scrutinised to within an inch of its life. I realise this thirst from the footy public is built on passion, something we should all enjoy and develop. What worries me is the point where footballers and their civil liberties become public fodder. There seems to be a growing number of people in the community and football media who think perfection is not only required of me and my peers on the field, but expected — 24-7, 52 weeks of the year. So, to better understand my football fellows and their expectations, I decided to interview one of the community's best-known football followers. This is a man who likes to chat to my teammates and opponents at pubs and in cafes, a bloke who loves to vent his frustrations on websites such as bigfooty.com, a fellow whose favourite pastime is letting fly on talkback radio. You may know him, as his name is synonymous with football folklore — Snowy. When we sat down at Snowy's favourite lunch spot, I asked him his last name, but he declined to say. "All you need to know, mate, is that my name is Snowy, and I like to catch the tram." He also went on to refer to me during our chat as "Miss Murphy", and described me as an overpaid alcoholic with the intelligence of a yabby — "just like all footballers". Which was an awkward ice-breaker, to say the least; we hadn't even ordered drinks yet. But Snowy is a passionate man with strong views, and that's why I chose to talk to him. Now, because old Snowy reckons we get well paid to play a game we love, he believes it's his right to expect "a higher level of output in goodwill and good behaviour in your day-to-day life". "Fair enough," I said, before trying to assure him that the vast majority of players do a wonderful job promoting the game and keeping our noses out of trouble. And that most of those who have found a bit of strife are still good people. I returned serve and asked Snowy: "How high a level would you say is reasonable in terms of social behaviour for someone who's employed because they excel at a ball game?" "Well," he replied, "their behaviour should sit somewhere between Pat Rafter and Pope Benedict, I'd imagine." I told Snowy I thought this to be an unattainable level, but he'd made his position pretty clear. So I asked him if he thought a lawyer or plumber should be held up to these standards, too? To which he replied: "I couldn't give a stuff, mate. What they do in their own time is their business." At that point, I'd heard enough from Snowy to fuel my worst fears: that the thirst for footballers to be perfect is on a collision course with disappointment. I told Snowy I wasn't feeling well and had best leave. I was pondering our chat while walking back to my car, when in a moment of weakness my eyes flashed across the little paper. I was startled by an article that challenged an AFL team to abstain from drinking alcohol for the entire year. This really sat me on my backside, let me tell you. One of our very basic rights as humans is to have the benefit of equality. Will the journalists seeking to punish footballers in the pursuit of creating robots be so keen to take us on in such challenges? I'll give up my two glasses of wine over dinner on Saturday night if the entire football media is happy to do the same, along with their morning coffee and cigarettes; I, for one, don't like the message all of this caffeine and smoking is sending to budding journalists around the country. Am I being childish and petulant? Maybe both, but at least Snowy and his mates now know how insulted we are by the constant reinforcement of the myth that, for most of us, a night out with a few drinks ends in chaos and with lampshades on our heads. Are footballers being unfairly judged for things unrelated to the game? I think so. Minor traffic offences are now spruiked as newsworthy and brought into the public forum in a bid to shame. Leadership groups work feverishly to handle punishments. It's all gone a bit too far. As I was going over this in my head, I arrived at my car, and to my horror discovered I had a parking fine! But you've probably heard that already. Can't say I disagree with much that Murph discusses to be honest. Footballer are put on pedestals and if one falls (Kane Johnson this past weekend, in truth, I’m sure a lot of my friends have done something similar only didn’t be silly enough as to get caught), it's front page news, no matter have minimal/earth shattering it is. Granted, footy players now have to watch their every step, but tabloid newspapers like the Hun (or anything that Caro Wilson puts her name to) thrive on footy gossip as do a lot of “experts” who think that their 2 bob actually will shape the footy world. The one thing I can say to Murph is that the footy world is quite small. If there is "news" (aka gossip), it will be around the community ASAP (we are all guilty of passing something we’ve heard about this or that player at times, yes?). I think this forum does a good job not to post unsolicited, may I even say, antagonistic jargon against our boys (even after the demoralising loses), or the AFL community as a whole. My little rant is over. :angel: Glad Murph has returned for 2008!

hoorah!! Welcome back murph! i like how he so accurately describes bigfooty posters, ehehe, just kidding guys, i actually wish it said sonsofthescray ;)

if only the media saw the pics ive seen of said doggies new equpiment. The media has gone to far

