2009 Season Preview – 25.03.09
GCFC - 8.04.09
The quest for the’97 Masters - 11.04.09
Mid Season Report - 12.06.09
What dosen't kill you (Daniel Chan) - 16.06.09
A Sunday Night in Fitzroy- 16.06.09
One tough Tuesday - 22.06.09
The Ashes, Lord’s Day 3 - 18/7/09
Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Part 2 (Daniel Chan) - 23.07.09
Tribute to Simmo - 07.08.09
Champion of the World - 04.11.09
Ado's Funeral -08.11.09
Two KINGS - 11.01.10


2009 Season Preview – by Mark Wallace

So, to undertake the most thankless task in footy – the season preview.
Of course, the easy way would be to go the safe route – a trail well travelled by the football Illuminati in the daily rags – and that is
to state the bleeding obvious. You know what I’m talking about – the usual nonsense, like, ‘only Hawthorn and Geelong can win it’, ‘Carlton’s on the way up’, ‘Benny Cousins is gonna win the Brownlow, The Coleman Medal and the Rising Star to boot and lift the
poor bloody hapless Tiges beyond the dreaded 9th spot for the first time in the past couple of Millenniums’. And of course, everyone’s favourite old chestnut: ‘North Melbourne will be the biggest sliders in 2009 and end the year propping up the arse end of the table’.

Well I, for one, am of the belief that all of this is UTTER CRAP. Dull, predictable, safe journalism. How about a bit of imagination,
Mike? What about going out on a limb, Caro? How about you stop talking such offensive, hysterical, self-interest driven, poorly-researched bullshit, Patrick?

It would be obvious to most keen-eyed footy followers that The Hawks and The Cats were the best performed teams over the bulk
of 2008, and duly deserve their favouritism for this year’s flag. Yet things can change quickly in footy. Don’t forget that the Doggies were undefeated two-thirds of the way through last year and that even the mighty Cats were a basket case only a couple of years ago. Remember when Al Clarkson took over the Hawks a few seasons back? Clarko was roundly derided by all and sundry, had his game-plan ridiculed and was within a whisker of being given the old heave-ho by their evil incarnate of a president. (Don’t get me started on bloody Kennett – that’s an article for another day.)
So what’s going to change? The Hawks are already struggling underneath the weight of a horrendous injury list and history shows
that unless you get the benefit of a full pre-season under your belt it can be a very long and arduous year. And usually an unsuccessful one. So, Hawthorn – Gone.

Geelong? Well, I reckon they showed their hand in the grand final last year. Their season-long mantra of being completely selfless in their shooting for goal was taken to a new level in the big one when nobody actually wanted a ping at the big ones all day. Which, of course, is why they lost the un-loseable match. Now, some folks may call this game-style of theirs arrogant or big-headed. I’m one
of those people and predict they will handball themselves to death in 2009. Gone.

The Dogs could be the smoky though a lack of key forwards could be a problem again. Brad Johnson is getting a bit old and senile,
as is Aker. Tom Williams and Jarryd Grant are unproven. Rob Murphy is off in his own little rock and roll world...
What was I thinking? Gone.

The Saints have used the old Sydney Swans method of boring teams into submission since Ross Lyon took over. Surely this can’t keep working. A few cups of strong coffee and a can of V before the match should get their opposition up and awake to their devious doings and relegate the Saints to a spot in the lower reaches of the eight.

Sydney – read Saints.

Collingwood are interesting. The oldest coach in the AFL, Mad Micky Malthouse, has had everyone bar the boot-studder take the coaching reins in the NAB Cup. With Nathan circling in the wings maybe he’s a bit nervous about taking any responsibility lest he
prove himself past it. Look for Eddie to coach a struggling Pies outfit from about round 15 onwards while the toothless faithful in the
outer amuse themselves over having blokes called Cox, Dick, Sidebottom and Goldsack in the team.

Adelaide, West Coast, Brisbane, Port...? Will only win when they play each other and no-one will notice or care. As for the other
interstater, the insane Freo Dockers, who would bloody well know what’s going on there? Just don’t tip ‘em. Ever.

Carlton and Richmond are in a similar position. Just outside the eight, young talented lists, with great expectations of big improvement. Forget the big Cuz-Judd face off in round one – the big incident that derails both their seasons will occur in round 15 at the G when, in
front of 99,000 frothing-at-the-mouth fans, Fev and Kane Johnson emerge from the rooms after the half-time break pissed out of their heads and proceed to urinate on each other causing a massive shit storm (you’re allowed to say that these days aren’t you?) resulting
in both teams being stripped of all their points and relegated from top 4 spots to the bottom of the ladder.

Essendon will do brilliantly with their intoxicating blend of sexy young guns and hard-nosed experienced champions and will challenge for the top 4 and maybe even the premiership flag! (Disclaimer: This prediction may or may not be influenced by the fact that my good wife is a rabid Dons fan, or that she owns a 15-inch cast iron frying pan)

Melbourne – Sigh...

Finally, the mighty NMFC... Well, if Boomer, Simmo and Drewy can maintain their consistently brilliant form, and if Wellsy can take the
next step and become a superstar of the competition, and if Harro, Jonesy and Big H can recapture their mojo, and if youngsters like Hansen, Urquhart, Ross and Lower can establish themselves in the 18, and if Matty and Lindsay can add some running power to
their round-the-goal sharp-shooting, and if we can find someone to help Spud and Gibbo down back, and if poor Jesse Smith can
stop walking under ladders and get on the frickin’ park for a change, and if ‘Jumpin’ Jack Ziebell can take the first step towards his inevitable canonisation into football immortality... If, if, so many bloody ifs. Admittedly, it’ll be tough, but stuff it, if anyone can do it it’s
the great North Melbourne Football Club. I believe!

Final Ladder
1 - NMFC
2 - Freo
3 - Essendon
4 - Geelong
5 - Dogs
6 - Saints
7 - Hawks
8 - Pies
9 - Swans
10 - Port
11 - Adelaide
12 - Brisbane Bears
13 - West Coast
14 - Demons
15 - Tigers
16 - Blues

Premiers
NMFC

Brownlow
Daniel Wells

Rising Star
Jack Ziebell

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GCFC – by Andrew Starkie

My immediate reaction to the AFL’s granting of a provisional licence to the Gold Coast Football Club was to ask:
how will this impact on the Kangaroos?

CEO Demetriou has stated all existing clubs are safe, regardless of GCFC entering the competition in 2011. I find this difficult to believe. Will the AFL continue to provide extra financial support to the likes of North, or the Dees, whilst bankrolling the Gold Coast venture?

The current AFL Discretionary Fund agreement, of which North benefits, ends this year. What will the new agreement, starting in 2010, hold for our club?

CEO Demetriou must have a money tree in the backyard in South Yarra, or a direct line to Santa.

Will a struggling Victorian club be pushed south to beautiful Tassie? Previously dismissive towards, the AFL has recently granted an audience to the Tasmanian Government. Everyone left the meeting smiling.

Is CEO planning on tapping James Brayshaw or Jim Stynes on the shoulder? Or inviting either to a deserted and darkened carpark?

The gift of extra draft picks to GCFC will hurt existing clubs. Those struggling at the bottom of the ladder will find the task of rebuilding a competitive squad more difficult from a depleted talent pool after the Gold Coast have plundered and pillaged.

