They need the runners to come out when the siren's blown, crack a few VBs, and they can all walk off together swilling a beer!! Even better, when they have a great win, they can toss some bourbon into the stands for the kiddies...
Mirror, mirror on the wall, time to face the finest team of all Robert Murphy | July 17, 2008 I WAS once told that ol' blue eyes, Frank Sinatra, used to say, "I don't wear rings, I know who I am". If this is true, then Frank was one of the lucky few, as we all feel lost at some point, don't we? There are so many holes we can be put in these days we could be forgiven for feeling like a pigeon, and while in a philosophical sense I'm against such practices, I think I have come up with another category to file ourselves under. It's a simple choice of two, and I believe this pigeonhole better represents a person's overall outlook on life, and doesn't have the nasty side-effects created by other well-known labels like religion, race or sexual preference. It is this: do you fill the car up with petrol when the light on the dashboard comes on? Save your applause for the end, I'm just getting started. This is a moral fork in the road many of us face every week. Granted, the price of petrol has added to the drama, and gone are the days of putting in five dollars to roll into work, where you left your wallet the previous day. I've always been one to hold off filling my car up until absolutely necessary, an approach that has on more than a few occasions led to me running out of petrol. I have little landmarks all over this town where I have come to a complete stop. I'm not sure what the psychology behind all this is, and I'd be too scared to look for the answer. Driving to training this week, I picked up my teammate and neighbour Ben Hudson, and as we took off through the streets of Carlton we realised the petrol gauge was very low, and the car's best guess was that we had 16 kilometres in us before we had to call a cab. I looked over at Ben and he at me, and in that moment we decided to do a Thelma and Louise and "just go for it!" To my eternal joy I discovered that Ben, like me, is a non-filler-upper. We made it to training and back again with one solitary kilometre worth of fuel left in the tank. It was the ride of a lifetime. This concept of self image is one that struck a chord with me this week for a couple of reasons. The first was a somewhat unflattering photo in The Sunday Age of me as a 17-year-old recruit, and I joined our city of Melbourne in a collective gasp at how little and youthful I was. I'm surprised someone from AFL House didn't step in and deregister me on the grounds of not yet being through puberty. Body image is not just an issue of the celebrities in the glossy magazines either. As I sat in a Footscray cafe grabbing some lunch this past week, I found myself next to an older lady who I could tell barracked for the Bulldogs. Without hesitation, she barked at me: "Have you lost weight?" If only she'd seen me back in 2000, I thought to myself. Sitting back down to order an extra-big lunch to appease my new friend, I flicked through The Age (of course) before turning my attention to the la-*test*-('") edition of Vogue magazine. And discovered that, among the male modelling fraternity in the fashion capitals of Paris and Milan, skinny is all the go. Happy days, I mused. Over here, in the football industry, skinny can get you chastised over lunch! All any of us skinny footballers can do now is wait for Paris and Milan to call and we'll be sprinting down the runway. Until that call comes, it's nice to know we've got football to help pass the time. Another reason for this introspective glance this week is that we're about to come up against the footballing equivalent of The Beatles — Geelong. Meeting the best side in the competition will be a war with many small battles fought all over the ground, but it could be won or lost on how we see ourselves. This is even before the ball has been bounced. The Cats have been there before, and for the last 18 months certainly sit at the top of the heap, with a self image and confidence that reflects their position on the ladder. Out at Footscray, the question is whether our self image reflects our ladder position too. Ten months ago, after the 2007 home and away season, having missed the finals by a few games and with a giant chasm of form, the self image of the Dogs was at an all-time low. We have worked day and night in the weeks and months since to realign the HMAS Bulldogs. Is that enough time for the reality to sink in to our skin and skulls, to convince ourselves that we are capable of toppling The Beatles in Liverpool? Only time will tell, but it should be a game of highly skilled and positive football. To me, both teams play a style of the game that seems orchestrated by players who probably don't fill up their tanks when the lights come on.