Romance of the little league Robert Murphy | April 2, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/romance-of-the-little-league/2008/04/02/1206851014746.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 MY NAME is Robert Murphy and I’m addicted to romantic comedy movies. Boy oh boy, it feels good to finally say it out loud! I’ve been watching movies like Notting Hill and When Harry Met Sally for quite a few years now (away from the prying eyes of family and friends, of course, for fear of being cast out as a pansy). They have been my guilty pleasure. The best way I can describe how much the addiction has taken hold is to tell you this: if Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan ever decide to saddle up again and do a sequel to You’ve Got Mail, I’d sleep out on the pavement to get the best seats. I know I’ve got issues, but at least I’m prepared to tackle them head on. People, this little admission is a look into the deepest and darkest recesses of my soul, and over the next few paragraphs I will try to explain what relevance it has to the state of footy at the moment. One of my all-time favourite rom coms is the hugely popular (with housewives everywhere) Love Actually. In the opening scenes, the narrator (Hugh Grant, of course) talks about the perception that the world is a hard, cynical place, a place where romance, compassion and love can be lost amid the evils of the big, bad corporate world. Hugh goes on to say that, whenever he hears such doom and gloom, he casts his mind to the departure gates of Heathrow airport, and all he sees is warm hugs and tears of loving affection. A love that is reserved for those closest to us. As the rain flickered against my lounge room window on Sunday night, while my little family was huddled up watching Love Actually (again), it struck me how these same feelings can cross over to our great game. After last week’s rant about the liberties of players, and another weekend of radio talkback complaining about umpiring decisions, on top of more television reporting on the politics of the game, it’s easy to slip into a mood of doom and gloom, fearful that all the great things about our game are being lost. Of course this isn’t true, and thankfully our game has so many gems to cherish, it’s just a matter of keeping sight of them through the haze of negativity. Grant’s character talks of Heathrow’s departure lounge in such glowing terms, it got me thinking about what, in football terms, is my Heathrow? After only a few seconds squinting through the haze I saw lots of little people running around, and a smile ran across my face. The little league! If ever I feel myself going down doom and gloom road, all I need do is think about the kiddies running around at half-time, with nothing more on their minds than getting the ball and kicking it to their mates. If ever we needed a model of how the game should be played and ruled, it comes from this bunch of boys and girls. They play with unbridled spirit. There is a distinct lack of emphasis on rules or tribunals as such, rather there is a governing body of helpful parents who are more interested in the ethics of fair play than how each boy and girl plays. The result is a harmonious spectacle. As a wee lad growing up, I was lucky enough to play in the little league. A few memories from this day have not been dimmed one bit with time. After our mini-bus made the relatively short trip from Warragul to Waverley Park, I will never forget the feeling of running up the race and out onto the field in front of so many people. The other, more embarrassing, memory from my big day in the little league is that I was playing for Hawthorn. Despite my loyalty to the Tigers at that time, I still endeavoured to wear the fetching combination of brown and gold with pride. The main game that day was between the Hawks and Adelaide, so naturally the little league was con-*test*-('")ed by the same teams. Little kids have a funny little take on the world; not ones for the finer details on life, are they? Well I certainly wasn’t. You see, I spent most of the game in a state of deep intrigue . . . I couldn’t believe these other kids had come all the way from Adelaide to play a 10-minute game! My mum certainly wouldn’t have let me fly over there to play! It’s a shame such wide-eyed wonder can be lost in the big, bad, grown-up world. In a week where it has been impossible not to be confronted by the Wayne Carey saga, we have received another reminder of just how much the adult we become is shaped by the child we are loved and encouraged to be. As the rain falls this weekend and you stand in the outer at half-time with your hot pie and Footy Record, take a couple of minutes to watch the little league kids go about their stuff. It will be plain for you to see that the game is in great shape — as long as the kids are all right.

I dont no about anyone else, but i like to stay in my seat at half time and watch these young kids running around, its good stuff, then give em a hi5 when there running off.

I dont no about anyone else, but i like to stay in my seat at half time and watch these young kids running around, its good stuff, then give em a hi5 when there running off. I'm exactly the same, it's one of the main reasons why watching it on the TV is never the same...

On SEN they opened up the lines to callers to discuss player columns, which are good, which are rubbish, etc. Murph's column got a couple of positive mentions as being original and interesting.