Will our Queenslanders – Pratt, Urquhart, Hale and Warren – be tempted home? With a higher salary cap, the GCFC will offer greater bounty to targeted players than their current clubs. A poor club such as ours will find it difficult to hold onto profile players.

The AFL has thrown a cat among the pigeons with the GCFC. One thing is sure, Laidley and Brayshaw should be inviting those most required out for a friendly chat and latte` on Errol Street.

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The quest for the’97 Masters – by Andrew Starkie

‘It’s heaven in there boys, but you ain’t going in,’ the stall owner drawled.

His walrus moustache bounced up and down as he chuckled. He was selling framed photos of Amen Corner.

We were standing opposite the front gates of Augusta National Golf Club, Georgia. Magnolia Lane disappeared behind rows of large pines that served as a shield against the outside world. Security and cops were everywhere. Rob, a mate from home, had just enough time to take my photo at the front entrance before we were hustled away.

We joined the scalpers. A Kenny Rogers look-alike was offering US$5,000 for a day pass. A young fella in a red baseball cap was prepared to part with US$3,000: his college fund. I asked if his parents knew. He laughed and shrugged.

Nobody was biting. Club and PGA members rushed past on their way to the big, green forest. Augusta National had a bit of Oz about it. Or Babylon.

‘Bloody hell! We’ve gotta get in there, Rob,’ I said. I was shaking. ‘I’ve wanted this forever.’

I had. Since I discovered The Masters one April morning years before in the lounge room in Warrnambool. I was enchanted by the greenness of the course, the quiet, the reverence, the prestige, the jacket. The play-offs gripped me. When the Golden Bear, Mize and Faldo stole green jackets from the Shark, I felt his pain. Would an Aussie ever win at Augusta? Did the moment, the event, the back nine on Sunday, overwhelm them?

Something else about Augusta attracted me. The challenge. It was, and still is, the scalper’s holy grail. The situation may have changed since, however, by the ‘90s, only club and PGA members received tickets. If found selling or passing on tickets, memberships were cancelled.

Augusta fascinated me. Standing at the entrance to Magnolia Lane, I had to get inside. Somehow, someway, it had to happen.

Rob and I had agreed on offering US$50 for a ticket. That was all we could afford after almost two months of travelling the U.S., sleeping in dodgy hotels or on overnight trains and eating at Hooters. We hired a car for the push to Augusta so we wouldn’t miss The Masters. A few days prior I had driven 600 miles across flat open plains from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City where I reversed into a mailbox. We fled the scene of the crime and holed up in a hotel with a flashing sign out front.

We spent Wednesday night of Masters week in Atlanta. We left the hostel before sun up and made the 100 mile journey through wooded country to Augusta where we were presented with a typically crisp and sunny Spring morning.

‘Not a hope, guys, not a hope,’ Walrus Moustache said.

I wanted to punch him in the head.

We distanced ourselves from other scalpers and made for the carpark to the left of Magnolia Lane. It was important to keep on the move, blend into the crowd.

The plan was for me to make contact. Rob would take over and do the sweet talking. Target individuals, not groups of potentially loud, argumentative males.

The first candidate walked by in shorts and long white socks. I choked and pulled out. Rob sprang into action.

‘Excuse me, mate, um, would you consider selling your ticket for fifty bucks?’

He paused and looked at Rob. Not a hope, I thought.

‘Sure man,’ he replied cheerily, as if flattered by the offer.

The exchange was made. White Socks turned and walked away with the look of a man who’d won the lottery. Not a golf fan, I thought.

Rob and I stood looking at each other. We couldn’t believe it. Our first approach. Fifty measly bucks. He said yes. We were going to The Masters!

Rob was to go inside first. It was only fair - he landed the catch. Two hours inside, come out and hand the ticket over to me. I wished him luck. He was Archie going over the top in Gallipoli.

Rob disappeared up Magnolia Lane and I paced the carpark like a maniac, muttering, ‘I’m going to The Masters. I’m going to The Masters.’ I reminded myself to stay focused. A life’s ambition was about to be realised.

Twenty minutes went by and suddenly Rob was in front of me.

‘What are you doing here? What the bloody hell happened?’

He couldn’t speak. He looked at the ground and shook his head.

Finally, words came to him.

‘Security saw the deal going down. They grabbed me as soon as I got in and questioned me in an office like the fucking FBI! The bloke who sold the ticket’s stuffed. He’s losing his membership.’

Pure elation turned to utter desolation. Those who witnessed the World Cup qualifier between the Socceroos and Iran later that year would understand.

I had to walk away. I squatted behind a car and swore. My Masters dream was destroyed. Rob tried to console me but I couldn’t speak. I was lost in a swirl of self-pity.

We slumped on the grass between two fat Buicks.

‘Hi guys. What’s up?’ A dangerous looking blonde, the type you see in James Bond movies, hovered over us. ‘Got tickets yet?’

‘Don’t ask,’ Rob replied.

We had seen Blondie earlier in the day. She was hanging around other scalpers, looking as if she knew what she was doing.

Rob explained our tale of heartbreak.

‘That shit happens all the time, boys,’ she said. ‘Don’t give up. Change your look. Take your caps off, change your shirts. Go to the back entrance. Try again.’

Suddenly we felt rejuvenated. With new found resolve and an encouraging word from Blondie, we set off again. We had come too far to throw in the towel.

The back entrance was quieter and positioned at the end of a small carpark. A few spectators drifted in and out.

Minus caps and sporting new shirts to throw security off the scent, Rob and I settled into our routine. Most of the people we approached were friendly, yet apologetic.
Word had got around that Tiger was tearing up the back nine. Spectators weren’t parting with their day passes.

By mid afternoon, our chances looked slim. College boy drifted by looking deflated.

We decided on one last try. A cool looking dude in a polo shirt made his way out of the course and towards us. That was my cue.

‘Er, um, excuse me, Mate. Interested in selling your ticket?’

‘Sorry, Bud,’ he replied, barely glancing over his shoulder.

‘Are you sure, Mate?’ I enquired again, surprised by own my persistence.

He stopped, turned and looked at me. I feared I’d gone too far.

‘Hey,’ he started. ‘Are you guys Aussies?’ A crooked grin broke across his tanned face.

I sighed in relief and Rob and I looked at each other – this time with new hope.

Our new friend, Charles, used to play the Australian circuit in the early ‘90s. Once a first round leader of our own Masters, Charles has held great affection for Downunder and its inhabitants since.

Charles had a ticket for both Thursday and Friday thanks to his close friend and tournament entrant, David Duval, and he was more than glad to share them with us - for the reasonable outlay of one slab of Budweiser.

It was my turn to go inside first. Taking a few calming breaths, I approached the back entrance. I felt as if I was walking onto the ground for a grand final. Security looked me up and down. I flashed my ticket, fastened securely to my wrist.

I walked under the metal detector and up to the gate. A female African American security guard scanned my ticket, paused for effect, flashed a knowing smile and announced, ‘You’re legal’.

I was in and walking. Like the inmate who unwittingly escaped from the Turkish prison in Midnight Express, I didn’t look back. I kept going and found myself on a path in a forest of towering pines.

Finally, I emerged at the back of the twelfth green – a vast, cavernous, silent, natural amphitheatre. Bernard Langer was resting on his putter.

I was at The Masters!

Over the next two days, Rob and I revelled in the majesty of Augusta National. We slept in the car and toasted our good fortune at Hooters. And we dropped by Walrus Moustache to tell him he was right. It is heaven in there.