How do you tell when blue cheese has gone off? Robert Murphy | July 24, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/when-the-cheese-is-off/2008/07/23/1216492540973.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 THERE comes a time, I suspect, when we all begin to take on the characteristics of our fathers. Perhaps it is fatherhood itself, but this year more than any other I have felt this magnet drawing me to do things in the same way my dear old da' does. It's not like I've been resisting the forces of a son to a father either; the more I become like him the more comfortable I feel in my own skin. I might even change my name to John before long — never felt like a Robert anyway. After locating the black box from Saturday's game against the Cats, Monday was spent analysing the details of the turbulent flight that, John Denver-style, ultimately crashed into a mountain (or at least the You Yangs). Despite the bellowing calls from the football council that the loss signalled the end of the Bulldogs, the black box revealed that while the plane was in fact destroyed, the entire crew and passengers from flight "JQ four points" parachuted to safety, and will be available for selection for this week's next voyage. Flight "JQ another four points up for grabs" departs 4.40 on Sunday afternoon. As I was saying, Monday was a big day spent poring over flight details, safety procedures and the like, and we were satisfied that with some minor mechanical changes we could avoid such problems in the future. In fact, the findings were as such that my co-pilots and I would love another go at the Cats, and with some luck we may even get to play them again this year to -*test*-('") out our new and improved aircraft. By 5pm Monday evening it was time for home. Still weary from Saturday's flight, I retired to my chair, set the record player for Irish folk band The Fureys, poured a glass of wine, got some cheese and biscuits on a plate, and tried to forget about the Cats. But as much as I tried to switch off, I couldn't stop thinking about two things. They swirled in my head like a leaf stuck in the breeze at the Whitten Oval. The first was this: when did my choice in music, cheese and six o'clock refreshment turn into my Dad's? And the second: was the blue cheese I was eating off? And if so, how does one tell? It smelled not quite right and looked a little past its best, but surely that's part of its appeal? Yet what was that thin layer of moisture doing on the surface? After staring at my cheese for a long time, I decided I had to throw it out — the moment had passed. Whether it had turned was not the point — I couldn't enjoy it if there was a chance it had gone bad. The game against the Cats, for me, became a bit like the cheese — in my mind, they both went bad and sometimes you're best to just throw it out and move on. With my cheese gone it seemed pointless to carry on with the wine and biscuits. As a team they flourish, but individually it's just not the same. Like Elvis without sideburns, or Martin Flanagan without a beard. With my plate and glass empty, all I had was the stories and tunes of Finbar Furey to whisk me away. Me da' was more than likely sitting in his chair doing something very similar, and I asked myself what he would do if (God forbid) his cheese and wine had lost their appeal? Undoubtedly he would open a book and sit for a while. So, in keeping with the theme of fathers and sons, I took out my book and began flicking through the pages. The Devil and Miss Prym is the la-*test*-('") instalment of my book club, formed by teammate Daniel Giansiracusa and our former assistant coach Chris Bond. We convene every couple of months to talk about the book we've just read, then take turns to pick out the next book, and so it goes. In truth we spend very little time talking about the books themselves, rather we just cackle away about stories associated with the game and the characters that move through it. Footy has become a lot of things, just like life I suppose, and we can complicate it ad nauseum. But as long as we get to debrief with good people who can share a laugh in a crowded cafe, then that's all right by me. Having made a good start on my book, it was time for my Jarvis to wake up and sit on his Dad's lap. The way he wobbles his head to The Fureys and lunges at a discarded bit of cheese suggests he will follow in the family tradition. This weekend's game is another chance to fly high into the sky. Sometimes the plane crashes, other times it's a smooth, breathtaking ride. That's the beauty of the game, just like a dancing 10-month-old and the cackles of good friends who started a book club are a small part of what makes life grand.
How do you tell when blue cheese has gone off? Robert Murphy | July 24, 2008Ah, no Thursday morning would be the same without an article from Murph. If he ever puts down the pen, Thursdays are going to be quite boring. He just gets better and better, in that he gets weirder and weirder. Although for me, his childhood tree story was a weirdness high point, there's something about the way he manages to turn the debate about the Bulldogs' season post-Geelong into a discussion of books, aeronautics and blue cheese. Not just my favourite current player, he'd have to be my favourite journalist as well.