In moments of victory, remember an injured mate Robert Murphy | April 10, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/in-moments-of-victory-remember-an-injured-mate/2008/04/09/1207420487759.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 "WISE men say … only fools rush in." ELVIS recorded these lyrics as a love song, but he could just as easily have been summing up proceedings at quarter-time at the Dome last Friday night. The modern game is all about momentum — during a season, during a game and during quarters. How do you get momentum and how do you stop it? These questions are still unanswered to a degree, which is why the game is still so interesting. Friday night's game against the Saints was evidence of this phenomenon. Superstition is not something new to the modern game and, from my experience, you would be hard-pressed to find a more paranoid bunch than a group of footballers. Not touching the banner, putting Vicks in my nose and doing a specific number of kicks with "Gia" before a game are just some of the lengths I will go to every week to have the football gods on my side. For some reason, Friday night just felt a little bit off. When kicking the ball with Gia, I dropped the ball many times. At any other time, this wouldn't be of too much concern, but those two hours before a game can be crucial to your success in the two hours that follow. Basically, the ball of self doubt began rolling at increasing pace. Minutes later, when I forgot to put Vicks up my nose, the self-doubt juggernaut was really firing up. And just to top it all off, as we ran out onto the ground and I tried to avoid touching the banner, something went horribly wrong. I don't know if it was a freak gust, but the banner swung down and hit me in the face. It was then that I feared the worst — that maybe it wasn't going to be a good night for the red, white and blue. Early on, it certainly seemed the Saints were going to have one of those nights when everything clicks. As they went six goals up, with their tall timber putting on a show akin to the Harlem Globetrotters, I began pleading to my trainers for an emergency Vicks hit and cursing that damn banner. It's funny sometimes, the things that go through your head in a game of football as fast-paced and frenetic as Friday night's. With the Saints surging ahead, as a player, I could feel the disappointment from our own supporters and I got the sense that they thought it was all over. It's easy for me to say this in retrospect, but during that first quarter there was no alarm, no panic on the faces of my teammates and even the coaches came down to the quarter-time huddle with a real belief that we could peg the margin back. I've known many similar situations in which this has not been the case and calmness has made way for a mad panic; often the most difficult thing to regain is not the lead but cool heads. And from that point on, we got back to playing the way we should. You could say we always knew we had a sniff and, for me, that draws on one of the most powerful forces in football — the smells. For me, the swee-*test*-('") and most powerful smell is that of the ball. Even now as I pick up a football, I must smell it to identify whether it's authentic or not. I am immediately teleported back to the bedroom I grew up in, drifting off to sleep with my football tucked safely under my arm. The force of the smell is still that strong. As I said, it's funny where your head can go during a game and, as we gradually regained control against the Saints, I found myself thinking of another smell I now associate with the game that is far less romantic than my love of football leather. Striding through Glenferrie private hospital last week to visit Shaun Higgins, I felt queasy just from the smell. Hospitals have a distinct and somewhat disturbing fragrance that conjures up images of pain, suffering and disappointment. Seeing the dejection on Shaun's face only compounded feelings of disappointment. Although he was putting on a brave face, it was plain to see that just under the surface he was shattered to be laid up with a serious ankle injury just two games into a season that promised so much for him. He is an extremely well-adjusted young man, but when you are enveloped by pain and doubt, the worst fears are easily compounded. If you are lucky enough, like Shaun, to have a good network of family and friends, then you need to place a lot of trust in them when they reinforce a positive outlook. Football is all about time and timing. Shaun's injury is not great timing, but he has oodles of time to recover and be a force in the near future. He has a passion and maturity that is so rare in someone of his age, and is a great asset to our club. As we sang our song after the game and finally sat to enjoy the spoils of victory over a Powerade and a banana, I thought again of our little mate Higgo, sitting in a hospital bed across town in pain willing us on via delayed telecast. Dropped balls, errant banners and missing Vicks were a distant memory.