On Sunday, we watched Tiger win his first green jacket from a bar in Memphis, Tennessee.

This time each year, I reflect on our Masters experience. I thank God for sending Charles and I text Rob: ‘Memories’.

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Mid Season Report

When your team is four wins and seven losses, a midseason report is not much fun to write, or read. Anyway, here we go…

The best place to start is… well, at the start. Round 1 against Melbourne at a sun washed MCG. An efficient win suggested another competitive season for the mighty NMFC. However, it didn’t take long for grey skies to move in. The following week, again at the ‘G, we fell to a more organised, hungrier Bulldogs. Despite a fast finish that nearly got us home, we never deserved victory. The less I say about Easter weekend against the undermanned Premiers, the better. Fortunately, I was in Canberra and didn’t have to witness the destruction live. Watching from a friend’s lounge was tough enough.

We controlled the tempo against the Bombers in Round 4. Their runners were smothered and Boomer had a blinder. ANZAC Day night provided the low point of the season so far. After kicking three early goals, we looked set for a percentage booster, however, poor skills and a defensive game plan allowed the Tigers to settle, gain confidence and score their first win. Boomer went down under a crude tackle.

Collingwood smashed us. Too skilful, too many forward options. They were even too quick. That’s a worry. We were never in the game.

Round 7 against Port was the Alamo game. We courageously defended the fort in a final quarter that went for a week and a half. This victory should have corrected our season. The Cats bullied us at the Cattery. A lasting memory is of Mooney sharing a joke with the crowd during the second quarter. The game was over early. After a poor start – the boys were possibly running out the bruises inflicted by Geelong - the Kangaroos were too desperate for Fremantle. Wells, Ziebell and the coach’s quarter-time spray were best on ground.

In Round 10, despite holding Brown and Bradshaw, Brisbane were too neat and swift through the middle. On Saturday against the Saints, we started well only to fall under the weight of injuries. Kositzche and Reiwoldt had a bit to do with it as well.

So, what’s gone wrong in 2009?

To begin to answer that question, we have to return to that horrible wet September night in Sydney last year. Despite leading at half-time, we meekly surrendered and the season ended disappointingly. Sinclair, Grant and Thompson retired and with them went plenty of experience and goal kicking ability. A ‘transition’ phase started at North and this signalled a dip in consistency and ladder position for this year.

To state the bleeding obvious, injuries, or the lack of them, hold the key to a successful season. This seems to be truer with each passing year. Our injury list has grown with every game this season. We have played nearly forty players and have one of the least experienced lists. Recent high (or is that low?) draft picks, Anthony and Tarrant, have hardly been on the field. Wells and Lower have missed games. Pratt and Hansen have been missed in defence. Jesse Smith has been, well, Jesse Smith. Boomer’s absence has robbed us of our captain and match winner. He is still weeks away.

From Saturday’s game against the Saints, Warren, Power and Wright were left injured. Warren will miss several weeks with a fractured cheekbone. We finished with seventeen players on the field. I’m polishing the boots and waiting for a call from Laidley this week.

Our skills have been poor this year. Delivery into the forward line has been sloppy and undoubtedly frustrating for Hale and Petrie. Under pressure and at crucial times, we’ve turned the ball over. We’ve attempted to over possess, however, don’t have the skills to play keepings-off. Our opponents just have to wait a while and we hand it back.

Skill problems are related to our game plan. Laidley usually relies on a high possession, slow tempo approach which, as mentioned above, comes apart under pressure. With up to three tall forwards, this game plan is wrong. Despite losing to the Bulldogs, when we moved the ball in high and long, we caused their defence problems. Direct and daring against Port, we looked good. We need to move the ball quicker more often.

Ok, It hasn’t been all bad this year. There have been highlights. Simmo, oldest player and former captain, has been in career best form. He would be leading our best and fairest award. While Simmo’s form is a positive, he shouldn’t be carrying the burden at this stage of his career. Others have to share the load. He is set to play his 300th this week, however, you guessed it, he’s under an injury cloud.

Despite missing a couple of games through injury and illness, Ziebell has already secured his spot through a game based on maturity and aggression. He is a big chance to win the NAB Rising Star Award. Warren is another debutant who has impressed. Although average size, he has fashioned a position as a lead-up forward and is kicking goals. He will be missed in coming weeks as he overcomes a fractured cheekbone.

Swallow has revitalised his career and secured a spot in the midfield. He has kicked important goals and was excellent in the win against Port. Petrie has been as courageous as ever and a fine stand-in captain. McIntosh has had some great games, mixed in with a few shockers. Hansen was playing very well in defence before injuring his hamstring. Thompson, who has performed admirably against larger opponents, has replaced him.

So that’s my two bobs worth at the midway point of the season. I could say more on topics such as the futures of the coach and a number of players, however, I’ll reserve judgment and leave that for later in the season.

I hope it hasn’t been too difficult reading.


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What Doesn’t Kill You......
– by Daniel Chan

A series on the losses that build your character.

1979 Preliminary Final – North Melbourne versus Collingwood

My earliest memories of North losses were the night Grand Final against Fitzroy and the ’78 Grand Final loss against Hawthorn. However, to a young mind just starting a love affair with North Melbourne, these were minor issues compared to trying to convince my parents to get me a set of Cats Eyes marbles, or even better, ball bearings.

1979 was a year of change. I discovered radio and realised that newspapers had football stories. Following North Melbourne was day to day with the newspapers and week to week on the radio. Names like Blight, Schimmelbush, Greig, and Dench, were starting to get etched in my mind. I heard stories about how Barassi loved Ebert, hated a bloke called Cornes, and was sure that a fit Phil Baker would ensure Premiership glory.

1979 was bound to be a Premiership year for us. Not only did we have the best team in the land, but logic was also on our side. We had made every Grand Final from 1974 to 1978, and we always won in the odd numbered year. It never occurred to me that we had only won 2 Premierships, and that it wasn’t very many compared to other clubs. I never knew that we were one of the last clubs to join the VFL, that it took us 50 long years to win our first Premiership, or that we spent most of our time at, or near, the bottom of the ladder.

Did I say that 1979 was a year of change? The Preliminary Final changed football, and life, for me. As you all know, Collingwood were our opponents. They were the bad guys, everyone knew that. The bad guys never won in the end, and everyone knew that too. We had the best team, and it was an odd numbered year. I remember sitting next to the radio, trying to see the game in my mind. As the game went on, expectation of a win turned to hoping for a win to a realisation that life doesn’t turn out as neatly as you expect. As the time ticked away, as Collingwood held onto their lead, as the siren went, the realisation started to sink in that life wasn’t fair or logical. Something that had given me so much joy throughout the year suddenly gave a new feeling. It was a feeling of sadness. It was a North loss that hit me in the heart. And for the first time in my life, I cried after a North Melbourne game.


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One Tough Tuesday

I’ve had a few days to get my head around Tuesday’s events. No, not the gangland killing in Ascot Vale (what a pack of bogans). Laids’ resignation. The shock has subsided, the scotch worn off, and now it’s time to make sense of it all. Let’s retrace what transpired.

This is my take on events. In the fallout from the weekend’s debacle against Adelaide, Laids phoned Donald McDonald Monday night and invited him over for a beer. During the evening, Laids confided he had had enough and wouldn’t be re-applying for the job in 2010. Donald drank all the beer. Was that in celebration? Sorry, bad joke.

