One more game, the Big One, and then the fall of civilisation i.e. THE OFF SEASON. Again. Christ. Cultural bankruptcy beckons.
Well, in the meantime, I hope it’s not rational opinion, objective analysis and up to the minute betting odds you’re here for. If it is, you are clearly lost. You are probably one of those dickheads who are not only inept navigators but are also unable under any circumstances to ask for directions due to your overinflated ego in which case I will offer unsolicited directions STRAIGHT TO COOPER CRONK’S WEBSITE coopercronk.com. Douches will find it informative and inspiring. Everyone else will find it squirmy-funny and unsettling on a sliding scale. Exactly how unsettling you find it will depend on your tolerance levels for new age rhetoric and raging narcissism. Mine, as it turns out, are low. Lower than Clint Eastwood’s balls, if you will.
I look forward to the day when I can invest emotionally in a grand final. Hoo boy won’t that be something? In the meantime, we have the Bulldogs playing the Storm. And while it’s a shame the Raiders or the Sharks didn’t get through (and what a final that would have been and one day will be god willing please god), it’s fantastic the Rabbits and the Broncos didn’t make it either. One hand washes the other, and so forth.
In any case, I’m not too concerned with who wins. I see pros and cons for each outcome.
For example, on the one hand I would love to see Craig Bellamy getting a giant bucket of Gatorade dumped over his head. Which indicates I would like the Storm to win.
On the other hand, I would love to see confetti and shredded raffle tickets mashed with glitter and whatever other garish pulpy matter they void onto the field and the heads of the victors from the air above rain down all over Michael Ennis. He does such a good job, not only playing a vigorous and antagonistic brand of football and captaining a team but in keeping track of what make and model of car every player from every other club drives so that he can cut any opponents brake lines at only a moment’s notice. That’s a real one-percenter. Take note, aspiring sociopaths. I would like to see him holding that big trophy thing aloft while grinning toothily and I would like knowing that all the while the hamster wheel inside his head was still turning, turning….
If this is indeed the outcome, let it be known that the real reason for the Bulldogs’ hot blaze of glory has little to do with Des Hasler’s scientific and analytical style of coaching and penchant for making players ingest imported calf-blood milkshakes and everything to do with the fact that HE CREATED A NEW TEAM SONG PARTWAY THROUGH THE YEAR TO ‘MAKE IT RELEVANT’ AND WHEN THE PLAYERS, WHO ALL COLLABORATED ON THE LYRICS (AS IS EVIDENT) BELT IT OUT THEY ARE LED BY FRANK PRITCHARD ON GUITAR. It climaxes with the following:
“The Dogs are having a party,
The Dogs are having a party,
And (insert defeated team) are in the bin!”
Well, we’ll see about that. Literally. On Sunday.
Anyway, continuing with the one hand washes the other theme, I’d also love to see Cameron Smith really inconsolably upset, stricken, ashen, bereft, but, by the same token, I’d quite like to see him pleased and at peace too. I like to despise him and enjoy despising him but every time I see him on panel shows and hear him give his lucid analysis I end up thinking he’s great and admiring him for the obvious ice that runs through his veins. Is he going to make a great coach one day OR WHAT? It is my personal dream (not the only one, but one of several) that he coach the Raiders one day. To September glory, obviously. It is important to have long-range goals and dreams. That’s what the professionals tell me. The ones with framed qualifications hanging on their walls. But I digress. The other thing that impresses me about Cameron Smith, aside from him being very cool and very controlled and thus the ultimate big game player is that he is a great lover of history. I understand this to mean that he spends his free time on elaborate civil war reenactments and listening to Wagner’s operas at very high volume. Blake Ferguson and Sandor Earl spend theirs at Time Zone. Playing Guitar Hero.
Actually, I don’t really need to see Cameron Smith happy at all. I just remembered all those Origins. I’ve seen quite enough. Too much, as it were.
This brings me back to Bellamy. Everything about the Storm brings me back to Bellamy. He’s the only thing I actually like about the entire outfit, including but not limited to the playing roster past and present, the shady fiscal history of the club and their associated moral transgressions, their colours, their mascot, their name, the name of their home ground, their wrestling skills and subsequent talent for slowing the ruck down to a slow benzodiazepine crawl, their staunch structure and their annoying and frequent habit of winning games with ease. What’s to like?
Bellamy coiled like a reptile in the coaching box.
Bellamy radiating a barely suppressed rage.
Bellamy contorting his elasto-silicone face into all manner of gruesome and painful expressions.
Bellamy inflicting irreparable damage on Mount Franklin bottles.
Bellamy rolling his eyes in their 360-degree-gyro-reticulated sockets.
Bellamy extending his telescopic hyper-stalk neck to full height.
Bellamy conveying the impression of a man perpetually on the edge of violent explosion.
Bellamy actually exploding violently.
It’s not alarming, Craig. It’s awesome. Don’t change.