Giving voice to a footballing passion Robert Murphy | April 16, 2008 - 9:59PM http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/giving-voice-to-a-footballing-passion/2008/04/16/1208025284493.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 AT 5.30 every evening at my place, it is go time. For little Jarvis, every night at this time consists of food, bath, bottle, bed. As Jarvis sits on my knee tucking into his apple and pears, and I chuckle at his clumsy attempts with the spoon, all is well in the world and worries fade to back ground noise. That is until we near the end of the bowl, and another has not been prepared to take its place. With an empty bowl in front of him and a half empty stomach on the inside, all hell breaks loose. His tears of anguish register a 9.6 on his little Richter scale of despair. At a time of crisis like this, it's funny the lengths you will go to in a bid to calm the seas. Not for the first time in my life, football has swooped in on a chandelier to save the day. As little Jarvis' bottom lip began to quiver on Tuesday night, I instinctively began to sing the Western Bulldogs theme song, bouncing him to the tune. Not only did the lip stop shaking, but the early hint of a smile seeped through his expression. As I neared the big finale though, it became obvious that his rice cereal was still some way off. What to do, I thought? A voice inside my head screamed, 'Keep singing! Keep singing!' So without a second thought I was straight into, We are the Power from Port ... hey! It's more than a sport ...'' By the time Jarvis' cereal made an appearance, I was nearly through the entire list of club theme songs. And I am proud to say he saved his biggest smile for the sons of the west (it had nothing to do with my extra enthusiasm). My job as a parent is to give my son all the freedom and ability to make his own choices, all except one. My only request of my son will be that he grow up a son of the west, a Bulldog through and through. It has a lot to do with a sense of belonging. Something as people we all crave on one level or another. Sticking with the musical theme, I caught some highlights of a recent American Idol episode on the morning news and I was in awe of that little boy with the voice sent from God, hitting the high notes. The judges and audience were moved to tears, and for once you got the impression they were genuine. It took me back to my days in the school choir. Now, after my admission a couple of weeks ago that I had a weakness for romantic comedies, it can hardly come as a surprise that I sang in the school choir, can it? A choir is not that far from football in lots of ways; a group of varied and interesting people with different skills and a common goal. Back in high school, I loved the diversity the choir added to an after-school program that was dominated by football. The boys and girls in the school choir were different from the kids I would kick the footy with at lunch. Both require people with different physical attributes and cater for those with varying degrees of ability. Us boys in the choir were a long, long way from the young man seen on American Idol, but we played our part in the overall team structure the choir needed. A choir is much like a supporter base for AFL clubs - the voices are many and varied, but they all want the same result for their beloved club. But why do we join a choir or a football club? I believe all of us yearn for a sense that we belong to something - a cause, a song, team colours. Often the most enjoyment I got from the school choir was not hitting the notes as much as walking to and from practice with the others, forming our own group within the school. It wasn't segregated, but we all felt a sense of joy that we were a part of something different from the rest of the kids. Football supporters, ask themselves the same question. Why do we sign up as a member? I would like to think it is to set yourself apart from the masses, to be part of something. Don't misunderstand me, it's not to win - that's a bonus. The reason we should show our allegiance to a club, wear the club colours and sing the theme song is to be a part of history. To pledge your allegiance to a clan through thick and thin. My Bulldogs currently have a horribly low membership for 2008. Some 8000 members from 2007 have not signed up again. I realise that for a lot of people finances are strained, and these are not whom I'm referring to. Our membership department has received a lot of feedback from people who are not signing up because the last seven games of last year were so disappointing, they just felt too let down to get on board. I think this is an unacceptable excuse. And I don't want people signing up just because we've had a promising start to the season, either. I want people to know that when they become a member of a football club, they become part of something that sets them apart. It becomes part of their identity. It's not about sharing success and jumping off when it fails. It's about putting your colours on, catching the tram and having people look at you and instantly know what you have a passion for. This club has a history of survival, and you survive by sticking together. And standing behind something you feel part of. Love this article, so far my absolute favourite from Murph! Dogs obviously on an absolute PR machine to get people on board again for 2008, so if you haven't already dome so, please take the time over the next few days to put your hand up and help the club out in any way that you can.

