Application Pending



Dear Rick Hart, Cameron Schwab and the Fremantle board,

Re: Coaching Vacancy

Hello, my name is The Captain and I'm writing in application for the role of senior coach at the Fremantle Football Club. Admittedly, my coaching experience is slim to none; my last stint being that in charge of my younger brother’s under-15 basketball team. And my involvement with football as a player has been limited; my playing days having ended in the under-14s when my body refused to cooperate and initiate puberty, thus leaving me to receive a weekly pummelling from my further developed, so-called peers. I do, however, have some ideas for the FFC ‘moving forward’, as they say, so please read on.

If appointed to the role the first thing I would do is a full player review, which, in case you didn’t know, is code for “sack the shit players”. Now, if you’d just look inland a little bit, just up the Swan River, you’ll see that other shining example of a West Australian club who have had plenty of success while you clowns on the coast have had none. The difference? The players. The Eagles players are big personalities, well known, celebrities even. Who are the Dockers players? A bunch of frickin no-ones, that’s who! Everyone knows Chris Judd and Ben Cousins and Daniel Kerr, but even I, a leading applicant for the head coaching position, wouldn’t know Steven Dodd if Aaron Sandilands shat him out onto the bonnet of my car. This must change! We’ve got to leave the Dodds and the Grovers and the Hadrills of the world behind! We need bigger names! (Did you notice how I’m already saying ‘we’? That’s how confident I am in getting this job, I mean, seriously, you’re not gonna hire Harvey, the man can barely pour his own Coco Pops in the morning, let alone solve the ‘monkey maze’ on the back of the packet.) Now, this Shaun McManus bloke, he’s related to that little twerp on TV, isn’t he? Well bloody hell, what are you waiting for? Let’s get the players their own segment! Let’s generate some publicity, a bit of buzz! We could have ‘Guess Chris Tarrant’s Ass’ in which we’d show a series of Dockers players dates and have Hamish & Andy guess whose backend it is. We could even call it “Whose Ring is it anyway?” Get Drew Carey involved. Is it Matthew Carr’s ass? No, sorry, it’s vice-captain Peter Bell’s ass. Or how about a game show format where Jeff Farmer, Dean Solomon and Taz take 18 shots of Bourbon and members of the audience have to walk past them without being belted? Maybe we should get Rove to test drive that one. Or maybe we should just get them on the cans and let them kick the stuffing out of Rove, I mean, who wouldn’t watch that?

Next up those ridiculous uniforms must be changed. Now, you might be thinking that this is a minor, aesthetic issue, but you’re wrong. Put yourself in our players’ shoes; how are they expected to perform in a physical, full contact sport in fucking purple? No wonder everyone thinks you’re soft. You’re named after the most notoriously violent and brutal workers in this country’s history and you’ve got them wearing purple? Do you reckon any of these dock workers wear purple? No? You know why? ‘Cos it’s a poofter colour! Geez, how about we ditch the shorts and have them wear tutu’s instead? Our uniform should be made from the blood and bone and ground organs of the non-unionised workforce. It would come out a nice paisley-like brown colour and we’d never need clash jumpers because it would differ week to week and player to player depending on how many scabs we could round up that week. Merchandising may suffer, however. But, if you thought Victoria Park was a hard place to visit, imagine manning up on Pav in the goal-square when he’s wearing some bloody casual labour hire asshole’s asshole on his Guernsey!

We gotta change the theme song too. It is without a doubt the worst theme song anywhere. In fact, fuck the song; we won’t even have one, that’s how tough we’ll be. When we win we’ll go into the rooms and sacrifice the other team’s mascot, and I don’t mean the animal that represents them, I mean the actual fucking person inside the over-sized suit doing cartwheels at halftime. And then we’ll slow roast him over a low flame or maybe even bury him in a charcoal pit, hangi-style: I’m not sure yet but we’ll consult the dieticians to ensure the healthiest option for the players.

Also, I would cancel the end-of-season trip. This may not be popular at first, but I believe that by not drinking all year players develop a lower tolerance to alcohol and therefore are more inclined to do something stupid in a once-off binge. What we need is planned and controlled alcohol regime throughout the season to ensure our players have ‘match-hardened’ livers to better cope with public outings. I could also see this having a flow-on effect on game days; remember Ben Cousins’ run from the law? Now imagine that energy channelled onto the field, in all of our players. Again, I’ll check with the dieticians, but I believe straight vodka ought to keep the skin folds down and would be virtually undetectable in ‘Powerade’ bottles.

