There was electrickery in the air. Mainly cos it was Sunday arvo old dears’ footy in the park, but movement trackers[i] redlining here and there only added to the atmosphere.
Good numbers at refurbed Kingston oval[ii], enough for two full teams and more. Old dears do like the sun. Anyways, the Golden Staffies took on the Catweasels and towelled them up with run, skill and panache. Or really, if accuracy means anything—and in old dears’ footy it’s everything—with a near absence of the above qualities in the poor old feline ferrets.
The moggies got their fair share of the pill, but with incessant butchering of it—with disposals too short, too long, too late, too long in the air, to where blokes no longer were etc etc etc etc ad nauseum—revealed a conundrum. If you’re only going to give it away (mostly to Adam, lurking as the loosey at half back), why get it in the first place, I arks ya? Tis a shame that masters of the footy paradox Bowie and Yappa weren’t there to see it all. They’d have an answer, I’m sure. Still, not to micturate on the staffies’ parade or nuthin’, they played very well, mainly cos they could hit that last target within cooee of goals.
Staphylococcus aureus: the mids were dominant, starting with mobile, high marking, team-mate-finding ruckman T(elling) Bone feeding the likes of extraction machines Styx and Wadey who flicked it out to the runners, especially new Pete, Luke and Jeffro pushing up from wing and half back. Birthday boy Nate had a day out, each touch another cupcake. I daresay he went home hyped up and not a little sick. Browny led the forward line, going home with a bag, a Michelle Pfeiffer, which are the same thing, believe it or not. Time waits for no man or super model. He did it with lurking, of course, but also with plenty of well-timed leads, and always with a nice finish. At the other end, Pebs had a great goal square battle with Ox, who did get cruelled by passes to where he’d just sprinted from, but the quick- and raking-footed defender started many attacks from the last line. Ryano’s young fella, definitely not an old dear, was the (lime green) icing on their (choo choo train) party cake, providing dash from down deep.
Manxies: The backline done good, led by hard running, always contesting Ryano—in his first outing for the year—and Mal directing traffic down deep. Joffa showed he’s got more strings to his bow than you’d expect in a sneaky forward, cleaning up and attacking from deep in defence. Ditto Pete T. Ben was his normal hard at it, get it moving self. The mids was good too, with Jock covering lots of ground—but nowhere near as much as after the game; shame his gizmo couldn’t tell him how much[iii]—and actually spotting up blokes. Macca ran the lines, covered more miles than the Gungahlin tram, obviously. You don’t need a tracker to know that. Manny went into the middle after quarter time and immediate provided run, grunt and clearances. Has quick eyes and hands. So does Mick O, and add in legs. Always moving, always taking the game on, the Cats’s skipper for the day had another strong, four quarter game. Ditto Shorty, playing more of an in and under game, rather than that outside finisher role. Still had heaps of it. Blue had his best game with the club, by miles, no tracker required, presenting well and getting on the end of quite a few thrusts forward. Slotted a goal. A nice turnaround on his ACT carny form, when he got only one kick…to the cods. (It’s OK, it was the Pres what fed me the joke, and I’ve been storing it up ever since.) Lockers chopped out in the ruck and moved to good spots. Joffa eventually got to his safe spot, deep in the forward line, and a la expert lurker Browny bobbed up with a couple.
Umpires: what’s the cliché? If you don’t notice ‘em, they’ve done a good job? Was Tuanny even there?
Bevvies: a bevy of ‘em, many thanks to Col, Marbles and a few other young dears for running water. Marbs buttered up with exemplary barman duties, never missed a target.
[i] why? I arks ya. Despite their names, you can’t keep track of ‘em as was shown, and they can only tell what you already know. You ran (moved?), and now you’re knackered
[ii] Eastlake FC must be looking for its money back. The redo looks as convincing—and as patchy and scruffy—as an el cheapo hair transplant. Even the undulations (brow furrows) remain
[iii] I did feel slightly bad about not helping Jock look for his familiar out on the oval, but I did at least have a quick dekko in the change rooms, which were close by and well lit.