Things can turn quickly on the field of battle Robert Murphy | July 31, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/things-can-turn-quickly/2008/07/30/1217097331657.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 BEFORE last week, a good friend of mine, Jon, was a devout vegetarian. Turned off by the taste of meat from a young age, his choice to bypass such culinary delights as chops, sausages, steak and the great Australian lamb roast had set him apart from the pack. I suspect growing up in Tasmania made him an even rarer commodity. But something in ol' Jon Boy must have changed significantly and at some point the decision was made to dip his toe into the pool shared by us meat eaters. I say "dip his toe" out of respect, but in reality he has jumped off the top tower and made a rather big splash. No sooner was he nibbling at a piece of chicken, than next minute he was hoeing into a meatlovers pizza and ordering steaks with the strict instruction that there be no salads on the side. Hats off to you Jon, I say — we have to do what makes us happy or we shall perish. I got a lot out of my friend's revelation, as it highlighted something that I could put in my training bag to help deal with the fact that my boys have gone down in similar fashion the past two weeks running. Things can change quickly, sometimes without our control, and sometimes (like Jon) our actions can totally change our course and fortunes. This week's mission for my Bulldogs is to get back on the winners' list and, more importantly, play the type of football we showed earlier in the year. And there is no better side to -*test*-('") yourself against than the Swans. Football's most famous song, Up There Cazaly, touches on how vulnerable we are to the dark side of the game's personality: "There are days when you could give it up, there are days when you could FLY!" This game -*test*-('")s you all the time, and anyone who's played or loved the game can relate to that line. In the minutes straight after a loss, sitting slumped against the wall, the mind races with all sorts of questions — "What could I have done differently?" — and emotions. Being called in for the post-match debrief with the coach can make for a tense few minutes. With a nickname like "Rocket", you'd think our coach's voice might have torn the paint off the walls after our poor showing in Sunday's second half. The master of surprise and psychology, within a few minutes Rocket had pointed out some things we needed to address, and then quickly lifted the emotions of the room and the club by focusing on the upcoming challenges. Never once did he raise his voice. Over my time in the game, this post-match "chat" has been known to quickly escalate into a verbal spray. While Rocket has mostly confined himself to a shake of the head and a "disappointing, Robert", one particular post-match address as a youngster under Terry Wallace will not be forgotten in a hurry. After being soundly beaten by Carlton (again), we were called into the meeting room in the bowels of Optus Oval. My teammates and I looked up to see a whiteboard that was, to me, confusing. Under two headings — "Volunteers" and "Conscripts" — were spread the names of the players. The natural reaction is to scan for your own name, isn't it? Well, mine was under "Conscripts", and for a brief moment I thought this was a good thing. I was wrong. "Plough" had conjured up a review of us individually as if the game was a war. How you played was to determine whether you volunteered for battle with honour, or were a conscript who had to be called upon and had less conviction than the volunteers. After some time, and making his way through the list, it was my turn to be "sprayed". Sitting on the floor in the front row — mistake — I was only a metre away from Plough. He detailed to me and my teammates how my lack of honour as a soldier had been like an opposition soldier taking my own knife off me and stabbing me with it. He even stepped forward to show me how it was done — pulling my imaginary knife from its imaginary sheath and driving it into me with the words, "Bang, you're dead!" This review went on for what seemed like hours, but was probably less than one. After hearing about other teammates being MIA, and some being left on the battlefield alongside a couple of generals who had battled manfully, it was finally over. The creativity and theatrics that Plough often brought to the table was too much for one assistant coach, and I could see his shoulders shaking with giggles in the back corner. I was in no mood for giggles. I felt ashamed in front of my teammates (or soldiers). The fact that Daniel Cross still pretends to stab me and yells, "Bang, you're dead!" shows that day will stay with me for a very long time. And the fact that I still think about it probably tells me that it worked, as I don't want to let my fellow soldiers down again. Those days, like the past couple of weeks, pass. And the wonderful thing is that, unlike the volunteers and conscripts who didn't return from battle, we get a chance to turn it around.
