They Are Who We Think They Are, or, Fisticuffs

It’s a very good time to be a Cats fan, but when you look at where we’ve come from, it’s amazing how quickly expectations have changed.

Geelong has gone from an underachieving, frustrating, head-case of a team (let’s be honest, here) to an all-conquering, clinical, ‘ice-water in the veins’ killer. And, as fans, you’d think that would take some getting used to, but its amazing how little adjustment has been required. There’s been next to nothing.

It’s like that 7 you’re dating who sends you 25 text messages a day and then cries after sex, all of sudden transforming into a swimsuit model, who brings home beer for no reason and then says things like, ‘do you mind if one of my model friends joins us in bed tonight?’ And you’re on the couch going, ‘Huh… It must Tuesday.’

We expect victory every time out, these days. And most of the time we expect a big victory. In fact, we expect such big victories that Mrs Watson and I use the word “fisting” on a near daily basis and neither of our girlfriends so much as blink.

But at this time of year I always get that feeling in the pit of my stomach, where your heart is going a million miles an hour and you start sweating and you can’t breath properly and you don’t know if you’re gonna scream or shit or pass out or head-butt the next person you see ‘cos Nick fucking Davis just kicked 3 goals in about 18 seconds and…

aorhgvraobvre…

fwubhgfvcwrbfgrw;l;nmj…

Sorry, that was my head mashing the keyboard; I blacked out there for a second. Where was I?

Another preliminary final for The Cats and another would be contender stirring the pot. And you know what? I don’t blame them. The Cats are the favourites and all the pressure is on them, and if I was the Bulldogs I would be playing as many mind games as possible. I’d try them all. Because they’re going to need every little inch they can. And still it won’t be enough.

The Bulldogs were not nearly as impressive as everyone seems to think they were. Sydney is a beaten-up shadow of their former selves. Adam Goodes was so limited by injury, for a second there, I thought Dean Rioli was resting in the Swans forward line, Ryan O’Keefe had borrowed Brad Ottens’ groin circa 1996 and Tadhg Kenelly’s shoulder popped out high-fiving Craig Bolton. I mean, Robert Murphy’s opponent was Paul Bevan for Christ’s sake. And Crouch, Bolton, Buchanan and Moore sound like they should be doing your tax return, not fighting for centre clearances. Let’s see how the Bulldogs fare against four or five All-Australian’s at that first centre bounce.

The reason the change to supporting a dominating Cats team has required so little adjustment is because they are the real deal. This isn’t a team on a streaky run. This isn’t a team that’s happy with itself for having an improving list. This is isn’t a team that has overachieved. This is the reigning premier. This is the heavy-weight champ. When challenged, they respond, time and time again.

I don’t know about you, but my heart rate is slowing, my gut is settling down and the in-built response to cold-cock anyone called Nick has temporarily subsided. The Cats are the best team in the league, by a fair bit, and I get the feeling they welcome challengers who talk the talk, because, just like a reigning heavy-weight champ, they often let their fists do the talking.