Melbourne will look to finish off the season well on a cold Sunday twilight match when they face North Melbourne in the last game for the home & away season. The clubs met earlier in the year and North Melbourne ‘took the chocolates’ at Etihad Stadium, where Melbourne have traditionally not played well

http://www.thebigtip.com.au/afl/rd-22-melbourne-vs-north-melbourne-clash-upcoming-teams

Features:

- How the teams played last week

- The Key Players for Sunday’s Game

- Careers coming to an end

- Crowd Guess

This is my first preview, so any feedback is much appreciated. Feel free to ask any questions regarding North players.

Comrades, I usually write the previews on the Demons board of BigFooty. Such as it is, here is my last effort for the year. Please note, this interview is fictitious. Deestroy is our Moderator.

“Don’t refer to them as Norf or the Shitboners and don’t make any smart-arse comments about Kelli Stevens or the boob-grabbing! Understood?”

“Yeah, no worries Deestroy,” I replied sourly into the mobile. “I might be ugly but I’m not dumb.”

Seconds later, I drove up to the gate of Wayne Carey’s ocean-side mansion on Gold Coast and pushed the intercom button.

“Ah, Biffinator – you’re here!” the familiar voice rumbled. “Come right in.”

The gate slowly opened. As it was doing so, Wayne strode from the house. It was a ferociously hot afternoon.

“Wayne, thanks for seeing me,” I said, rolling down the window. “I’ve got some groceries in the back and I don’t want them to melt. Do you mind if I park in your garage?”

My host paused.

“Errrrr - there’s no room, sorry Biff. My brother Dick has stored some of his stuff in there. Just park under the palm-trees – don’t worry about the grass!”

Who was I to argue?

Now I’m a six footer on a bad hair-strand day; even so, I was daunted to be in the presence of the Champ. Wayne was clearly an alpha-male in his own mind and to a large degree that was warranted. There was an innate presence to him. While time had not been overly generous to him, it was still possible to perceive the stupendous athlete that he once had been. His handshake was strong. His gaze was direct. I liked him.

“Biff, I have been reading your previews on Big Footy,” he said as we walked towards the front-door. “I hope there’ll be no cheap shots at me. I’ve heard them all before, anyway. No-one knows Wayne Carey’s mistakes better than me!”

“No indeed. I’m far from perfect myself. I’m here to talk about the match to come.”

I was led inside. Soon afterwards I was sitting directly under a split-system as it pumped out frigid air. Wayne listed what beers he had in stock. Being the country boy that I am, I ordered a Melbourne Bitter. As the Norf champion disappeared into the nearby bar, I looked around. There was the usual football memorabilia on the walls. The room was softened, however, by the many photographs of his daughter. The backyard was visible through the bay-window. There was a clothes-line to the left with many a bra hanging from it. I threw on my glasses; if length be any indicator, they had multiple owners. To my right was the passage-way that led into the rest of the house, bedrooms included. As I waited for him to return, I had the impression that at least one other person was present in the house.

“Here you go Biff,” Wayne stated, handing me a stubby. “They don’t come any colder than this!”

I thanked him and he took a seat nearby.

“Wayne, you have a lovely girl,” I observed. “I have a daughter too – she’s about the same age. Sometimes I think the world is divided between those who have a daughter and those who don’t. I know it has been a challenge both being Wayne Carey and growing up as Wayne Carey, but could I suggest this: if anyone is going to save you, it will be Ella?”

Wayne’s jaw muscles tightened.

“Yes, she is my little girl, and her mother is doing a fabulous job with her. I spend as much time with Ella as I can. Whatever I achieved on the football field is nothing – absolutely nothing - compared with her.”

I nodded my head approvingly and continued.

“Wayne, you are commonly considered to be among the greatest players ever and I subscribe to that view. I remember a certain game against us in 1998 when you were simply unstoppable – like a cyclone.”

Wayne cast his mind back.

“That was against Jamie Shanahan?” I nodded my head. “Yeah, I had a good game that day,” he replied. “Kicked a few goals in the last quarter. Wish I had saved then for the Granny instead. I still have nightmares about that second quarter.”

“Not that he is in the same mould as you,” I ventured, “and after all, who could be? But what advice would you give Jack Watts?”

Wayne paused for a moment in thought before replying:

“Believe in yourself. That was always one of my great strengths and I had that mindset from my first match. Believe that you are better than anyone on the field. Believe that it’s better for the ball to be in your hands than anybody else’s. Perhaps I had too much mongrel in me, but Jack needs an injection of it.”

We spoke for the next half hour or so. For all his outward projection of strength, every so often I caught a glimpse of the inner man, with all of his insecurities and rote-learnt lines. To varying degrees we are all possessed by demons. In Wayne’s instance, his particular demon had a face, and that was the face of his father. I studiously avoided the subject.