A joke is a joke but a line should be drawn Robert Murphy | August 7, 2008 FOOTBALL, as we know, is a game of high drama and raw emotion — played, officiated and followed by people who are, above all else, human. And being human, they shall make mistakes. In saying that, this past week's dramas I have found a lot harder to forgive. I'm referring, of course, to a recent week night when, under cover of darkness, someone wrapped my car in toilet paper. It may not have made the six o'clock news, but in my world it was just as scandalous as events that have dominated the mainstream media this week. Waking up to another bitterly cold Melbourne morning, I tried to hide under layers of jumpers and beanies to avoid a nasty frostbite on my way to pick up The Age and coffee for the family. As I feverishly tried to open our family car, to my horror I noticed that my Mini Cooper (early mid-life crisis) had been targeted in the most demeaning fashion. Eight rolls of toilet paper to be precise, which suggested to me this was not a crime of passion. This cold-blooded criminal — or criminals — may have been stalking me and my Mini for months. Once I had removed the offending toilet paper, I sat for a little while, despondent and frightened. It was in that moment that I turned my attention to revenge and the days that followed were played out like an Agatha Christie novel. With no experience in crime investigation, I decided right away that I would take the law into my own hands. Everyone was a suspect — even the way Jarvis and his mum looked down at me, laughing and pointing as I cleaned up the crime scene, had me thinking they could be involved. But only as puppets, surely. So who was pulling the strings? Heinous crimes like this are commonplace in football clubs, often referred to as pranks or practical jokes. Yet to dismiss toilet "papergate" as a practical joke implies a sense of fun — for the culprits, sure, but what about the Mini and I? We both were left sitting in the gutter in a pile of toilet paper. Forgive us for not joining in on the laughter. The investigation was hampered from the outset; the council took away the toilet paper before I could fingerprint the area properly and seal the crime scene for clues. I had, however, started to compile a list of suspects. Lindsay Gilbee was at the top. A career criminal in the world of practical jokes, Lindsay certainly has the know-how and cunning, but does he have the common sense to keep the web of lies from unravelling? Maybe he was working as a team with his roommate Shaun "the pig" Higgins, a young, up-and-coming crook in the mould of his mentor Gilbee. These were the things I had to weigh up. Having questioned both boys the following day at training, it was going to be hard to pin it on them as they had a solid alibi — Ryan Griffen's birthday dinner. A double blow — my two main suspects in the clear and no invite to the dinner. I turned my attention closer to home. Closest in proximity to my house is the motley crew of Daniel Giansiracusa, Ben "Rock" Hudson and Will "Minno" Minson. I didn't even consider asking "Gia" — I'm a bit wary of his Italian connections around town, to be honest. As for the other two, one of them has form. Only two weeks earlier Hudson had admitted to knocking on my door while he was out walking his dog, and then running off. The new boy to the area, I'd be surprised if "Rock" would be so bold after being sprung so recently. All this left me with the big German. I bribed our club physios with the promise of lunch if they could sniff out any information and they revealed that Minno definitely had the most guilty demeanour of the lot. With little or no evidence to go on, I have decided to wage an all-out attack on Minson. Whether he did it or not now seems irrelevant — he's just one of those people who should have an egg thrown at his door every now and then. As the yolk, white and shell slide down Will's door onto his front step this afternoon, I will feel the warmth that comes with being on the right side of a practical joke. But even with that small victory the chill of papergate will stay with me for a while yet.
