Now that we're all clear on the fact that my sudden sensitivity all comes down to the small matter of my FEELING LIKE SHIT BECAUSE I WAS BORN IN THE WRONG ERA we can maybe move on some. And by move on, yes, I do mean turn our gazes toward football and, speaking of being born in the wrong era - although he's only really twenty years out, which is small-fry compared to my five or six centuries - to the Todd Carney topic.
I know, it's been so long. Nine days, at least! I can't remember what I wrote last time and I won't be going back to check because that picture of Todd on a ride on mower I included in the post? It Breaks.Me.Up.
Anyway, talking about being out of step with the world (as I was in my last post, keep the fuck up already!), Toddy is still a little off the pace isn't he? It's all very subtle, it's not like he's a husk of a man just yet. It's more that he seems to be merely content with going gently into the dark night this season. As opposed to, y'know, raging against the dying of the light and taking on the line and being awesome in general.
I guess if you're of an existential persuasion you could propose that Toddy's plight perfectly illustrates the haphazard and essentially cruel nature of existence. One minute you're up - the sun around which revolve lesser planets, the next minute you're down - that kind of thing... On the other hand, those of a more realistic predisposition could speculate that his plight perfectly illustrates the tendency for alcohol to erode athletic brilliance, addle the mind and exacerbate dickheaded behaviour.
I'm going to say a little from column A and a little from column B.
Any way you cut it, adorable scenes of light-heartedness such as the ones below have been few and far between this year, which is unfortunate.
Given his virtuoso performance last year his 2011 season has been little more than a series of rude intrusions from that pesky thing called reality, punctuated by rueful post-court-appearance press-conferences. And on-field? Shit has been pretty dire. Even by my not-exactly-lofty standards. Waiting for Toddy to run and take on the line, to do anything much other than pass the ball, had been an exercise in futility. We may as well have been waiting for the colt from Old Regret to show up.
Toddy PHONE HOME.
Still, that bizarre Roosters Panthers game on Sunday? The one that started with the Chooks stringing together sequences of mistakes that were more surreal than what even a malfunctioning Raiders side can come up with? The one that saw the SFS inundated with, oh, at least thirty five passionate Rooster supporters? The one that had them finally score more than thirteen points and the one that FINALLY SAW THEM POST A WIN? Yeah, that game. It was terrible, of course, but fantastic too, because there's nothing quite as entertaining as watching a desperate team play with wild and reckless abandon. It was Last Chance Saloon footy, and goddamn if Carney didn't do pretty well.
He understands this 'last throw of the dice' concept better than most, of course, although I have to say he may still be lacking a firm grasp of its finer points. Nevertheless, I think I detected a slight spring to his step and a small twinkle in his eye. So, because an all-whips-cracking Carney is what I very much like to see, let's file this development under 'That's What I Like to See', shall we?