bornadog
11-07-2013, 10:13 AM
Bob Murphy (http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/savouring-time-and-the-fossil-20130710-2pqfc.html)
http://i202.photobucket.com/albums/aa198/mmsalih/ZAH_bob_LW-20130710194445141171-620x349_zps333aad12.jpg (http://s202.photobucket.com/user/mmsalih/media/ZAH_bob_LW-20130710194445141171-620x349_zps333aad12.jpg.html)
A shock loss, a harrowing defeat, an honourable loss, a devastating loss, a gritty win, a brave victory, a come-from-behind win and occasionally … phew, we won. There's as many ways to win or lose a game as there are games in a season.
My roommate for the Canberra road trip last Saturday was, as usual, Daniel Giansiracusa. Or, as he's more affectionately known at The Kennel these days, ''Fossil''. Or ''Foss'' or ''Pip'' or ''Gia''. Come to think of it, I have at least six other names for him that I've used over the years. Most of them pointless, all of them wonderful in their stupidity.
Foss usually drives me to the airport when we travel because he likes to be in charge and in control, and I like to absolve all responsibility. It all seems to work. After our light Friday-morning training session at the Whitten Oval, we ducked around the corner to the Footscray Milking Station to break some bread and shoot the breeze. As always, we talk about footy and our families, our loves, our worries. Normal stuff, the best stuff.
This year we've had another guest sit with us, one who never orders from the menu. Quite simply, time. Our time left together as a travelling pair in a pack of Dogs. Footscray Bulldogs, to be more precise.
In all likelihood, this will be the Fossil's last year and, as we left the cafe with coffees in hand for another drive out to the airport, Foss remarked that there were only three more road trips left for the year. A few moments of silence fell softly upon us.
''I'll miss our trips away,'' I said, looking out the window. ''Me too,'' said the Fossil. He's always been a good finisher.
The end of the road, the final curtain, whatever you want to call it, is often associated or at least tinged with sadness, but I didn't get that feeling in the car. Just an overwhelming sense of thanks. How lucky we've been to play this long together, and how lucky we still are to run out with the boys every week.
By the time our plane touched down in Canberra, notions of curtain calls and Father Time were all but gone, and with a game less than 24 hours away each player goes into his own routine, both physical and mental. Each player applying each piece of mental and physical armour he will need to combat the enemy the next day.
It's still the most difficult thing about playing footy at the elite level, I think, the idea of putting your own reputation and the reputation of your club on the line every time you run through the banner. It's the single thing that simultaneously breaks you down over time, and also puts air in your tyres.
As is customary, we arose early on Saturday morning, game day, at our team hotel. Foss and I pottered about our room, manoeuvring between our private business and sidestepping each other as we got dressed, in silence, with the grace and familiarity of ballroom dancers.
There's always an intriguing tension on game day, and it doesn't fade with age or experience.
I think it would be reasonable enough to assume that there was an edginess to our entire travelling party last week. We'd been beaten by the recently tormented Demons a week earlier, and now we were facing the young bloods of the competition, Greater Western Sydney, on neutral ground. Despite their own disappointing win-loss record this year, I'm sure the young Giants would've smelt blood. Often, sides at the lower end of the ladder save their best for opponents alongside them. All clubs are desperate for wins. It was always going to be a willing contest.
The game itself never rose to any great heights, but the endeavour and spirit of both sides, combined with the blustery wind, kept both teams tight all day. My old mate Foss didn't seem his usual self in the first half, and we could've done with a couple of his trademark goals. But we hung in there as a group. As did the Giants.
When it came time to stand up in the last quarter, I thought our boys did that, and though it wasn't pretty, we escaped with ''an ugly win''. We couldn't care less about how pretty they are. When the time came for Fossil to put his stamp on the game, he did. He's always been a good finisher. He also happens to be much more than that.