Sleepless nights and dreams of Beijing lunacy Robert Murphy | August 14, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/sleepless-nights-and-dreams-of-beijing-lunacy/2008/08/13/1218307010880.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 TRYING to sleep after playing football is notoriously difficult among those competing at the highest level, or so I've found anyway. It is not uncommon to toss and turn until three, four or sometimes even five in the morning. It is unusual, too, because our bodies ache for sleep, our eyelids hang low and on any other night you would fall into a slumber without a second thought. But despite all these physical indicators of fatigue, the mind races with all sorts of lunacy. Countless hypotheticals bounce around your head and the internal questions fly. Questions such as: "Why did you kick the ball to the man on the other team, Robert?" As the clock ticks into the wee hours it becomes difficult to tell what's real and what's a dream. How hard we find it to sleep usually reflects how the game went, of course. For example, in round one this year against Adelaide we won by three points. Brad Johnson acted as Clark Kent would that day and dragged us over the line. That night I fell asleep as soon as I took my slippers off. Fast forward to round 19 and after an ordinary showing against the Kangaroos I'm lying awake at 3am, counting sheep and seeing strange things in the shadows of my bedroom. Lying there in the middle of the night, it felt like the rest of the world was asleep and I was the only poor morsel awake. I started to think of the Olympic Games and all of its different events. I couldn't even tell you if I was asleep at this point, but my mind was bending with fatigue and fits of imagination. With what appeared to be a combination of the loss to the Kangas and the Beijing Games, I started to dream about what Olympic events my teammates might be most suited to. There were some obvious ones and others that could only make sense at 4am. Daniel Cross would be a walk-up start for the marathon. Once dubbed "the white Kenyan" after a pre-season distance run, I think Crossy would have the tank to challenge the more genuine Africans. Brad Johnson I had penned in for the weightlifting. Not overly big, Johnno can lift some serious weight in the gym. If you put him in a lycra jumpsuit and changed his name, he could be a real asset to the Turkish lifting team. Young gun Adam Cooney has similar ability to another famous young gymnastics star, Nadia Comaneci. With one leg longer than the other, I suspect Adam would be a natural at the uneven bars, the perfect 10 beckoning. Big Will Minson floated through my subconscious for a second, but the sport he'd be most suited to is chess and at last look it wasn't on the Olympic roster yet. With dawn approaching, my slumber squeezed one more teammate into the Bulldogs' Olympic team. Of course, I had to find a spot for Jason Akermanis and his event struck me like the starter's gun in the 100 metres final. With Jason's steady hand and nerve, he would make a magnificent trap shooter. The sun finally broke through the blinds to reveal a pair of discarded tracksuit pants on the floor and not the black labrador I could have sworn it was a few hours earlier. As a kid, I dreamt about footy. Like most kids I slept with my footy under my arm, dreaming of one day playing in the big league. But these days my dreams, while still footy related, have gone a bit warped. No longer am I kicking goals or running through the banner with cheers from the crowd — far from it. Nowadays my dreams consist of playing the game and not being able to run. Jarvis' mum tells me that frequently I will sit bolt upright in bed and start pointing and giving directions in a panicked plea to (I'm guessing) teammates who are having the same trouble running as I am. This post-game sleeping pattern, of paranoia and wild dreams of playing the game under the influence of a sedative, can leave you disoriented when you do actually wake up, as the alarm goes off to remind you that a near freezing ocean is expecting you. This week, I awoke to the reality that my teammates wouldn't be competing in Beijing and so, with the sting of defeat from the Kangaroos weighing me down, I made my way to pick up that day's paper. On the front page was a smiling Stephanie Rice. Having broken the world record and nursing a gold medal, she must have slept peacefully that night, knowing all the sacrifices had brought her what she wanted. The challenge facing my Dogs and all the teams still in the race this season is whether we would do the same.
Like King Usain, Dogs just need to find groove Robert Murphy | August 21, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/like-king-usain-dogs-just-need-to-find-groove/2008/08/20/1218911828804.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 ONE OF my most vivid childhood memories is the moments before the starting gun went off in the 100 metres final in Seoul in 1988. Just six years old at the time, I'm surprised that I can still see the event with such clarity, especially considering the difficulty I have every week remembering that Thursday is the day I need to put the bins out. I think this sharpness of recall stems from my brother's obsession with the event at the time. I got swept up in it. He was a Ben Johnson fan and wanted our whole family to know this. I was a big fan of my brother — as most little brothers tend to be — so I jumped on the bandwagon. As the sprinters took their marks and the camera rolled past each competitor for a glimpse of their faces before history would be made, a mere 100 metres down the track, I don't recall anything about the other runners, only Johnson. The whites of his eyes were bulging just as much as the rest of him. Crouched over the starting line, he looked like a caged animal