Next morning, Laids told JB. After a quick chat, James and Laids ‘agreed’ now was as good a time as ever to go. So, Laids’ resignation was ‘effective immediately’.

At the presser, Laids admitted he was interested in coaching elsewhere and that to further his chances of landing another gig, he had to start circulating the CV. He also claimed it would be easier for North to find a coach for 2010 with him out of the way. JB announced Crocks had the care-taker role until season’s end.

Speculation about who would get the job for 2010 started before Laids had time to take his name off the portable door. According to the media, Bucks is at the top of our list - if we can afford the reported 800 big ones it’ll take to land him. Followed by Kangaroo premiership players and current assistant coaches Longmire, Rock, King, Blakey and of course, Crocks, if he doesn’t stuff up over the next eleven weeks.

What about current coaches coming out of contract? Williams and Malthouse may be tempted to take a paycut and get down and dirty in the building works at Arden Street. What about Pagan? Welcome home, Dennis, all is forgiven? Pleeeasse. Or Terry Wallet? If he gets the gig, I will move to WA and support Freo. I swear, I will.

A sub-committee, including Arch, has been assigned to find the right man (at the right price) for the job.

Ok, so that brings us up to speed.

I’ve just got a few observations and questions:

Laids should’ve coached the year out. A coach leaving mid-year never looks good. The club could’ve announced he was leaving season’s end and started planning now for 2010 both on and off field. Why did JB decide sooner was better than later?

A few weeks ago Laids said he had never been more excited about North’s future. So, what’s changed? Has a more attractive position emerged?

Crocks got the job very, very, very quickly after Laids and JB came to ‘agreement’. A little too quickly, perhaps? It has a bit of JFK and LBJ on Airforce One about it, don’t you think? Or have I been a Roo for too long and see everything as a conspiracy theory?

The presser lacked emotion. Laids said he was leaving with a ‘tinge’ of sadness. JB said he didn’t try to talk Laids out of leaving. Both men looked a bit relieved. Did Laids save the club from sacking him at the end of the season? Did the club pay Laids out?

A bottom three finish this season will help us on draft day (although GCFC will pillage the talent pool before anyone else gets a go). Will JB and Eugene invite Crocks to a darkened carpark and suggest it’s in his and the club’s best interests to tank? If they do and he does, I’m moving to West Sydney and supporting a club that doesn’t exist.

Bucks has barely coached a game of junior footy. How can he be considered a better prospect than more experienced and successful candidates? Longmire appears to be the most qualified of the assistant coaches. But what if he brings down that boring Sydney game plan? We’ll lose games and support. We can’t afford that.

Let’s get behind Crocks. If he coaches six victories before the year’s out, he may be worth a punt for 2010 and beyond.

These are difficult times for the club, but we’ll be right. We’re a club that loves a fight. Come on North!



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Lord’s
Day 3
18/7/09

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

When Daff made the pre-series call for volunteers to write daily Ashes reports, I thought, yup, sounds easy. I put my hand up for Saturday at Lord’s, marked the date on the calendar and looked forward to a relaxing evening in front of the TV. Problem is I’m not a night owl.

The evening has arrived and as I lay in front of the box, waiting for play to start, I’m secretly longing for an early night. I’m feeling the effects of a week of chasing kids around the classroom and the ducted-heating is inducing sleep.

And with Australia facing their first loss at cricket’s home since Fred Perry was winning Wimbledon, I’m expecting a long and painful night of Pommy dominance.

Anyway, a man’s gotta do…..

Overnight details:

ENGLAND 425
Strauss 161
Hilfenhaus 4/103

AUSTRALIA 8/156
Hussey 51
Anderson 4/26

First session:

Play started under light clouds with Australia needing 70 runs to avoid the follow-on.

Broad opened with a handful of bouncers. Hauritz and Sidds ignored them or edged and sliced boundaries through the fortunately empty third man area. Broad looks like a public school toff, or Julian from the Famous Five (‘Come on Dick, let’s have a yummy picnic in the castle!’).

Onions, who would look at home playing the spoons in an Irish pub, replaced Anderson after forty minutes and was immediately driven through point for four by Hauritz. Two balls later he slashed outside off and was caught smartly by Collingwood at third slip. Hauritz was out for 24 and Australia was 9/169.

Australia still needed 30 to avoid the follow-on when Hilfenhaus walked to the crease. The responsibility lay with Sidds who continued to cut and hook Broad whose bottom lip started to quiver. Onions pitched up to Sidds who edged to Strauss at first slip. Sidds’ 35 is his highest Test score. Australia were all out for 215, a deficit of 210.

Perhaps to rest Freddy who didn’t bowl this morning, or maybe because he liked the look of the flattening pitch, Strauss didn’t enforce the follow-on. He and Cook strode back out under a warm sun. Strauss immediately pulled Hilfy for four and England looked set for a big day at the crease.

Punter’s patience with Johnson lasted three overs. He was cut and pulled everywhere and after Strauss swatted a full toss off his pads for another four, Sidds replaced him.

Things didn’t improve. Strauss and Cook plundered 50 from their first ten overs. England were 0/57 at Lunch and the overall lead, 267.

Tiredness crept in during the break. I had to keep busy, so I put on a load of dirty washing, cleaned the kitchen and gulped down some strong coffee.

Second session:

I settled in for the start of the middle session expecting to witness an English run feast. When Strauss flicked Sidds off his pads for four, dread filled me. Here we go, I thought.

Suddenly, funny things started happening. Hauritz came on - sore finger and all - and trapped Cook plum in front with his first ball. In his next over, he tossed one up to Strauss who edged to Clarke. Both batsmen made 32. Pietersen opened his scoring by waltzing down the pitch and lifting the off-spinner over mid-wicket.

Hilfenhaus replaced Hauritz to have a go at Pietersen who survived an LBW appeal and runout chance – all in the same ball. Hilfy twice whistled his outswinger past Pietersen’s bat. An uncontrolled off-drive caught his inside edge and almost the off-stump.

Ponting, at second slip, dropped a simple chance off Bopara. Punter looked at the ground like someone who had farted loudly in church. Sidds crouched mid-pitch with his head in his hands.

Normalcy returned when Haddin gave away four more byes.

The hour after drinks saw Australia produce their best spell of bowling for the Test. Hilfenhaus dominated Pietersen with his outswingers and even Johnson found a better line. Our fielding was sharp and pressure was maintained on the English.

England managed only fifteen runs in a ten over period.

England were edging towards Tea when Bopara pulled Johnson to mid-on and Hauritz claimed a tumbling catch. Rudi Koertzen referred to his colleague in the grandstand and Bopara was given the benefit of the doubt.

England went to Tea at 2/130 with Bopara on 19 and Pietersen 28. It had been Australia’s session, yet England’s overall lead was 340 and growing.

Third session:

Punter employed go-slow tactics after Tea. He found it necessary to speak to his bowlers – and anyone else for that matter – whenever possible in an attempt to hinder England’s momentum.

The plan worked. Bopara and turned Hauritz off his thigh pad and into Katich’s hands at short leg. He never looked comfortable and made 27 from 93 balls. Pietersen edged Sidds to Haddin on 44 from 101. England had strolled to 4/174.

Punter’s tactics worked on me as well. He obviously didn’t have sympathy for sleep deprived cricket watchers at home. The tough grind set in and I was doing it tough with about 30 overs left in the day’s play (and it was about 2am Reservoir time). I had to step outside into the cold night air to wake up.