The hollow feeling of a drawn game http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/hollow-draws/2008/04/23/1208743039454.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 Robert Murphy | April 24, 2008 FOOTBALL is a strange sport. Our rules and traditions would surely baffle people from other countries, let alone beings from other planets (whom I expect to see any day now). I've left the topic of aliens lie for a while, but in light of another bizarre draw on the weekend, I thought we could get a bit freaky. Come on Melbourne … who's with me? I wonder, for instance, if any of our green, extra-terrestrial friends watched the closing minutes of our game against Richmond on Sunday? What did they make of the draw? After taking all afternoon to work out what was happening, they would have been left scratching their numerous heads as to why, after two hours of a high-octane, ferocious, end-to-end slug-fest, all the players scratched their own singular heads and trudged off the ground with only two points to show for it. I've played in four draws now, and while each has been different, they all share the same hollow aftermath, the eerie feeling that you have just stepped into the twilight zone. As the siren went on Sunday, my opponent Kelvin Moore and I just looked at each other and, like two people on a first date, we had little to say. I love the mythology of football. The way reputations are passed on to younger generations, or a piece of play is pored over until it becomes like something from a scripted movie, and not just a few seconds in a game played a few years back. What would our great game today be without some of these football legends and myths? I think it's got a lot to do with the people who are involved in the game — the coaches, players, media and officials who are, from my observations, football junkies. With the Tigers up by 19 points with 3½ minutes to play, my boys really had no right to think we were a chance to steal it. But football is a game with a sense of humour. As Brian Lake launched himself to take that towering mark, only to crumple in a heap, you just knew that much of the ensuing week would be spent talking about the minute that followed. With Brian being carted out of the way, pandemonium raged. Even now, as I try to recall where I was and who did what, I feel like a witness in Dallas when JFK died. With neither video nor hindsight to help him decide, the umpire picked out the big German, Will Minson, to take the kick. Before we go through the big finale, I should set the scene for the arrival of our hero. I first met Will five or six years ago and was instantly fond of him. The thing that struck me upon getting to know the big boy from St Peter's College was his physical presence. On a grocery shopping trip one day, I walked a few steps behind Will to observe the old ladies and young kids looking on in awe, as if his sheer size was a circus attraction. It's been well documented that Will speaks German and plays a mean clarinet, and his grasp of the Queen's English is impeccable. But on meeting him all those years ago I was staggered by not only his lack of knowledge of pop culture, but his underdeveloped education on football folklore. I've always thought Will and I were a good team because I could try to teach him about The Rolling Stones and Percy Jones, and he could teach me about the history of Germany or his philosophy on cooking a risotto and, in the next breath, explain to me how to build a tunnel from Carlton to Footscray to avoid the traffic. Will is an underrated footballer — a good jump for his size, a competitor who thrives on physicality — but in my opinion his grea-*test*-('") asset has always been his ability to ask questions. Being 199 centimetres tall and playing limited football in his younger years meant he had some ground to catch up. And he is never too embarrassed to ask the questions he needs answered to make him better. It's because of this yin and yang of personalities, and his care for friends, family and teammates, that I regard him as a dear friend. With this in mind we go back to the moment the umpire gave Will the ball to make or break the day. I was near Will and thought he looked a little distressed. It's a mountain of pressure for one kick. I jogged over to him and, after considering what I could say to ease the tension, I thought I came up with a pearl that could do the trick. I put my arm around Will to pass on my vast wisdom, but he wriggled free and suggested in the most basic way that I should go away. As the umpire signalled a goal, I tried to get my arms around him as he gave his trademark celebration. He might not have heard of The Beach Boys, but he is a man for the pressure situation and this was yet another moment that reinforced why footy is great.

I like this article, the best one ever :D :D .

A fantastic filmic footy team Robert Murphy | May 1, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/a-fantastic-filmic-footy-team/2008/04/30/1209234957094.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 OK, IT'S Fantasy Football League time again! Please check your coats and pessimism at the door on your way into the Field Of Dreams, high up in the Hollywood Hills. And don't forget to grab your footy Record and a hot pie of imagination. After last year's rocking success of our team of rock stars, I thought we could do it all again, only this time without music. Instead, a motley crew of actors from our silver screens. I know you're all bursting to see who's made the line-up, so without further ado, we welcome … THE BACK SIX Robert De Niro: A real in-and-under type. His connections with the underworld are well known, but he says it's all above board. Took much persuading to get him to the club, with president Marlon Brando revealing: "I made him an offer he couldn't refuse." Anthony Hopkins: Feared competitor who likes to take control of the club barbecue, and his burgers after training are legendary. Of his secret recipe, Hopkins says: "It's all to do with the cut of meat." Quentin Tarantino: Has brought a hard edge to a team of sensitive souls. Lack of interest in marks, kicks and handballs is supplemented by his thirst for the con-*test*-('") and love of on-field violence. Responsible for more blood rule send-offs than anyone in the game. Russell Crowe: Was reinstated as a player after a brief stint as coach, when his tendency to smash phones was deemed excessive by president Brando. Russell's focus at training and during games gives him a prickly demeanour, but his teammates love his gladiatorial courage. Mickey Rourke: Former Rising Star winner back after a sabbatical chasing a boxing dream. Has become the face of the club, although the face looks a little weird after some post-season surgery. Fond of the booze and ciggies on the end-of-season trips. John Travolta: His twinkle toes have the ability to dazzle fans one minute and leave them frustrated the next. Has benefited from teammate Tarantino's unselfish play. Missed last Saturday night's game with a fever, but is right to play this week. ON-BALLERS Hilary Swank: A real tomboy who is not above using her fists to make her feelings known. Former best-and-fairest winner who relies more on determination than finesse. Steven Seagal: Only rivalled by Nicholson for his accomplishments on the field. Has a swag of awards and trophies and the respect of his peers and the football public. Versatile and elegant, Seagal is an artist with substance and panache. Daniel Craig: Rookie who has taken all before him in the No. 7 jersey. His emergence from the reserves was pretty amazing, but his emergence from the bay at Port Melbourne last week in his blue euro togs had hearts fluttering. Sienna Miller: Has played a lot of games in a short period of time at this level, many of them without her jumper on. This has had some critics up in arms, but the male-dominated football public has welcomed the approach as a healthy form of individuality. Daniel Day Lewis: Reclusive big man who famously forgoes the regular season and plays only finals. Still makes the most of his time on the ground; asked who he'd like to thank after winning last year's Norm Smith Medal, he replied: "My left foot." Tom Cruise: A few good men have tried to stop this former top gun, but his powers have dimmed in recent seasons. Got himself in hot water with his teammates for imposing on them a leadership program that borders on a religious cult. FORWARDS Steve Buscemi: Not so much a sneaky forward as a creepy forward. Not on the huge salaries of some teammates, but always adds something to the side. James Dean: Icon whose reputation is sure to get even bigger following retirement. Stylish and skilful with his hands. His ability to kick with both feet is well publicised. A real rebel in his heyday. Tom Hanks: Versatile champion who just keeps on running. His field kicking is exceptional, but you never quite know what you might get in front of goal (much like a box of chocolates). Recent criticism from our very own Robert Walls has been that he plays soft football when Meg Ryan is alongside him. Jack Nicholson: Had a stint as coach after Crowe, in which he liked to sit at ground level, or "courtside". Back playing now and his credentials are quite simply as good as it gets. Has proven a hit in the social club with the ladies, too. So good, he makes up our entire full-forward line. THE BENCH Mel Gibson: Local lad who had a mad start to his career before becoming a lethal weapon up forward. Currently suspended under vilification laws. Ben Mendelsohn: A local star who hasn't played at this level, and probably won't play this week, but his form in the lower grades is such that this sports journo would like to see his name up in lights. Kevin Costner: Would have been left out after numerous howlers, but sneaks in because he built the home ground. Hugh Grant: Burst onto the scene as a youngster with his divine brown hair. His soft efforts and lack of versatility have some calling for a demotion back to local club Notting Hill. CLUB PHYSIO - Scarlett Johansson: Her position came under scrutiny due to an epidemic of osteitis pubis immediately after her appointment. An inquiry revealed little as the results were lost in translation. With Woody Allen on her CV she can walk into any club she wants. Oh Murph... :wtf: Love the bit about Gibson hehe