about to burst free. History tells us that Johnson did indeed explode down the track (faster than anyone before him) and, of course, went on to -*test*-('") positive for steroids, which explains those eyes. The shame bestowed on Johnson straight after the race only added to the drama for me, and while it was tainted, it has remained one of my favourite moments in sport, simply because of the electricity of the event. That feeling you get as a spectator doesn't happen very often, but is so precious when it does. That's why the men's 100 metres final remains my favourite Olympic event to watch. On Saturday night, after a disappointing loss to the Brisbane Lions, I lay awake in my hotel bed with my other "brother", Daniel Giansiracusa. We were both as flat as crepes after the Dogs' second loss in as many weeks, and we chatted to try to make some sense of it, and also to help each other stay awake for the 100 metres final in Beijing. Amazingly, it had been 20 years since I'd first watched this race. On this occasion, Asafa Powell was my sprinter of choice, a man who carries a quiet dignity that is often lost on sprinters. He also had the burden, I guess, of needing to perform on the big stage to avoid the choker tag. The other man on the blocks who caught my eye was Usain Bolt. As he played up to the cameras, I was struck by how at ease he seemed to be. Sprinting is a powerful and ridiculously fast event , but it seems that these guys at the top end of the sport are on an endless search for one thing — their groove. Usain Bolt is my new king of groove — he makes Marvin Gaye look like an accountant. He moves with rhythm and has the confidence in his legs that they will carry him to his destination faster than any other human being on the planet. As he ran the last 20-odd metres of the race virtually going sideways, toying with the seven other fas-*test*-('") men in the world, I was again struck by the electricity of the moment. All Gia and I could muster was a collective, "Ooohhh", the body's automatic response to witnessing something truly breathtaking. As Bolt continued to celebrate his way around the track, I couldn't help but spare a thought for my man Powell. How dejected he must have felt. Watching the replay, my sprinting novice's assessment put his run down to a lack of groove. One of my favourite quotes comes from Einstein, and it reminded me of Asafa: "The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he still lives." The Bulldogs at the moment are a little bit like Asafa Powell — in a way, both have lost their groove. Unlike Asafa, though, our Olympic final is yet to come, The recent drop in form has stung, but we are all working to get that groove back and our confidence in doing so remains undented. Einstein's words should ring true for just about everyone, but for professional athletes, they haunt and taunt us.
Groove is really just another word for teamwork Robert Murphy | August 28, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/groove-is-really-just-another-word-for-teamwork/2008/08/27/1219516565168.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 THE changing of seasons is something I've become quite attached to over the years. Hibernating in lounge rooms and coffee shops for the past few months, I've enjoyed the drop in the mercury. That said, at the end of each season you start to ache for the next part of the cycle. With this winter having been a particularly cold one, I suspect that yearning for change might have come a little earlier than normal. It can be hard to pinpoint the moment of change in anything, let alone the weather, but the other day as I walked the short journey from my car to the football club I caught a wonderful smell in my nostrils, a scent that I've associated with spring since I was a boy. Change for the most part is unavoidable and it is sometimes best to just roll with the punches. In a football sense, last week I wrote about the Bulldogs needing some subtle change to help rediscover the groove that had set our year up. During the game itself, it's hard enough keeping track of your opponent and the score without being concerned about things like "groove", but with the last quarter against the Bombers well under way I was forced to stop and search for a rare moment of clarity. As I mentioned, it can be difficult to pinpoint the moment when things change course, but on Friday night that point was pretty obvious, at least to me anyway. With about 10 minutes left in the con-*test*-('"), I lined up at half-forward in readiness for the umpire to send the ball towards the heavens and, at that precise moment, a smell washed over me. Chai! I couldn't believe my nose — as the ball sailed up towards the Dome's roof, I could smell copious amounts of chai tea being served (presumably) behind me in the outer. It's not as synonymous with football crowds as a cold beer and a meat pie is it? But what I found just as startling was that the scent acted like smelling salts for a punch-drunk boxer, snapping me out of my footy focus for a couple of seconds and giving me enough time to take in the scoreline, and the feeling that the Bulldogs' groove was slowly returning. It's one thing to talk about rhythm, another to work out how to get it back in a more practical sense. Groove is really just my word for teamwork. Watching the Olympics I was intrigued, in the individual events anyway, that the emotions of loss or victory fall on the shoulders of one person. Trying to define teamwork is not easy and the temptation is to wheel out the old cliches about being in the trenches and doing it for your mates. In the la-*test*-('") assignment of my book club, The Devil And Miss Prym, I came across a little fable that for me sums up teamwork. The story is about a man who, with his dog and his donkey, trudges for mile after mile in searing heat, with no water