These measures might seem a little ‘left-field’, but the Fremantle Football Club can’t afford not to implement them! What do you think any of the other candidates are going to suggest? If you take one of these up-and-coming assistant coaches all they’re going to implement are a better fitness regime, refined skills and a competent game-plan. If that’s your bag then be my guest. You’ll be the laughing stock of the AFL. Or at least you would be, if you weren’t already.

Regards,

The Captain

The Chicken Or The Egg



Captain: Alright Mrs. Watson, we’ve finally gotten rid of Chris Connolly, just Terry Wallace to go, right? I remember the good old days when Richmond was a powerhouse team finishing ninth. What a frickin dream ninth is for the Tigers these days! Why does Terry continue to avoid media scrutiny despite the fact that the Tigers are performing worse now than they ever have?

Mrs. Watson: Believe it or not, it's because he's a whiz at putting together very convincing PowerPoint presentations. While many of us struggle to make our own presentations remotely interesting, Wallace is able to spew the most absurd Premiership predictions into a laptop, mash the keyboard with elbows and unleash a presentation the likes of which Richmond devotees have never seen. But seriously, while Tiger fans were busy drooling of Terry’s ridiculous 2011 Premiership prediction (and thereby buying himself another good five years at the helm), the rest of us were wondering where the fuck Wallace got his time machine. Caroline Wilson told me that after blowing Terry Wallace before a press conference, the coach admitted to her that he outbid Dennis Pagan for a working Dolorean on eBay. Dennis was hoping to go back in time, to the late 90’s, when teams coached themselves.

Captain: Is that why Caro’s got a lisp? Anyway, let’s recap: Daniher’s gone, Connolly’s gone (albeit 2 seasons too late), Pagan is halfway gone and Terry, having just returned from covering Biff in manure, is getting ready to coach Essendon in 2027. Lips Thompson is also out contract at seasons end, you think other clubs will come sniffing?

Mrs. Watson: Sure, there'll be a lot of sniffing, but nothing will come of it. There's a fresh contract sitting in Lips' inbox as we speak, just waiting for him to run his PaperMate across the dotted line. I mean, really, Costa's got enough cash in glove box to keep Thomo happy for a few years, and after this year, I can't see the coach giving up the easiest coaching job in football for a mere change of scenery. I mean, while there ain't much more to G-Crack at the moment than cash loan shops and rape headlines, we do have the best football team in the land - and coach Lips knows it. I did notice, however, that you left Sheedy off your list there, El Capitano. Are you confident he'll be there in 2008?

Captain: No-one at Essendon has the balls to fire him and he knows it. Hell, they’ll probably still be propping him up in the box Weekend at Bernies style in another 28 years. And besides, whose gonna give Gary Ayres another team to ruin? A little closer to home, did I read the ‘ins & outs’ correctly? Varcoe out, Shannon Byrnes in? I’d like to go on the record right now saying that we’ll lose to the Dogs due to Byrnes kicking 1.7.

Mrs. Watson: Not a truer thing ever written, my friend. Varcoe was appalling last weekend, but surely there’s someone other than Monty to squeeze into the forward line. When’s Davenport going to get a game? What about Prismall? I guess Byrnes is pacier than those guys, which is what we need this week, but it’s not as if Donnie’s a slowcoach either. What are your thoughts on our friend Varcoe, anyway? You a fan?

Captain: I’ll tell ya what I’m a fan of, have you seen Mark Philipoussis’ new reality TV show? They line ‘The Poo’ up next to a 35mm timber chisel and contestants have to pick who has the better personality. Outstanding. Speaking of dickheads, any thoughts on Jeffrey Farmer?

Mrs. Watson: None whatsoever. I’d forgotten he’d existed. Life was good. Luckily I don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of him on the footy field in the future, though. Despite the fact the Dockers are an ass sandwich this year, Farmer’s a walking fist fight, and not worth the trouble. Sure, he kicks goals on shallow backlines, but the Fremantle Football Club can’t afford the distraction of another press conference the next time Farmer gets boozey and king hits a parked car. What the fuck is going on in Western Australia, anyway? How did the majority of wife bashing, coke sniffing, ass baring, mulleted footballers end up out there? I mean, were these guys douchbags before they hit Perth, or is this how WA rubs itself off on people? The chicken or the egg?