Following the path of legends is an honour Robert Murphy | May 8, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/following-the-path-of-legends-is-an-honour/2008/05/07/1210131067949.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 I DON'T remember a lot about school, or rather I don't remember a lot of things I was meant to be paying attention to, but a few bits managed to sneak into my brain and find a permanent home. Like a piece of scholastic prowess that was handed on to me on a school camp. We were hiking through the Grampians and had found a place to camp where a beautiful little stream meandered past. As we set about putting our tents up, our tour guide told us, "When in the bush, all we take are photos and all we leave are footprints". We were a pretty ratty group of year nines, but his message hit its mark. It was just a nice way of putting it, I thought, and it has stayed with me all these years. And so it was this week, as I took off on a lap around the Whitten Oval, as I do most days. One hundred and fifty years of Australian football and we still run laps for a warm-up — it's enough to warm the cockles of your heart. I trudged around as rain gently fell on the grass, and while trying to warm up my mind ran away, thinking again about that line … "all we take are photos, and all we leave are footprints". As more rain fell, I could see behind me my own footprints. It dawned on me that the path I was running is the same one trod by all the Bulldog players who have gone before me. I got tingles just thinking about all the warriors who had braved the cold and bitter winds as they made their way around the boundary. I kept shuffling along, and with each step began to think more and more about this notion of footprints, that deep in the soil of the Whitten Oval, not visible to the naked eye, are footprints from eras long passed. Men like Chris Grant and Matthew Croft from a recent time, and much deeper down into the earth to the imprint of Charlie Sutton. And of course, the great E. J. Whitten. With my mind in full nostalgia mode, I began to look out across the oval and recall some of the incidents and people that make a football career rich in characters and character. As I bumbled down the wing I thought about my early days at the kennel, mucking around with Simon Garlick during our warm-ups; it was a huge thrill for a young kid to be accepted into the team by guys as kind and full of fun as Simon. Rolling around the bend looking out over Geelong Road, I got to remembering being pitted against the wily Todd Curley for numerous battles of completive work, while Terry Wallace kicked the ball high into the air in an attempt to toughen me up. These battles were like torture at the time, but as they say, they make you better in the long run. Still running though, and by now I had rounded the goals and began the searching run down the Dougie Hawkins wing. The rain had softened the ground to a point where I thought for a split second I could see the size 14 footprint of gentleman John Schultz, but I was moving pretty quick by now and it was hard to tell for sure. With the traffic from Gordon Street whizzing past on my right shoulder, and the wind howling from behind, it almost felt like the moving cars were offering a little helpful push along. With the finish line in sight, I made my way past a part of the ground that isn't so warm and fuzzy — the half-forward flank at the Barkly Street end, where I was felled behind play in one of the most reckless acts ever seen on a football ground. My dear friend Luke Darcy had taken exception to some vocal feedback I gave him during an intra-club hit out and, with my back turned, he ran up to meet me. I think his own words sum it up best: "I shoved Rob with a round-arm motion." Shoved, king-hit, bashed … it doesn't really matter what happened, I'm just happy that I still have my health. Strangely, I look back on the hard times at this place as fondly as the good times. Running laps at 6am with a fuming Chris Bond behind us a few years back, after a particularly bad loss, still makes me giggle now (though at the time I was scared out of my wits). With the lap now completed and my bout of nostalgia almost gone, there was room for just one more thought before training began. This week's Hall Of Fame game of the Vics versus the Dream Team is all about paying homage to those who have gone before us — to pay respect to the forefathers of our game who have taken to the field over the past 150 years. The name that is most synonymous with not only the Bulldogs but Victorian football is, of course, the great E. J. Whitten. His footsteps, more than any other, have left a huge impression on the earth he covered in both the jumpers he wore so passionately. For those of us lucky enough to run out and play on the MCG on Saturday night, as we scrap and fight for each possession we shouldn't forget that we will be running in the footprints of E. J. and all of the greats. A century and a half of the grea-*test*-('") game on earth, symbolised in one big spectacle — that's more than enough to warm even the coldest of cockles.