for himself or his animals. Then they come to big, beautiful gates and, on closer inspection, the man sees that behind them is a fountain and glorious shade, and lots of people enjoying the fresh water and escaping the heat. With his mouth parched, he asks the man behind the gate what the place is called. "Heaven," comes the reply. The man guarding the gate goes on to say: "You are very welcome to come and enjoy the fountain, but I'm afraid your animals are not allowed inside." "Fair enough," the thirsty man replies. "We'll keep moving." And despite their plight, he and his dog and his donkey walk on. After some time they come to a big tree, beneath which sits a haggard fellow with a pipe in his mouth and a hat over his face. The man with the dog and donkey asks if he knows of anywhere he and his animals can get some water. He points to some trees, saying that behind them lies a stream from which they can drink as much as they want. "What is this placed called?" asks the man. "Heaven," comes the reply. "But we were told of a place called heaven where we just came from." "We call that place hell," says the man in the hat. "That's how we weed out those who leave their friends behind." A friend was sitting in Beijing's Forbidden City this week when she heard the news that her Nan had passed peacefully to a new life. She reckons Nan would rally behind a push for a chai tea tent to be installed at the MCG for the finals. Who knows? The changing of seasons can bring wonderful things.
Finals in the air Robert Murphy | September 4, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/finals-in-the-air/2008/09/03/1220121327469.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 WAKING up to begin the new week, Monday felt just like any other. Still a little battle-sore from the weekend's game, I embarked on my morning ritual of coffee and newspaper. Something felt a little off, though. It wasn't an obvious something, like waking up on the couch instead of in your bed. This was a more subtle change and it took me most of the morning to figure it out. For one thing, Arthur was very keen to go for a walk, which is quite a dramatic change to his winter routine of steadfastly refusing to brave the cold or indeed wet ground. After devouring the brew that had been so lovingly made by my coffee queen, Martha, I set about making swift work of the paper. Still, a feeling lingered that some greater power was at work. I wasn't too concerned as this strange feeling carried a positive air and none of that dread you feel when you suspect you have forgotten a team meeting, a la Andrew Symonds. So I kept on reading and gradually made my way to the back of the paper. As each page of the sports section was done with, I began to realise a couple of things. The first was that half the teams in the AFL had been eliminated! This was news to me. Having been in the AFL system for the best part of a decade, I thought I had a good grasp on the lay of the land. Sure, I'd heard about a thing called "finals", but I thought it had something to do with a drinking game on Mad Monday. As I sat there in my kitchen, stunned, I felt an excitement bubble up inside me. My boys in the red, white and blue were about to embark on something new and exciting. Maybe that's why Arthur had a spring in his step. He's a huge Bulldogs fan, as you know, and the past few years have been tough on him, just as they have been on all our supporters. Checking my phone to get the exact time of my epiphany, I noticed a couple of missed calls from an old teammate, Nathan Brown, left at around 2am. Another drunken rendition of the Tigers theme song awaiting me on my voicemail, I mused. In that instant I have never felt so healthy or un-hungover (if I might be allowed to stretch the English language to my every whim). So, finals. What are they all about then? Having played 148 games but not one in September, I had to get a grip on what lay ahead of me and my Dogs. So I Googled them, and even asked complete strangers to give me their quick summation of what I could expect. My favourite explanation came from an elderly gentleman named Ted, who was walking his dog in my neighbourhood. "What are finals all about?" I asked. "Very much like oysters for you, I'd imagine." Puzzled, I asked Ted what he meant. "Well, I imagine the first time you tried an oyster you looked at it and examined it quite closely. Maybe even thought to yourself that it looked a little scary. "But overriding that was a fascination and curiosity fuelled by people telling you how divine they are. Am I right?" It was as if Ted had looked straight into my soul and perfectly encapsulated the emotions the prospect of finals football was bringing out in me. As Arthur and I strode briskly back home, it was almost time to hop in the car and head to training. Loading up the Mini with my footy bag and other bits and pieces, I noted one of my front tyres was a little flat. It would have to be pumped up if I was going to make it to training, and the finals. The Mini has played Kit to my David Hasselhoff all season, gently serving as a reliable donkey and also a voice of reason and philosophical guidance. All year the Mini's form has mirrored the fortunes of the Dogs — in the groove and moving with swift precision for most of the season, only to stall a few weeks back. The Mini told me what it thought of our drop in form in no uncertain manner — by wrapping itself in toilet paper (readers will recall "toilet papergate", and having been unable to unearth a culprit, I can only conclude the wounds were self-inflicted, a "Mini pro-*test*-('")" at our mini-slump). So I wasn't about to ignore its cry for help and headed straight for the service station. Finals, I have decided, are all about the new and exciting. Spring weather, fresh air in your tyres and a couple of oysters to wash it all down.