In the rooms afterwards, we sang our tribal hymn with great gusto. The song is a symbolic release of players taking off their emotional armour, or it is to me anyway. Sitting just outside the circle and in my line of vision, I could see Time once more. Crushing defeats, heartbreaking losses, ugly wins, pretty wins. In the end, what matters is who you got to share them with.
http://i202.photobucket.com/albums/aa198/mmsalih/ZAH_bob_LW-20130710194445141171-620x349_zps333aad12.jpg (http://s202.photobucket.com/user/mmsalih/media/ZAH_bob_LW-20130710194445141171-620x349_zps333aad12.jpg.html)
A shock loss, a harrowing defeat, an honourable loss, a devastating loss, a gritty win, a brave victory, a come-from-behind win and occasionally … phew, we won. There's as many ways to win or lose a game as there are games in a season.
My roommate for the Canberra road trip last Saturday was, as usual, Daniel Giansiracusa. Or, as he's more affectionately known at The Kennel these days, ''Fossil''. Or ''Foss'' or ''Pip'' or ''Gia''. Come to think of it, I have at least six other names for him that I've used over the years. Most of them pointless, all of them wonderful in their stupidity.
Foss usually drives me to the airport when we travel because he likes to be in charge and in control, and I like to absolve all responsibility. It all seems to work. After our light Friday-morning training session at the Whitten Oval, we ducked around the corner to the Footscray Milking Station to break some bread and shoot the breeze. As always, we talk about footy and our families, our loves, our worries. Normal stuff, the best stuff.
This year we've had another guest sit with us, one who never orders from the menu. Quite simply, time. Our time left together as a travelling pair in a pack of Dogs. Footscray Bulldogs, to be more precise.
In all likelihood, this will be the Fossil's last year and, as we left the cafe with coffees in hand for another drive out to the airport, Foss remarked that there were only three more road trips left for the year. A few moments of silence fell softly upon us.
''I'll miss our trips away,'' I said, looking out the window. ''Me too,'' said the Fossil. He's always been a good finisher.
The end of the road, the final curtain, whatever you want to call it, is often associated or at least tinged with sadness, but I didn't get that feeling in the car. Just an overwhelming sense of thanks. How lucky we've been to play this long together, and how lucky we still are to run out with the boys every week.
By the time our plane touched down in Canberra, notions of curtain calls and Father Time were all but gone, and with a game less than 24 hours away each player goes into his own routine, both physical and mental. Each player applying each piece of mental and physical armour he will need to combat the enemy the next day.
It's still the most difficult thing about playing footy at the elite level, I think, the idea of putting your own reputation and the reputation of your club on the line every time you run through the banner. It's the single thing that simultaneously breaks you down over time, and also puts air in your tyres.
As is customary, we arose early on Saturday morning, game day, at our team hotel. Foss and I pottered about our room, manoeuvring between our private business and sidestepping each other as we got dressed, in silence, with the grace and familiarity of ballroom dancers.
There's always an intriguing tension on game day, and it doesn't fade with age or experience.
I think it would be reasonable enough to assume that there was an edginess to our entire travelling party last week. We'd been beaten by the recently tormented Demons a week earlier, and now we were facing the young bloods of the competition, Greater Western Sydney, on neutral ground. Despite their own disappointing win-loss record this year, I'm sure the young Giants would've smelt blood. Often, sides at the lower end of the ladder save their best for opponents alongside them. All clubs are desperate for wins. It was always going to be a willing contest.
The game itself never rose to any great heights, but the endeavour and spirit of both sides, combined with the blustery wind, kept both teams tight all day. My old mate Foss didn't seem his usual self in the first half, and we could've done with a couple of his trademark goals. But we hung in there as a group. As did the Giants.
When it came time to stand up in the last quarter, I thought our boys did that, and though it wasn't pretty, we escaped with ''an ugly win''. We couldn't care less about how pretty they are. When the time came for Fossil to put his stamp on the game, he did. He's always been a good finisher. He also happens to be much more than that.
In the rooms afterwards, we sang our tribal hymn with great gusto. The song is a symbolic release of players taking off their emotional armour, or it is to me anyway. Sitting just outside the circle and in my line of vision, I could see Time once more. Crushing defeats, heartbreaking losses, ugly wins, pretty wins. In the end, what matters is who you got to share them with.