We had just turned our attention to the upcoming game between the Dees and Norf when something thudded into the roof and made one hell of a racket. Startled, Wayne and I looked at one another: had a bird misjudged its flight? Shortly afterwards there was another thud, followed by a third and a fourth. Seconds later a large rock, which must have overshot the roof, landed near the clothesline.

“That stupid slag,” Carey bellowed. “Stay here, Biff! I’ll deal with this!”

He bolted towards the front-door. Muffled though it was, an exchange followed. Carey cursed like Long John Silver. A burnout followed as a car sped up the road. After slamming the front-door behind him, the Norf champion returned to his seat looking hot and flustered.

“Anything I can help you with, Wayne?” I said brightly.

He glowered.

“Must have been a disaffected fan,” he mumbled. “Now, let’s get back to the game.”

With aplomb, Wayne quickly reviewed the main match-ups and game-plans of the Dees and his old team. The usual jargon followed. Being Norf at his core, he was indignant that Brad Scott and his boys had received so few accolades compared with Melbourne or Richmond. In his estimation, the Shinboner Spirit would prevail. I disagreed: Norf at the MCG was a different proposition to the Kangas at Uncle Collo’s shed: Dees by 2 points.

“Wayne,” I said, rising to my feet. “Thanks for your time. I am a fan of yours. You let your light shine. Sure, you stuffed up on many occasions, but who has the right to cast the first stone? Not me! By all accounts, you’re working your way towards a better place and I wish you well.”

His parting handshake was a finger-breaker.

I hit the road. The interior of my car was an inferno so I turned on the ‘Geelong Air-Conditioner’ (by rolling down the windows). With the daylight ebbing away, I drove over to Southport Lifesaving Club and parked my car. There beyond the sand-dunes lay my old buddy, the Pacific, awash with twilight. I was pretty much alone, which is my preferred state; strangely enough, even the beach was deserted. I took one of the seats above the dunes and stared out across the oceanic expanse – do we not have eyes to see such things? Some verses from Walt Whitman came to mind: O my Brave Soul . . . . .

Suddenly there was a disturbance to my right. I looked around sharply. A man was running along the beach, at the ocean’s edge. I stood up, galvanised to my marrow. Defiant of the surrounding colour, the runner appeared to be tinted in black and white. His arms were swinging from side to side. Whoever he was, he was clearly some sort of athlete. As he approached, I could see that he was wearing an old-fashioned Dees jumper.

OMG, I whispered after a few seconds of scrutiny: it is the ghost of Neil Crompton.

Onwards he ran. This must be some sort of vision, I told myself: it’s identical to the footage from the ‘64 Granny, when Froggy runs back to the back-pocket after kicking the sealer. But why here – why me – why now?

Just as he had done so long ago – oh, when we were kings – Neil swivelled around, looked me in the eyes and pumped his arms in triumph. Immolation befell me. If this was a portent, surely it pointing to something more than a mere home and away victory against Norf. Neil kept running along the shoreline. Soon, he disappeared from view. I darted down to the water. The Pacific had already erased his footprints and night was falling.

To this day, I do not know what it meant. Was he prefacing glory to come? Perhaps it was all trickery. Having been disappointed for so long, does one have the right to dream?

I trudged back to the car in the darkness. An SMS came through from Deestroy. 'This is the end', it trumpeted. It was always going to end badly. What other outcome was possible, I asked myself. The rest is silence.

And on that note – not mine, sadly – I would like to thank you all for your patience and goodwill throughout this season of 2010. Every heart beats true.

Biffinator.

nice one biff.

This is my first preview, so any feedback is much appreciated. Feel free to ask any questions regarding North players.

Very well done if I may say so.

There's another preview thread elsewhere that's not bad either.

Perhaps they could be merged?

Sunday fine & sunny 18 C. Should be good until just after the bounce when the chill will set in.

This sent a shiver up my spine. Lovely writing.

"Suddenly there was a disturbance to my right. I looked around sharply. A man was running along the beach, at the ocean’s edge. I stood up, galvanised to my marrow. Defiant of the surrounding colour, the runner appeared to be tinted in black and white. His arms were swinging from side to side. Whoever he was, he was clearly some sort of athlete. As he approached, I could see that he was wearing an old-fashioned Dees jumper.

OMG, I whispered after a few seconds of scrutiny: it is the ghost of Neil Crompton.

Onwards he ran. This must be some sort of vision, I told myself: it’s identical to the footage from the ‘64 Granny, when Froggy runs back to the back-pocket after kicking the sealer. But why here – why me – why now?

Just as he had done so long ago – oh, when we were kings – Neil swivelled around, looked me in the eyes and pumped his arms in triumph. Immolation befell me. If this was a portent, surely it pointing to something more than a mere home and away victory against Norf."