Biffinator

Start praying for Essendon. We want to lose that 1979 record !!!!!!!!

Other considerations aside, Bailey's current contract is quarter-based. The team has to win a certain number of quarters for him to receive a bonus or obtain an extension.

An interesting question is this: what would have happened to our club if RDB had stayed at the end of 1964? To my mind - as all suns must set - the Fall would have come in any event. The most cataclysmic decision in the history of the Melbourne Football Ball Club had already been made four years earlier (letting Doug Wade go - if we had had a 1000-ish goal FF from 1960 to 1974, our fortunes would have been vastly different); our Club was still operating amateurishly ( in the precise sense of that word) compared with other, more agile, more forward-looking clubs and Barassi himself as a player was largely washed up from wear and tear (as his 50 odd games at the Cheats illustrate). Operating in a father/son dynamic as I do, I can understand rationally why RDB accepted the offer from that scoundrel George Harris in late 1964, even as it grates against my marrow. And to my mind, Barassi the player could not have averted the Fall - it was inevitable.

Agreed. Moreover, there is a 'talk the talk, walk the walk' element to coaching. What if Woey were to be addressing the boys, urging them to be hard at the ball when someone plays a copy of the 2003 Grand Final (and the second quarter in particular) and cranks up Robert Walls' commentary? Woey, could luck with your career - please make it elsewhere.

WJ, the problem with 1964 is that we used up all our luck, re Hassa Mann in the game against Hawthorn and, of course, Froggy's kick in the last quarter. Since then, the current has run the other way: 1987; Strawb's cataclysmic efforts in the 88 Prelim and the 1990 finals training session; Jako's back; the physical dismemberment of the 1994 side and so forth. Both of the grand finals that we have contested in my lifetime, sad to say, were 'races for the silver medal'. Perhaps one day Lady Luck will make a reappearance and do so before that appointment I have with Tobin Brothers

Let's not confuse outcomes with intentions here. It is not as if we should erect a statue to Juddy: 'from the Demons, with love'. He was hardly thinking of our well-being when he chose to sign on with the Cheats. He is a glorified Greg Williams who drives a Prius. In other words, he is a filthy merc. And he can take that 'soft spot' for us and get Twiggers to shove it where the sun doesn't shine.

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.

Dear Jeff. From Melbourne, with love. My link

Right on the money. Brock is as slow as buggery. He peaked when he was 19. Whatever pretensions he once had to being an impact player are well and truly over. Provided we do the science around Selection 11, - and Moloney stays fit - he will not be missed. Biffinator

Sorry C84 but I am not persuaded by your generalisations. Let's get specific. Brock's career had stalled. The last electrifying game he played for us was the 2006 EF. Since then, what with all his injuries and lack of pace, he became a plodder. Seriously, I had to remind myself during this season that he was actually on the field - that is how nondescript he was becoming in my mind. Meanwhile, Moloney is now fit. Blease, Strauss, Scully and presumably Trengove are all in train. Jones continues to motor on. While I would prefer Brock to stay, I am not in any way broken hearted like I was when Scotty Thompson left. Pick 11 is a fair enough deal. It has been a long time since Brock justified the coin he was on. Moreover, Carlton need KPPs up forward, not a so-so replacement for Nick Stevens. Anyone who still follows the Dees in 2009 after a drought of this duration is a veritable Omega Man: they cannot be killed. The Casey deal is a watershed in our history. keep the faith. The wheel will always turn full circle and it is turning. Biffinator

Comrades, there is nothing new under the sun. Shaun Burgoyne and his knees = Kelvin Templeton Redivus. Just don't do it.

Comrades. Yze Magic - and he goes under many names - is a gun in my opinion. Over on Bigfooty B13, we face any number of adversaries - and it is none too easy defending our cause in light of the past 45 years. YM torches the flogs with his wit, humour and knowledge of the game. They hate him, which is a sign of his success. Oh, to have more passionate supporters like him. Biffinator PS, I would love to meet him one day but he's like Batman.

Comrades. Never underestimate the power of symbolism. While he had a respectable career, Wheatley did not impart any additional lustre to the most famous jumper at Melbourne. This needs to change. 31 should go to Scully next season. Being the Richmond supporter as he is, it will also deepen his allegiance to the Demons. Thoughts please? Biffinator.

Comrade there is a much wider malaise than the pain of the last couple of years - and that is our mental softness. As a supporter since 71 and a member since 82, I have seen it year after year, decade after decade. Address that in a sustained fashion, and everything else will be sorted out eventually. While I would dearly love to get 1 and 2, to my mind we got the priority pick last year with Watts AND Jurrahcane. This discussion is a bit pointless. Whatever opinions the two of us may hold, it will make jack-all difference to where we finish at the end of the year. Additionally, my hatred of the Handbaggers over-rides all other rational considerations. Cheers - Biffinator

Comrades. We can worry about permutations and draft choices - the wind blows where it wills. I just want us to beat the Handbaggers down at Handbagger Stadium - especially if those big Zeppelins in the Geelong Cheer squad are in attendance. It is as simple as that. I want us to do it especially for Slaphead Chapman and Cameron Ling, the Toxic Avenger. And I want to hear the sooking afterwards. Biffinator.