Prior emerged with instructions and he and Collingwood lifted the scoring rate. Hauritz came in for punishment as drives and cheeky sweeps found the boundary. The 50 partnership came up in 49 balls. Prior took just 37 balls to score his half-century and looked destined for a brilliant century until, on 61, North ran him out with a direct hit from the outfield. England were 5/260.

Freddy came out to huge applause and Punter discussed his dinner plans with Johnson. I folded towels and prayed for rain. Collingwood carried on and brought up his 50 from 72 balls and the lead was 500. Party time

Things became embarrassing when Freddy got going. The field retreated and runs were easy. Our quicks were plastered everywhere. Dark clouds drew in and the umpires discussed the light. Rain stopped play as Collingwood fell for 54.

No further play was possible and the day closed with England 6/311 and with an overall lead of 521. As I fall into deliriously bed, I’m struck by the realization that only rain can save Australia’s beloved Lord’s record.

Close of play details:

ENGLAND 425 and 6/311
Prior 61
Flintoff 30*
Broad 0*
Hauritz 3/80

AUSTRALIA 215
Hussey 51
Anderson 4/55




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Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Part 2 by Daniel Chan

North Melbourne vs Fitzroy, Junction Oval, 1983.

One by one, we were nailing them. 
In round 2, the 1982 runner up, Richmond, were taken care of.  Our rivals from the 1970s, Hawthorn, were thrashed in round 7.  The reigning premiers, Carlton, were humiliated by 19 goals in round 10.  Surrounding these results were a 140 point win over Sydney, a 115 point win over Footscray, and a 10 goal win over Geelong.

Our charge was led by Western Australians. 
Club legend Barry Cable, was coach, the Krakouer brothers were running rampant, and Ross Glendinning was heading towards a Brownlow.  We were playing a Western Australian style of football, a kind where the opposition died from a thousand subtle cuts rather than the ruthless brutal bludgeoning that we’d see ten years later.

On the back of six wins in a row, we travelled to the Junction Oval to take on the third placed Fitzroy. 
They defeated us comfortably in round 2.  A 45 point margin may not sound like much, but the fact that we had 2 goals to three quarter time told its own story.  But by round 13, that loss was a distant memory.

My dad took me to the game, and it was my first and last trip to the Junction Oval. 
The ground was packed, and unlike other opposition grounds, the crowd had a friendly feel to it.  The first half was disturbing.  The Lions seemed faster, stronger, and it looked like they could kick longer.  We didn’t seem to get close enough to tackle them, and anytime we got the ball, they seemed to take it back like an older brother ripping a toy off a younger sibling.  At half-time, Fitzroy led by 6 goals.  To the 2009 football fan, a 6 goal margin doesn’t seem that large.  Even the worst teams in modern football are capable of scoring three or four quick goals to bring a game back into competitive tension.  But in 1983, a 6 goal margin was the end of it.

When watching football, there’s that moment where the brain registers the names of the players. 
In the third quarter, the names flashing in my mind were Rendell, Quinlan, Wilson, Irwin, and Harris.  And there was Conlan who looked like a human tank in my eyes.  It was an eleven goal avalanche for the Lions, and the two we got were greeted by me standing up, arms aloft, and yelling in a not quite broken voice, “Take that Fitzroy!”.  My dad cautioned me not to abuse the opposition because one of their fans might bash me up later – something he reminded me again on the way home.

We left early in the last quarter, and on the way home, we dropped into the local milkbar. 
I was still wearing my North scarf as my small act of defiance and loyalty.  The guy behind the counter gave me a sympathetic smile and told me bad luck. I asked him if he knew what the final scores were.  He said he didn’t know, but he knew that Fitzroy won by 150 points.  I didn’t believe him.

It’s always seemed to me that the people who often make the most sage observations about football were Fitzroy fans. 
Royboy Steve has a keen a mind for football’s truths as anyone else I know.  He once observed that 1983 was the missed opportunity for Fitzroy.  The top three or four sides that year were very even, and it was Hawthorn who hit form at the right time.  For North Melbourne fans, it turned out to the last chance for glory for many of our heroes of the 1970s.  It would take another ten years before a new glorious era started to emerge.

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Tribute to Simmo – by Mark Wallace

The first moment I can clearly recall of Adam Simpson was in the final minute of the 1996 Grand Final. Wearing the number 37 guernsey, Simmo swooped on a loose ball and kicked around his body on his non-preferred right boot from 45m for a goal which put the Kangaroos six goals up.

North had well and truly won the game and the Centenary Premiership by this stage and this was a time for celebration. The first teammate to rush to the youngster and hug him gleefully was Darren Crocker, the man who would coach him in his 306th and final match as a champion of the North Melbourne Football Club.

No more than 30 seconds later the ball was propelled back towards the North goalsquare and landed in the arms of the Williamstown fisherman, Ian Fairley who went back and put the final stamp on a famous victory by kicking truly from 15m out for the last score of the match. This was Fairley’s last game and the perfect end to a solid and proud career in the blue and white.

Unfortunately many sporting heroes don’t get the fairytale ending afforded to Fairley and Adam Simpson’s last moments in the AFL fall into that category. With a dodgy calf and a team in the doldrums, Simpson had chosen the big stage of Friday Night Football against a finals-bound Carlton to say his goodbyes, hoping against hope that the young team around him could muster a fitting send-off for the old warrior.

As history now shows, this wasn’t to be, as a mixture of errant goalkicking and inexperience from his teammates conspired against him in a 10 point loss.

But if ever the new breed representing his beloved North Melbourne want to search somewhere for inspiration, they could do worse than turn to their former captain’s decorated career and look at what he has achieved over 15 seasons with his underrated, though less-than-elite skills.

And that’s not to denigrate the great man in the slightest. He wasn’t in the Buckley, Judd or Hird category when it came to silky ball-delivery and that was often held against him when it came to judging the great midfielders of his era, but it must be noted that he had an exceptional leap that was used to full effect in the role he pioneered as the third man up in ruck contests and he regularly out-marked opponents well in excess of his own 185cm in height.

He was also a remarkably reliable shot for goal, despite his reputation for mongrel left foot floaters and North supporters were always pretty comfortable seeing the ball in his hands when a crucial moment in a game presented itself. His in-and-under work, creative use of handball, vision and tireless running was second-to-none.

But what set Simpson apart from the rest was his fierce desire for victory, his extraordinary durability (he missed only six games from his debut in 1995), a determination to never be beaten and, above all, the love of his jumper, his club and his teammates.

It’s these manful qualities that define his wonderful career more so than individual highlights, but If Simpson’s goal in the dying minutes of the 96 Grand Final provided a memorable moment at the beginning of his journey, it was an incident in his final year that will live longer in my mind than any other.

It was Round 11 and North were up against an unbeaten St.Kilda. Simpson was brought down while trying to run the ball out of defence and the ball spilled to the Saints’ Jason Gram who turned towards goal. Simpson, still prostrate on the ground, threw himself over Gram’s boot and effected a remarkable smother, saving a certain goal. It was an effort that encapsulated the essence of the man and his selfless attitude towards his own safety and his dedication to the cause.

I don’t know what happened to Ian Fairley post-AFL. I like to imagine he’s lazily lounging back in a nice little runabout somewhere in Port Phillip Bay with his mates, beer in hand, fishing for King George Whiting and telling tall tales about his ‘premiership-winning 60m bomb’ .