The net result is that now we don't have one Robert Murphy | September 11, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/no-safety-net/2008/09/10/1220857638845.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 NETS. They are everywhere and serve numerous purposes, don't they? From obvious roles in sports, such as basketball and tennis, to the technology arm — the internet — we are convinced that nets are a necessity (let's forget hair nets in this discussion, they just look daggy). What would happen to a Wimbledon final without the reliable net providing guidance? Tea and scones would be replaced by total chaos. Balls flying everywhere and serves skidding low, confused players and spectators crying out for help. The only time sanity would rear its head would be the inevitable rain delay — the All-England tradition that is as much a part of the championship as the tennis. I was thinking about nets this week as my Bulldogs approached week two of the AFL trapeze finals — this time with no safety net should we fall. Last Friday night was devastating and more than a little embarrassing. To tumble from such a height in front of so many people whose opinion matters to us, it's only natural that it would leave you feeling blue. Another fall this week and the pain of embarrassment will be replaced by the equivalent of broken limbs, limbs that will ache for a whole off-season before they are ready for the high wire again. As I said, it's been a week of nets. The other day I was surfing the internet and, as I began my novice search for the new You Am I album, I quickly became lost in a sea of Google searches and system errors. Like Dorothy before me, I was picked up by this high-tech hurricane and dropped in a faraway place. Dusting myself off, I stopped to find I was on an international news page and, with my hand over my heart, I swear to you that it was none other than my high profile dachshund Arthur looking straight at me. "He's gone global!" I yelled out involuntarily, scaring Jarvis enough to distract him from his breakfast for almost a second before he bore straight back into it. Getting back to my breaking international story, I read through the article and with some disappointment discovered that it wasn't actually Arthur, but one of his distant German relatives. Apparently in Germany, where the dachshund has been king of the pet world since the 1960s, my beloved breed is suddenly out of favour. In its homeland. The Germans have had enough of short-legged sausage dogs, which has led to a steep decline of breeding. It was Sunday as I read this and I was still battling the "Red, White and Blues". I couldn't help but draw a link between the German sausage dogs and the Australian Western Bulldogs — both seemingly unpopular with the masses at the minute. Putting my own feelings of hurt aside, my thoughts went to Arthur, who was himself enjoying a holiday in the rolling hills of rural Tynong at Jarvis' Nan and Pa's. I just hope my little four-legged mate hasn't logged on at an internet caf and discovered that his brothers abroad are experiencing such dire times. Picking up my cyber surfboard, I took off again on the high seas of the internet, swerving and cutting up the crest of each wave until I found something of interest. It wasn't long before I came across the experiment going on beneath the earth in Switzerland and France, attempting to recreate the big bang theory. I became so enamoured with this quest that I watched an interview with one of the participating scientists. A scientific delinquent myself, I was heartened that he spoke in terms I could almost grasp. While most ideas or theories about the universe feel too big for the brain to compute, this one seemed to me a simple case of small bits of energy working in a sort of unison. Last week's fall from the high wire was only eased by our safety net, a cushion that has been promptly removed. Now, unpopular with the establishment (not always a bad thing either), it is up to the red, white and blue to channel the small bits of energy we've worked so hard for and recreate our own big bang theory against the Swans tomorrow night. In the name of nets, science and down-and-out sausage dogs everywhere, the high wire awaits.