Captain: Let’s see, the douchebag hatches from the egg, which is laid by a chicken which then moves to Ocean Grove and fits right in. Quick, let’s do some word association: Travis Cloke.

Mrs. Watson: Who?

Captain: Ross Lyon.

Mrs. Watson: Asshole.

Captain: Campbell Brown.

Mrs. Watson: Invisible.

Captain: Hawthorn, the real deal?

Mrs. Watson: Are you joking? No! That’s ridiculous.

Captain: Freo’s next coach.

Mrs. Watson: Sumich.

Captain: Friday night’s game.

Mrs. Watson: Certain victory.

Captain: Well I can’t say I share your confidence. I sense a danger game. But it’s good to have you back, Mrs. W.

One Right Up The Bracket

At precisely 11:57 I step off at Richmond station, for once perfectly on time, to meet Bell at Midday and guide him to the Old London Tavern where we’ll meet the rest of the crew: Odey, Matt, Matt’s old man, Roger and Matt’s sister’s boyfriend also named Matt, but I’ll call him Matthew. (Confusing, I know, but bear with me.)

Just as I’m wondering where Bell is he calls me, to let me know he’s gonna be late – closer to 12:30 he reckons. Drinking alone, I think about the game. The Cats are gonna drop one soon enough, but not today, I can feel it. Plus, during the week Matt and I made a small wager and I need that money for beer.

Eventually everyone arrives and we begin the very serious business of drinking and ribbing Matt, a Collingwood supporter. Just for the record, Roger and Matthew are Essendon supporters, the rest of us are Cats fans. Odey rocks up late, nursing a hangover from the night before but immediately makes up for it with a Ben Cousins joke about him icing his hamstring and then his face. Meanwhile Matt is downing pints at a rate of knots even though he shares a hangover from the same big Friday night with Odey. He’s more animal than man.

I speak to Mrs. Watson and he’s around the corner at the Cricketers Arms, a pub that, due to its vicinity to the MCG, manages to cram around 50 000 people into the worlds smallest bar on game days. We agree to meet up for a drink after the game, preferably not at the Cricketers Arms. We squeeze in one last pint and head off at 1:50 for the G. Some bloke talking with his mates is telling a story about the one time he went to Geelong and drank at the Barwon Club before taking a piss on the Kardinia Park wall. That’s sacrilege, I say, how would you feel if I came to Collingwood, shot heroin and then vomited on Victoria Park? You’d fit right in, he says. Hats off, sir.

We find our seats and Matt sits down just long enough to ask whose shout it is. Thanks for volunteering, Matty. We’re sitting in the 2nd tier of the Olympic stand, row N: Forward pocket, Punt road end. Congratulations come from all round to Bell who organized the tickets weeks ago. I glance around the G and can hardly see an empty seat – to quote Travis from Big Brother, bloody hell. I now look a little closer to home, to see who’s around us: Cats fans to the left and right but a couple of Collingwood fans in front and some behind us who I don’t see but can hear. Make ‘em pay Collingwood, is one blokes catch phrase, which we quickly adopt after each Geelong goal. Ahh, nothing like pissing off total strangers. And speaking of pissing off strangers, some kid in front of us is constantly banging those inflatable clapper sticks. Odey leans over to me, that won’t get annoying at all, he says.

There is a feeling, an electricity and tension in the air that is released when the opening siren sounds. We’re under way and the Pies kick two quick goals thanks to Travis Cloke, the first player to beat Matthew Egan this season, and then, a Mrs. Watson’s favourite, Paul Medhurst. Matt is in full voice, laughing and stirring us up. You’ll keep, I say, and begin a running tally of Anthony Rocca’s dropped marks.

Ling dobs the Cats first one, Mooney snaps a second, Matthew Stokes snags the third and then, right in front of us, Boris Enright picks off a Collingwood pass and puts it back over the goal umpires head. I know then that the Cats would be ok.

Collingwood are tough, however, and they stick at it, keeping close enough all day in a tight contest. Wojcinski bounces one over the head of Marty Clarke. Stupid Irishman. Alan Didak is still copping it from the crowd, and I join in, yelling out, hey Didak, need a ride home? Even the Collingwood fans in front liked that one. The unfortunately named Tyson Goldsack gets the ball as Matty and I both smirk, money-bags, we say to each other as Bell jokes about trying to convincing a drunken Roger that it’s his round again.