I can’t imagine such follies would appeal to Adam Simpson though – not just yet, anyway. He is intent on a coaching career and you get the feeling that his story has some chapters yet to be written.

North Melbourne’s next premiership coach? Stranger things have happened.  


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Champion of the World

Ali told everyone he was going to dance. Foreman trained for this. In sparring, he practised cutting off the ring. Closing in and cornering his opponents like prey to be devoured. You can’t dance without a dance floor.

Everyone was frightened for Ali - his people, Foreman’s people, sportswriters. What if Ali was maimed, or worse? Ali was 32, Foreman, 24. Foreman was the Heavy Weight Champion of the World. From behind, he looked like a surly grizzly bear. He punched like an old train engine – big, heavy, dangerous.

Foreman had humiliated Joe Frazier. Frazier was the Champ when Foremen lifted him off the canvas with a single punch. Foreman was the puppeteer jerking Frazier’s strings. Foreman showed no emotion; he just destroyed Frazier and took his title.

In his stark, white change rooms under the grandstands, Ali is the host of a dead party. There are plenty of people present – corner men, supporters, hangers-on, and family – however, he is the only one talking. ‘I’m gonna dance! I’m gonna dance!’ He glides over the carpeted floor, trying to dodge the fear in case it catches him, seeps into his skin and kills his courage.

It’s time to rumble. Ali and his corner walk quietly, timidly through the ringside seats. It’s as if the fear has infected Ali. His head is bowed and he offers a little, almost shy, wave to the crowd. Foreman and his corner run to the ring like a football team. The outdoor ring is in the middle of the arena. It has a roof as protection against the expected monsoons. Invited guests, dignitaries and journalists occupy the ringside seats. The locals occupy the distant grandstands. It’s early in the morning in Kinshasa, Zaire.

Inside the ring, Ali comes alive. He must win the crowd. He orchestrates the chant – ‘Ali! Ali!’ – while watching Foreman over his shoulder. He is looking for a reaction knowing he needs any advantage. Foreman doesn’t make eye contact; he is jogging around with his massive arms in the air. At the instructions, Ali is trash talking. The Champ stares at the canvas. He looks like a silent murderer from a movie.

At the bell, Ali sprints to the centre of the ring and stops as if realising the trouble he has found. The boxers circle and Ali throws a right lead. A risky punch as it leaves his upper body undefended to retaliation. This is arrogant and an insult to Foreman. He’s the Champion of the World! Ali throws more right leads. Foreman is incensed. No one does this to him. He cuts off the ring, just like in training. He lands a left and two rights. They wrestle. Foreman pushes Ali to the corner and heaves body punches into him. Ali’s back is a beautiful inverted pyramid.

The first round is suddenly over - great sporting events pass quickly – and both fighters sit down. Foreman listens passively to his trainer Dick Sadler while again looking at the canvas. He is blowing lightly through his lips. Foreman could be there on his own, the ring his cocoon from the world. This is the only place he feels safe, worthy, equal.

Ali is looking beyond Angelo Dundee at Foreman as he gives him instructions. Ali’s eyes are bright, dark and white. He is aware of everyone and everything. He craves attention like a child. He rises early and orchestrates the chant again.

Round two begins and Ali again rushes to the centre. Foreman pushes him to the ropes. Ali surrenders too easily. Where’s the dancing? Is the fight fixed? Will Ali go down early? Foreman swings at Ali’s body. Big punches that shudder into ribs and kidneys. Foreman lands a right on his jaw, however, the Champ’s punches aren’t having an impact. Ali lies on the ropes and licks jabs at Foreman’s head. His jab is a tongue: out and in, out and in.

Ali’s eyes aren’t blinking. They stare at Foreman’s. Ali is anticipating Foreman’s moves. As the round ends, Ali shakes his head disappointedly at the crowd who think he has been hurt by a Foreman combination. He cares too much about what people think of him to permit this.

Ali opens round three with a combination and retreats to the ropes. Foreman advances and tries to pound his opponent, however, he can’t pierce Ali’s defensive skills. Ali is talking: taunting, annoying, insulting. Right and left jabs pick Foreman off. He is confused now; searching, groping, frustrated. Ali feints, Foreman flinches. Ali must have counted the round down because he throws a left, right, left, right flurry to end. Foreman is walking into the punches now. Is he worried yet?

Ali looks fresher in the fourth. He is controlling the tempo of the bout. Foreman is seeing round four for the first time since 1972. Ali retreats again and rocks Foreman with a right and left. Foreman misses with a wild, longing right hook. Ali lands with a right. Foreman is pawing, his power draining. Ali is swaying, dodging, predicting his opponent’s thoughts and movements. Ali moves from rope to rope and the Champ follows as if in a spell. Ali is the pied piper - watching, enticing, preying. The challenger ends the round holding on to the Champ. Ali is conserving himself. Foreman wobbles on his way back to his corner. He tries to hide his unsteadiness like a mourner at a wake who has climbed quickly off the couch and discovers he has had a few too many.

It’s difficult to read Foreman. His eyes are so dark, his expression lifeless. Is his pre-bout confidence waning? Does he know a more cunning, skilful, intelligent boxer is stealing his title? Is he looking into the blackness of failure?

Ali’s bright eyes, facial expressions, mannerisms are easy to interpret. This makes him attractive, human, and vulnerable.

The crowd is in a maniacal frenzy. They sense blood, defeat and victory. This could be any time in human history, any coliseum.

Foreman must act. In the fifth, he goes after Ali, chasing him to the corner, swinging massive body blows. Foreman’s whole body is rotating with the punches; he is searching for the killer blow. Both fighters land left hooks. Foreman’s skills are diminishing with fatigue and desperation. He isn’t hurting Ali, his punches are poking. Ali is resting on the ropes; his long, thin legs are tiring. Foreman attacks for most of this round. Ali waits again until that internal clock ticks over to half a minute remaining.

Ali presses off the ropes with right and left combinations that thud into Foreman’s head. The Champ’s arms flail into the air, he is wide open and defenceless. Ali senses victory; he’s in for the kill. He winks at Jim Brown, the television commentator, while holding Foreman in an insulting headlock. The bell saves the Heavyweight Champion of the World.

Between rounds five and six, Angelo Dundee fights off ring officials who are attempting to tighten the ring ropes. Did Ali’s corner have them loosened before the bout to allow their man to lean away from his opponent? The argument continues into the next round.

Round six passes quietly and quickly. Both men are tiring. Foreman is the drunk from the funeral trying to find his way through his darkened home to the bedroom. The furniture has been moved and he can’t find the light switch. His punches are ineffective. He hits Ali with a low blow. Ali is zinging jabs that make Foreman’s head bounce back and forth. He keeps walking into them like a robot. The fighters are clinching and Ali is talking. Does he still need to do this? He is punishing his opponent mentally. It’s cruel. Ali closes with a left, right combination and Foreman staggers to his corner, face puffy.

Ali is pulling faces at Foreman from his corner. Two school boys separated by the teacher.

Foreman has his dignity taken during round seven. Ali begins by leading him to the ropes and fending off his weak, poking punches. Ali talks to Foreman, ties him up, pushes him off, drags his head down. Ali is a cat with a dead mouse. It’s a matter of time. In a display of courage and desperation, Foreman lunges at Ali and almost ends up toppling outside the ring. If he so pleased, Ali could have thrown him out. The crowd cheers and laughs in disrespect for the world champion. Foreman comes back with an uppercut that knocks Ali’s head back. Ali holds on while regaining his composure and retorts with a short series of left jabs. The round ends in the Champ’s corner and Ali is cradling Foreman’s head in his left glove. This is a tender moment as Ali almost hands Foreman to his attendants.