Oh Murph hehe But quoted one of my all-time fave films so I will try and ignore the context he's used it in hehe Tunnel of love Robert Murphy | May 15, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/tunnel-of-love/2008/05/14/1210764953266.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 'I'M NOT a groupie … I'm a band aid," said Kate Hudson's character Penny Lane in Almost Famous, trying to tell her younger admirer that she wasn't on the hunt for sexual conquests, but a true fan who "dug" the music. It's not for me to judge whether Penny was true to her word, but she sure did like those musicians. I've had a few Penny Lane moments of my own this past week — without the sexual conquests, of course. Having been given the honour of representing Victoria, I had butterflies for the entire drive to training at the MCG, and they didn't let up until Sunday morning as I bid my farewell to Camp Victoria. In a way, most footballers are like Penny. They are fans — fans of the game and of the great players. To be rubbing shoulders with the game's elite was, as you would expect for a fan, quite thrilling. But like royal protocol there is a certain dignity one must keep in the company of the greats, so I put my autograph book away for the week. Preparing for training with my new teammates and coaches was exciting, and a little awkward. It's an unusual situation to be in, whereby everyone knows who everyone is, but have never met (apart from the field of play). Small talk not being a strong suit of mine, I shuffled around with eyes aimed low looking for my locker, only pausing to reflect when I put my jumper on. Footy is a ride of ups and downs, but this was certainly a nice moment that I'll keep forever. With my club skipper Brad Johnson incapacitated, I suddenly felt like I was in the school playground with the big kids and with no big brother to look out for me. Thankfully, the big kids in this playground were not the bullying type, and once the footballs were brought out the tension eased. The power of that ball, I mused — it never ceases to amaze. Contrary to what some of my early coaches might think, I've always enjoyed football training. It's much like lunch time at school, when you'd run around kicking and handballing with your mates until the bell rang. Anyway, like I said, I do enjoy footy training, but running onto the MCG last week on a frosty Thursday morning with the best players in the league was a tingle-worthy moment. Even so, I was plagued by a lingering feeling of guilt. Was this a case of football infidelity? Was I cheating on my wife (the Bulldogs) with this glamorous and exciting mistress — Victoria? I decided to try and make some friends to avoid the confronting idea that I was an adulterer. Footballers and football clubs are relatively similar wherever you go, and the Victorian camp was no different. You just need time to find your role in the social landscape of the team. A footy team needs a certain amount of roles to be played out — and I don't mean backs, forwards and mids. There has to be a class clown, someone to break the ice with the group and to happily make fun of himself to put others at ease. Brendan Fevola plays this part as if he were born to it. Then of course there is the chatty little fella who keeps the mood up all the time — Luke Power took to this role with consummate ease. And when it came to who would be the boss, someone to take charge of morale and direction, it was left to the big boy from up north, J. Brown. I say boy with my tongue firmly in my cheek, for if anyone was to be described as a man, then surely it's him. With dangerous levels of -*test*-('")osterone coursing through him, he has the rare ability to influence others through his presence. These are just a few of the roles that had to be quickly filled by the time we ran onto the park. The freak, the superstar and the ladies man would all be filled by the likes of S. Johnson, C. Judd and J. Selwood respectively. As for the team's weirdo, I'm not really sure we had one. I heard the boys talking about it at times, but the conversation always fizzled out when I walked into the room, which I thought was odd. Anyway, after a couple more training sessions and official functions with my mistress, there was one last rendezvous to go. Not in the back corner of a dark, seedy bar. No, I chose to take my affair into the spotlight — on a Saturday night under lights at the MCG. Afterwards we retired to a local pub to chat over the week, which was great. Stories and laughs carried well into the night. When the Dream Team boys showed up, the stories and laughter only got bigger. Slipping back into my bed this week with my wife in red, white and blue, it was hard to escape the guilt of my weekend's dirty deeds. I must say it's nice to be back with the missus, and there's nothing like your own bed, is there? But I will never forget my whirlwind week with the mistress in the blue dress with a white V down the front.