At half-time I queue for the pissoir and chat to some nice old bloke whom I call sir. Turns out he’s Corey Enright’s dad. He’s having a good game, I say, and a good season. At the bar I bump into Chandles, a bloke I went to school with, and his younger brother. Good times.

The second half goes by in a blur thanks to consuming enough alcohol to tranquilize a wild pig, but there are vague memories of Dog Johnson getting amongst the goals, Scarlett running out of defence, Harley taking an important mark, more umpiring injustices and vague memories of doing a Ted Whitten impersonation and a bit of ‘stick it right up em’ work at the final siren – yes, I’m a dickhead.

I never caught up with Mrs. W, but Matt paid up in liquid currency, and then some. And at ten wins in a row we were quite content to drink to the best team in the league.

Sydney down Essendon to go, or, Douche-bag or Turd Sandwich

Despite the injury toll, despite the second half fade out and despite the very real possibility that Mrs. Watson might try to legally adopt Mark Blake at some point this season, Goddamn it felt good to knock nail numero uno into the Swans ’07 coffin.

I’ve had enough of their ‘Blood Brothers’ bullshit. I’ve heard way too much about their ‘player empowerment’, their ‘core values’ and their other buzzword credos. I’m sick of hearing this rubbish about Brett Kirk being Buddhist. I’m certainly sick of Michael O’Loughlin pushing his opponent in the back every frickin contest. I don’t want to hear any more of Paul Roos’ false modesty, nor ever again look at his impossible fringe. And don’t get me started on Ryan O’Keefe. The stink cloud that is the Sydney Swans, which has been hanging over the AFL, has finally passed. And good fucking riddance.

Playing against the Swans is a bit like playing pool against that guy at the pub who takes himself way too seriously; everybody wants to win but when he starts nudging the ball a quarter of an inch with the sole intention of sabotaging your next shot, well, the fun tends to get sucked out of the game. You want to beat those pricks just to show them their dirty pool tactics are unnecessary.

The Cats played about two good quarters and beat the Swans, which is both good and bad. It’s the sign of a good team that they can perform well below their best and still win, but should we be concerned about the 2nd half fade out? I think it can be attributed to three main things; the rustiness – both skills, tactics and fitness wise – from having a week off; the lack of any fit players on the bench in the 2nd half; and the Swans finally getting some of the ball themselves. So, to paraphrase a friend of mine, let’s not lose our heads here. But we do need to find some replacements for the injured players.

Max Rooke should be heading back to see Shane Watson’s specialist, Nablett’s knee was getting more attention than a hooker on a submarine, Wojcinski looked, well, a bit dodgy, Ling got cleaned up about five times, Harley was clutching at his, what must be, wafer-thin hamstring and midway through the game Tickets Bartel was taken to Geelong Hospital with reports varying from a broken arm, to a head and neck injury, to an eye complaint to stigmata.

So who’s available? Kane Tenace could provide the run for Wojcinski, Josh Hunt could fill a defensive role if Harley misses, David Johnson can play a tagging role and Brett Prismall is due for his chance in the midfield. All have already played at some point this season. Oh, and if we need a key forward replacement there is the small, or rather large, matter of a certain full-forward named after a Native American chopping implement. So the depth seems to be there, which is another good sign.

Next on the Friday Night Football menu is Essendon. How the Bombers are currently in the top 4 or 5 is beyond me. If they make the finals they will be found out in the first week, no matter who their opponent. I reckon they’re a complete hoax. Frauds. A Mirage. I'm not sure who I despise more, them or Sydney. Their best player this season has been James Hird, having somewhat of a renaissance year due to opposition teams no longer tagging him and that six month course of steroids he took during the off-season. Ok, so I made that up, but in a league where the average player age is about 23, it doesn’t say much for Essendon’s recruiting when the guy leading their best & fairest is old enough to be Jobe Watson’s Dad and the guy coming second is probably Jobe Watson.

I’m sick of Essendon. I’m sick of their lucky, bullshit, one point wins. I’m sick of their poncing, high short-wearing, cheap free kick-getting forward line. I’m sick of their pompous, self-serving, faux-intellectual coach. I’m sick of Dustin Fletcher not having an opponent. I’m sick of their ridiculous, pig-headed attempt at a ‘clash’ strip.

Let’s keep the dice warm. Roll us another seven. Go Cats.