Both fighters are sitting between rounds. Ali catches Foreman’s eye and winks - camaraderie from one warrior to another. Two men earning a living for themselves, their families and plenty of others. What must be going through Foreman’s head now? Does he know it’s almost over? Does he still blindly believe? Is he staring into darkness?

The boxers are wilting, their shoulders and arms sagging. As usual, Ali begins round 8 by returning to the ropes. They have played a role in victory, just like his fists and brain. They have been his sanctuary and ally. Foreman is walking into rights and lefts; his legs are going up and down on the spot. He lunges again at Ali – what amazing courage – and again almost ends up outside the ring. With Foreman hanging over the ropes, Ali cocks his fist, however, pulls the punch in deference to his opponent and the ethics of the sport. The crowd is laughing even louder and Foreman is the court jester.

The ritual recommences with Ali leading Foreman from corner to corner, rope to rope. Are the men attached by invisible string? Foreman keeps searching – flailing, lunging, and pawing. Ali holds on, resting, restraining, controlling. The fight is experiencing a quiet period. A lull in intensity where the crowd isn’t as involved as it has been. Until Ali sees the opening, the moment and the end.

Ali’s internal clock has clicked to 2 minutes 30 seconds gone in the round. He is in a neutral corner when he lands an innocuous looking right lead. Then another, and another, and another. Four right leads, each heavier and more effective than the last. The crowd has gone crazy. The fighters have rotated to their right and changed positions, with Ali facing outside the ring in an attacking position, for one of the few times in the bout. Foreman is over the ropes. They keep rotating. Ali connects a right, left, right, left combination. Foreman’s arms splay into the air as he spins and falls into the centre of the ring. He tries to grab onto Ali’s trunks on the way down. Ali could land again as Foreman falls, however, that would spoil the moment. The referee starts the count and Foreman is looking into his eyes. Help me. Ali is pacing the ring. Is that finally it? Foreman is counted out and Ali raises his long arms above his head in a beautiful, regal pose that he surely knows will be on front pages all over the world.

Muhammad Ali is Heavy Weight Champion of the World again. Like he said he would be.

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Ado's Funeral
My dad, Joe, is like the You Yangs: back from the road, strong, always there. He looked like Tom Jones before Tom had the work done. Joe turned 67 on Thursday, the day we buried his elder brother, Adrian.

Uncle Ado was a few years older, but had been an old man for a long time. Heart and family had kept him alive.

The funeral was in Hamilton. On Thursday morning, I drove westward from Melbourne and thought of the work I’d left behind and the work that would be waiting on my return.

Thankfully, some perspective found me on the journey. I recalled Christmas and Summer on Warrnambool beach. Uncle Ado, smiling quietly in the background. I thought of the mad dashes Joe made to Ado’s hospital bed in the last few weeks as he held onto life.

Beyond Ballarat, I entered tiny, eucalyptus valleys and old goldmining towns with bluestone pubs and wooden cottages. A crisp morning was warming and coming alive.

In the flat Western district farming land, green paddocks, relieved by recent rain, ran away to the base of the Grampians that rose like breakers on the shore. The dams and creeks were full.

I had a pitstop at the Lions Park in Glenthompson. Across the road, Ado’s old butcher shop stands empty, as does the cafe next door. The weatherboard post office was quiet and the curtains drawn. Glen is a bit of a ghost town now. The local pool looked a bit neglected and only the servo was doing any business.

I arrived in Hamilton an hour early and parked opposite the Uniting Church. As I do when I visit an unfamiliar town, I walked up to the local footy ground for a look. Arch rivals Imperials and Hamilton are co-tenants. Imps are working class, Hamilton rich. A silver haired farmer in overalls drove by in a rattling ute. School kids, unsupervised and safe, strolled to the main drag to buy lunch.

I ran into mum and dad. I wished the old man happy birthday. It seemed inappropriate. Won’t forget this one, I said. Nope, he replied. Other family and mourners gathered and exchanged hushed handshakes and kisses. We entered the church to Sinatra’s ‘My Way’.

Joe and Ado’s son, Nick, delivered the eulogy. Joe spoke of the early years in Terang. My grandfather put his three teenage boys to work in the butcher shop. Ado rolled the meat van. He got his own wheels and when he started keeping it extra clean, the rest of the family new something was up - aunty Marion had arrived on the scene. Ado ran off scratch in a red singlet in the 75 yards dash at Stawell. He was a dedicated volunteer fire fighter.

Joe told Ado that the gates of heaven were open and his parents and late younger sister, Carmel, were waiting for him. Dad shook, broke down and hid behind the tall bouquet of flowers at the rear of the alter. When he emerged, he looked old and tired and I realised I still had so much to learn about this man, my father.

My cousin, Nick, looks like a plump, bush jockey. I love his earthiness and honesty. He talked of the Glenthompson years, when Ado would break up a side of beef for a local farmer in exchange for a few beers and a chat. The cricket or footy would be on the radio in the background. Ado was made a life member at the Glen footy club. When Nick and his sister, Louise, grew up and moved away, Ado and Marion sold-up and moved into Hamilton. Local community and sporting clubs made a fuss and gave them a send-off.

Louise delivered a whispered prayer. She recalled getting off the school bus and rushing to the butcher shop for a slice of Strasbourg ham. I miss you already, dad, she ended.

Aunt Marion, stoic and controlled, sobbed quietly.

Louise’s husband, Kevin, delivered an Australian version of Psalm 23…. He keeps me from straying from the mob…

Reverend Peter led the congregation in ‘I am Australian’. I'm a bushy, I'm a battler, I am Australian, became, I’m a bushy, I’m a butcher, I am Australian. Aunt Marie, pushing ninety, sang away.

As the coffin was loaded into the hearse, Ado’s grandkids released red and black balloons and Essendon’s theme song was played.

At the cemetery, Joe tripped and almost fell into the grave. Always the attention seeker, we all joked later.

Afterwards everyone gathered at the bowls club. The atmosphere lifted and old friends and relatives caught up. Jelly slice and sandwiches were served and the urn steamed away in a corner. A portrait of a very young Queen Elizabeth 11 hung above the wall heater. You had to pay for your beer.

Loiuse was relieved the worst of it was over and Nick and Kevin settled in for the arvo. Nick, a Kangaroo, whispered, we’ve got five picks in the top 40. We’ll be right next year. We should’ve chased Bradshaw, I replied.

I started back for Melbourne late in the day. Lake Bolac is shrinking into black mud. The water’s edge is a good walk from the rusted skeleton of a diving board that once entertained hollering, sunburnt kids on hot Western district days when the north wind tore by. Near Ballarat, locals sat out front a bluestone pub, enjoying a beer and watching the sun go down. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys. Life ends but also goes on.

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TWO KINGS

Down the phone from his home in Melbourne’s northern suburbs, Jack Rennie has a softly scoured, Brando like voice. He is welcoming, patient and as he speaks, his memory opens and he joyously recounts one of our great sporting moments.

‘He was king of Australia at the time,’ recalls Jack, former trainer of Lionel Rose.