Once you're bitten you stay bit Robert Murphy | May 22, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/once-youre-bitten-you-stay-bit/2008/05/21/1211182897194.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 "These boots are made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do. One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you." LIFE and football are an endless series of firsts. First steps and first words are major landmarks for us all, and as a footballer there is of course your first game, your first kick and your first attempt at negotiating the new interchange rule. Some of these firsts are more exciting than others, but there is a first that may just overshadow them all — for footballers, anyway. Being given your first pair of football boots is a checkpoint in life that is burnt into the memory of thousands of young kids every year. Until then, football is a game played by the big boys on the telly and the rough-looking kids in the playground. You are not a total stranger to the game; you've kicked the ball around with your mates and had a laugh; it's been a good change-up between games of cricket and basketball at lunchtime. But the obsession with the oval ball which will one day ravage you hasn't really taken hold. The pivotal event football addiction preys on is the moment when Mum and Dad decide it's time for your first pair of footy boots — the clearest indication yet that you will be allowed to play an actual game on a Saturday. Although only nine at the time, I decided from that moment on that I was a professional footballer, no matter what anyone else said. School became little more than a necessary rest period in between training and games to help the body recover. Primary school was effectively one long ice bath from 9am til 3.30pm. Come Saturday morning at 8.45, I was always fresh and ready to go. My first boots arrived on the eve of the 1991 junior footy season. Fresh in the memory was Peter Daicos's stellar season the year before, and although basketball was my first love, I was being swayed by the pro-football arguments raised by my brother and father, and the exploits of my new hero Daicos. I sat on the kitchen floor with shoebox in hand to savour this milestone in life, almost too scared to remove the lid. I had no idea how much the contents would shape my life in the years to come. I never told Mum or Dad, but the boots they had picked out for me weren't exactly the ones I had coveted in the shop window. And they were definitely different from what the other kids would have cradled on their own kitchen floors. My new boots were, to be frank, different. They were black in colour, of course, but higher on the ankle than any boots I'd seen. They also sported a steel cap on the toe. You could say they set my life on its course; how funny to think an interest in all things retro could be traced back to a pair of boots with studs so long they could penetrate a concrete floor. Kids just want to blend in, and I was no different. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel some trepidation as I got out of the car the following morning to meet my teammates in the driving rain, but it didn't matter — I was smitten. This week, almost 17 years after that day, I sat on my kitchen floor and opened another shoebox, revealing my la-*test*-('") pair of boots. No ankle-high numbers this time — or for that matter a steel cap — but just like my first pair, these new ones were black in colour and a little retro. As I sat at my locker yesterday getting ready for training, I caught myself looking down and reminiscing about all the boots I'd worn over the years. Conservatively, I would say I've gone through two pairs a year for the last 17 years — so for the mathematicians out there, that's a grand total of 34 pairs. There have been favourites, of course, and more than a couple I'd rather forget. But none hold such a place in my heart as those first pair of clogs. My la-*test*-('") pair I've lovingly nicknamed "34", and I hope they go onto to become one of my all-time favourites. But sitting there I was again reminded how little has changed in those 17 years spent trying to get a kick. Just like that day back in juniors, when the other kids looked at me differently because of my strange boots, it appears history is repeating itself. It's not the height of the ankle this time, rather the colour, or specifically lack of. But just like that nine-year-old boy with his cherished first pair, I'm smitten with them. All I need now is Dad to rub in some Dubbin, and I'll be ready to run around with the big boys on telly.

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