A Report From The Front - By The Captain
By 6am Paris time I had hit the street. I glanced around nervously, the city looking different in the pre-dawn glow, more menacing. The Metro, like me, was barely awake yet functioning, and I was happy for it’s underground warmth. The blessed Cats beanie was with me, with us. Today was going to be good day, I couldn’t bear otherwise.
I was en route to Cafe Oz, a cringe-inducing Australian themed bar unfairly positioned close to the Seine, to meet former Geelong man, new Paris resident and all-round nice guy, Eddie C. Due to me sleeping in, and getting slightly lost on exiting the Metro station, I missed the first bounce. My problems, however, were just beginning.
On finding the place I realised my lateness would cost double; between me and the door were about 15 Aussies queued up outside the place and a bouncer roughly the size of a 1978 Fiat. The place was packed and the security weren’t letting any more in. I nosed to the front of the queue, hoping Eddie C would spot me and wave me in. But the ‘78 Fiat was running a tight ship; some drinkers had been at it since the night before and he was sensing trouble waiting to burst at the first sign of some implied unfairness. I waited and manage to locate myself within view of the projected action; Geelong were leading 18 to 7 and the drunks inside were roaring.
After a time, a few began to leave. Whether they were non-AFL followers or French locals who could sense the energy was growing, I had no idea. The French are a peculiar people when it comes to sport. They play games like badminton and a native version of bocce. Despite having no idea what was happening on the screen, they had the good sense to leave.
As the Fiat relented, I edged my way forward, squeezing between the bodies of a hundred misplaced Australians. There were shouts of "Ball!" and "Bullshit umpire, you yellow maggot!" and I settled in quick. I found Ed, who had secured a good spot with a nice view of the projectors behind the bar. In front of him was a St Kilda fan, who looked like he’d spent some time in country, behind us, an obnoxious West Coast Eagles fan and next to us a rambling drunk. I was just glad he was supporting Geelong; he had that look about him, like he’d had a week’s worth of booze and was on the edge, and a simple disagreement about football allegiance could end in blood.
The game maintained an unparalleled intensity throughout it’s entirety, and I stood rock still, with a tightness on my chest, for 120 minutes. No drink, little talk, just a small reservoir of Geelong hope buried somewhere deep in my almost malfunctioning heart.
Halfway into the second quarter and The Saints were beginning to take the upper hand. The contest looked willing at every turn, pairs of bodies flying to the ball from all angles. An inch here or there proved pivotal and one team would sneak away to create another skirmish further down field.
Ed, somehow finding the equanimity to exchange pleasantries with the St Kilda fellow, remained quietly confident, and as it turned out, prophetic. As St Kilda dominated possession but kept missing goals, he repeated, almost to himself, “it’s not their day, it’s not their day…” and was happy to go into half-time only a goal down. Mrs Watson, on the other hand, was no doubt feeling the pinch, texting me some very harsh, but not undeserved, words regarding Darren Milburn.
The third quarter began with me praying for something, anything out of Steve Johnson, while the Saints fan in front us said something about him not being anywhere near the player that the “inspirational” Riewoldt was. As I focused on the game, and my breathing, ever so slightly both Ed and I sensed the momentum shift: The Cats seemed to have finally met a worthy foe and were now enjoying the fight.
Hawkins marked and goaled early in the fourth (a sight for Mrs Watson’s sore eyes no doubt) after Chapman had spotted him free in the forward 50 and hit him lace-out; “great composure by Chappy,” said Ed.
The next 5 minutes was a classic arm wrestle. Each contest began to get harder and take on more meaning. The crows sensed it too, not just at the MCG but at the Café Oz, roaring louder and louder as each time the ball emerged in either team’s hands as the game shifted into ‘instant classic’ territory.
True to his day’s form, about eight minutes into the final quarter Ed leaned over; “next goal wins”. I looked at the clock, looked at the scoreboard and then looked at the players; they knew this was true. That that next goal didn’t come for a further 15 minutes only loomed larger the dual sense of doom/glory that was attached to that Sherrin.
Tipping point: Five minutes to play and Geelong repels another St Kilda attack and kicks the ball to a seemingly wide-open Gary Ablett in the very centre of the MCG. Sensing the space, but before he has received the ball, Ablett begins to lean ever so slightly towards the Geelong goal, readying his body to change his momentum in order to storm forward and drive his Brownlow medal down the throats of the St Kilda defence. This split-second adjustment, however, allows his opponent, sprinting from behind Ablett towards the St Kilda goal, enough time to knock the ball loose, preventing the mark.
It’s all there in front us now. A tied game. A loose ball. The very centre of the MCG. And, now, two sets of opposing players. As Ablett and his opponent were positioning themselves, Matthew Scarlett and his marker for the day, Justin Koschitske, are racing to the centre, each trying to swing the contest their team’s way. Like trains on the same track, they are going full-speed, with no option to swerve and are on a collision course with Ablett and the ball.
As Clinton Jones closes from behind on Gary Junior, Scarlett has found himself in front of Kosi and makes a crucial decision as this all unfolds in the blinking of an eye: Jones’ deflects the ball into the path of the oncoming Scarlett, who carefully, casually and yet very deliberately, pokes it side foot back in the opposite direction, past the now stranded Jones and into the hands of a ready and waiting Gary Ablett.
When minutes later Chapman snapped truly we yelled loudly and quietly knew it was enough.
After the place cleared out Ed and I sat down and had our first drink - a 7 Euro pint of Fosters - the best beer I’ve had all year. We walked, somewhat dazed and found some seats in the Jardin des Tulieries and sat in the sun, drinking Kronenberg cans from a nearby caravan for quite some while.
The day for the French had only just begun, but for us the wait (weight) of a year was over.