By upsetting Japan’s Fighting Harada in a split decision for the WBA and WBC bantamweight crowns in Tokyo, February 1968, Lionel became boxing’s first Aboriginal world champion; and at 19, his sport’s youngest titleholder.

Approximately 200,000 people welcomed the new champ home.

‘People were lining the streets to greet him down Mount Alexander Road,’ says Jack.

From the airport, Lionel travelled in the back of a convertible to the town hall. Crowds broke through police barricades hoping to touch their new hero. A few years after the abandonment of the White Australia Policy, a conservative nation claimed this polite, assured world champion. Lionel declared his victory a triumph not for his race, but the whole of Australia.

His part-time job as a panel beater went by the wayside and his life changed forever.

Lionel had lost twice in twenty-nine bouts and was the sixth ranked contender for the bantamweight crown. When the phone call came from Japan one night over dinner at Jack and Shirl’s, where Lionel was living since moving from Drouin to the big smoke, he didn’t hesitate. Fighting Harada’s camp were surprised the inexperienced Australian accepted the offer.

Harada was an attacking, fearless and hardened fighter. In over fifty fights, he had been bettered on only three occasions. However, his style left him open to a technically correct boxer of Lionel’s nature. Lionel was defensive, patient and jarred opponents with a jolting left jab.

Jack and Lionel were confident going into the world title bout and despite a sore hand, Lionel controlled the fight from the outset, continuously repelling and frustrating the world champ.

‘[Lionel] outboxed him all the way,’ Jack recalls.

Lionel’s first defence was quickly arranged. Again in Tokyo, he chased the contender, Takao Sakurai, around the ring for fifteen rounds. Post-fight, the victorious Australian was attacked by a knife-wielding assailant. Lionel escaped uninjured.

Lionel was named Australian of the Year and awarded an MBE.

More offers came in. Flashy American promoter, George Parmassis, wooed Lionel with promises of bigger purses in the States. Lionel, Jack and Shirl headed for California where a defence against Mexican, Chucho Castillo, was set up for December.

As Lionel landed in Los Angeles, another monarch’s crown was slipping.

In 1968, it wasn’t cool to like Elvis Presley. The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s recording career had stalled since returning from military service and his films weren't bringing the satisfaction he dreamed of, or the financial rewards studios expected. At 33, Elvis wasn’t as relevant anymore.

Elvis’s blend of Country, Gospel, Pop and any other genre thinkable, had woken and mesmerized a conservative, 1950’s youth generation. His vulnerability and boundary pushing sexuality filled a void left by the deceased James Dean.

Stardom had found the bewildered, teenage truck driver at Sam Phillips’ shopfront Sun Records in Memphis. Beginning with Heartbreak Hotel, Elvis accumulated eleven no.1 hits on America’s Billboard charts between ‘56 and ’58 (his career produced eighteen in total). Elvis was the undisputed King when national service called in ‘58.

Upon leaving the military two years later, Elvis craved to be taken seriously in Hollywood. However, manager Colonel Tom Parker, shackled Elvis to contracts that saw him star in one mediocre film after another. In the eight years from 1960, Elvis made twenty-four films (he would make over thirty in total). Some made money; others were disasters. For many, production took a matter of weeks, if not days. Elvis grew frustrated by shallow, unchallenging plots and dinky soundtracks that failed to offer artistic challenge or draw critical acclaim.

America’s late ‘60s Counter Culture generation wanted more from their musicians. A rebellious white middle-class sought expression for their anti-war and anti-Establishment message. Dylan, Hendrix and The Beatles spoke their language. America’s young had passed Elvis by. There would be no room for him at Woodstock.

Always prone to the paranoia and insecurity that plague many whose careers rise and fall on the fragility of public approval, Elvis observed the changing world with fear and restlessness.

Yet, at this time, he demonstrated surprising foresight. From inside his Graceland bubble, Elvis realised that in order to reconnect with America’s youth,
his songs had to contain a social message, even if this risked alienating his conservative fan base.

The television program, Elvis: ’68 Comeback Special, was the most effective means of touching a wide audience. Pre-recorded and aired in December, it offered the racially aware, If I Can Dream. Wearing a white, high-collared Edwardian suit and standing in front of a neon sign flashing his name, Elvis opened nervously before winding into a passionate and longing plea for racial harmony in the wake of the recent assassination of Martin Luther King, Jnr., in Memphis.

The gamble paid off and the special proved to be one of the most magical moments in Elvis’s career. It was a ratings winner and more importantly for Elvis, If I can Dream spent three months in the Top 40, peaking at number 12, his highest chart position for four years.

Elvis was on the way back.

It was during this time that Elvis Presley and Lionel Rose met.

Elvis was in Hollywood in late ’68 filming ‘The Trouble With Girls (And How To Get Into It)’, when he discovered Lionel was in town preparing for the Castillo fight. A devoted martial artist, Elvis was eager to meet the world champ.

When word reached Jack and Lionel, they cut short a training session, showered, grabbed Shirl and headed out to MGM Studios. During a break in filming, Elvis sauntered over and introduced himself.

‘How are you, Sir?’ Jack chuckles as he imitates Elvis’ southern accent.

A short conversation followed and Jack recalls Elvis as polite and respectful. Elvis spoke of his interest in boxing and admiration for Lionel. He wanted to attend the upcoming fight, however, that would be difficult, his life being as it was. He laughed and suggested he’d have to wear a beard to avoid recognition. Shirl grabbed an autograph.

It was suggested the two kings be photographed together and a studio camera was used to take the shot. A member of the Memphis Mafia had earlier confiscated Lionel’s camera.

The photograph shows both men in orthodox boxing pose. Lionel is shorter and slightly hunched. He’s in a defensive stance with clenched fists. Lionel is lean, natural, trained. He’s wearing a collared shirt and V-neck jumper. Elvis has his weight slightly on his back leg. He’s loose, confident, with relaxed hands. Elvis is athletic; able to move gracefully around a ring. Again, he’s sporting a white suit and garish wedding ring. The dark walls of the studio serve as backdrop. Both men are smiling, clearly enjoying themselves.

The meeting over, Elvis went back to filming and well, being Elvis. The starstruck visitors from Melbourne returned to training.

A few days later, despite being knocked down in the 10th Round, Lionel won a split decision over the Mexican. The decision sparked a riot. Fires were set, chairs were thrown in the ring and cars were upturned in the parking lot. Jack was hit by a flying bottle. The Australians hid in the change rooms until the fuss died down.

The following August, the lives of Elvis and Lionel headed down opposite roads. Elvis conquered Las Vegas, selling-out two shows a night for an eight week stretch. He would become the most successful act in Vegas history, even bigger than Sinatra. The weary Suspicious Minds became Elvis’s first no.1 since 1962. He was performing again; he was relevant.

The King had reclaimed his throne.

Lionel lost his title in the 5th Round to the hard punching and undefeated Ruben Olivares. Jack sensed an early night when his fighter copped a heavy one in the opening exchanges. That’s the thing about boxing: no matter how good you are, there’s always someone who can beat you.

Lionel never held another world title. He fought on, winning some, losing too many. He retired, tried other things, and then came back. According to Jack, Lionel had lost interest and put on weight. Christmas 1976, Lionel Rose was knocked out in the second round of his final bout and the career of an Australian sporting legend, who was once king, ended.

Less than a year later, the American dream, lived by Elvis Presley, killed him. The King of Rock ’n’ Roll was 42.

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