By 6am Paris time I had hit the street. I glanced around nervously, the city looking different in the pre-dawn glow, more menacing. The Metro, like me, was barely awake yet functioning, and I was happy for it’s underground warmth. The blessed Cats beanie was with me, with us. Today was going to be good day, I couldn’t bear otherwise.I was en route to Cafe Oz, a cringe-inducing Australian themed bar unfairly positioned close to the Seine, to meet former Geelong man, new Paris resident and all-round nice guy, Eddie C. Due to me sleeping in, and getting slightly lost on exiting the Metro station, I missed the first bounce. My problems, however, were just beginning.
On finding the place I realised my lateness would cost double; between me and the door were about 15 Aussies queued up outside the place and a bouncer roughly the size of a 1978 Fiat. The place was packed and the security weren’t letting any more in. I nosed to the front of the queue, hoping Eddie C would spot me and wave me in. But the ‘78 Fiat was running a tight ship; some drinkers had been at it since the night before and he was sensing trouble waiting to burst at the first sign of some implied unfairness. I waited and manage to locate myself within view of the projected action; Geelong were leading 18 to 7 and the drunks inside were roaring.
After a time, a few began to leave. Whether they were non-AFL followers or French locals who could sense the energy was growing, I had no idea. The French are a peculiar people when it comes to sport. They play games like badminton and a native version of bocce. Despite having no idea what was happening on the screen, they had the good sense to leave.
As the Fiat relented, I edged my way forward, squeezing between the bodies of a hundred misplaced Australians. There were shouts of "Ball!" and "Bullshit umpire, you yellow maggot!" and I settled in quick. I found Ed, who had secured a good spot with a nice view of the projectors behind the bar. In front of him was a St Kilda fan, who looked like he’d spent some time in country, behind us, an obnoxious West Coast Eagles fan and next to us a rambling drunk. I was just glad he was supporting Geelong; he had that look about him, like he’d had a week’s worth of booze and was on the edge, and a simple disagreement about football allegiance could end in blood.
The game maintained an unparalleled intensity throughout it’s entirety, and I stood rock still, with a tightness on my chest, for 120 minutes. No drink, little talk, just a small reservoir of Geelong hope buried somewhere deep in my almost malfunctioning heart.
Halfway into the second quarter and The Saints were beginning to take the upper hand. The contest looked willing at every turn, pairs of bodies flying to the ball from all angles. An inch here or there proved pivotal and one team would sneak away to create another skirmish further down field.
Ed, somehow finding the equanimity to exchange pleasantries with the St Kilda fellow, remained quietly confident, and as it turned out, prophetic. As St Kilda dominated possession but kept missing goals, he repeated, almost to himself, “it’s not their day, it’s not their day…” and was happy to go into half-time only a goal down. Mrs Watson, on the other hand, was no doubt feeling the pinch, texting me some very harsh, but not undeserved, words regarding Darren Milburn.
The third quarter began with me praying for something, anything out of Steve Johnson, while the Saints fan in front us said something about him not being anywhere near the player that the “inspirational” Riewoldt was. As I focused on the game, and my breathing, ever so slightly both Ed and I sensed the momentum shift: The Cats seemed to have finally met a worthy foe and were now enjoying the fight.
Hawkins marked and goaled early in the fourth (a sight for Mrs Watson’s sore eyes no doubt) after Chapman had spotted him free in the forward 50 and hit him lace-out; “great composure by Chappy,” said Ed.
The next 5 minutes was a classic arm wrestle. Each contest began to get harder and take on more meaning. The crows sensed it too, not just at the MCG but at the Café Oz, roaring louder and louder as each time the ball emerged in either team’s hands as the game shifted into ‘instant classic’ territory.
True to his day’s form, about eight minutes into the final quarter Ed leaned over; “next goal wins”. I looked at the clock, looked at the scoreboard and then looked at the players; they knew this was true. That that next goal didn’t come for a further 15 minutes only loomed larger the dual sense of doom/glory that was attached to that Sherrin.
Tipping point: Five minutes to play and Geelong repels another St Kilda attack and kicks the ball to a seemingly wide-open Gary Ablett in the very centre of the MCG. Sensing the space, but before he has received the ball, Ablett begins to lean ever so slightly towards the Geelong goal, readying his body to change his momentum in order to storm forward and drive his Brownlow medal down the throats of the St Kilda defence. This split-second adjustment, however, allows his opponent, sprinting from behind Ablett towards the St Kilda goal, enough time to knock the ball loose, preventing the mark.
It’s all there in front us now. A tied game. A loose ball. The very centre of the MCG. And, now, two sets of opposing players. As Ablett and his opponent were positioning themselves, Matthew Scarlett and his marker for the day, Justin Koschitske, are racing to the centre, each trying to swing the contest their team’s way. Like trains on the same track, they are going full-speed, with no option to swerve and are on a collision course with Ablett and the ball.
As Clinton Jones closes from behind on Gary Junior, Scarlett has found himself in front of Kosi and makes a crucial decision as this all unfolds in the blinking of an eye: Jones’ deflects the ball into the path of the oncoming Scarlett, who carefully, casually and yet very deliberately, pokes it side foot back in the opposite direction, past the now stranded Jones and into the hands of a ready and waiting Gary Ablett.
When minutes later Chapman snapped truly we yelled loudly and quietly knew it was enough.
After the place cleared out Ed and I sat down and had our first drink - a 7 Euro pint of Fosters - the best beer I’ve had all year. We walked, somewhat dazed and found some seats in the Jardin des Tulieries and sat in the sun, drinking Kronenberg cans from a nearby caravan for quite some while.
The day for the French had only just begun, but for us the wait (weight) of a year was over.
posted by the captain at 6:04 am
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