The English football supporters are the loudest in the world, constant chanting and at times they can be the wittiest too, with some real gems of friendly abuse being directed at the opposition players, supporters and even their own team’s players. It was whilst I was scanning the site Midfield dynamo that I came across fan chants and some poor unfortunate player had the name of Gherkin!! I kid you not, Gherkin. And in celebration of his family name the opposition supporters hailed him, adopted him and sang odes to him with love filled lyrics like “Your dad was a cucumber!!” That’s what footy is all about friendly banter and a bit of a contest in the field, and if you look at the score it may show that the score was pretty lopsided, but for long periods of time it was anything but. In fact the game was pretty keenly contested and but for a more efficient forward line the score could have reflected a much close outcome. Whilst there was no cucumbers playing for the Blues, the game was a little like a hamburger with the lot – a bit everything – great marking, some good skills, hard contests and some individual highlights like Sam Morwood ghosting in like the mystical ninja the silent assassin as he ran down the showboating on-baller who took too long to dispose of the ball. But again, like a hamburger from the fast food franchise outlets – it was strangely an unappetising outcome as we were unable to finish off the good aspects and take home the chocolates.

The ground was again one that would have been better used grazing goats, but the City of Stonnington have decided to risk the possibility of legal action by not protecting and promoting grass growth at any stage of the last 2 years and as such it was always going to be a game where odd bounces and the shifting sand dunes in the top end goal square would have an impact upon the game. Rather apt perhaps because after the foray of the International series of a couple of years ago which allowed the suits of the Ammo’s to also taste the Guinness at the expense of the Clubs so they could ape the professionals with a meaningless International Rules series the De La ground was a picture of desert like sand dunes – particularly at the playground goals where the shifting sands of the Sahara were making it a mockery of sure footedness in what is a difficult game anyway. Perhaps the head honcho’s at Ammo Headquarters along with the far sighted Clowncillors of Stonington had followed their professional counterparts and played the game at Dairy Bell with its paucity of grass, but lots of swirling sand coupled with the no alcohol policy as a result of the AFL’s ill-feted push during the pre-season cup into the desert environs of Dubai which also has zero tolerance towards booze. Is this relevant, I think not, but interesting none the less for those who like to prognosticate over the vagaries of life and look for links however tenuous they may be as they pontificate and ruminate upon life, footy and not much else.

The game itself was marred by not being able to see the actual footy as a result of the wind swirling the sand and dirt up all over the ground, but both sides were attacking the footy with some pretty ferocious intent, it was merely as already stated that final ball into the open spaces of the front half where forwards could take marks and then somehow negotiate the pot holes and sand pits to kick a winning score that separated the teams.

For long periods of time the game was in the balance, with both sides working the ball with relative effectiveness through traffic and finding open team mates, but, and this may be cruel, it was perhaps the older and bigger bodies of the Blues which held sway as they were able to almost force themselves to run a bit harder at crucial times to either add support, make a contest or add their voice to a team mate who was maybe confronted by an opponent. It may also have been the timing of injuries and losing Reidy and Ro Buckley with his string … again, was not great, but it just makes it harder for us to match the other sides which are yet to experience that. The upside of this was that the remaining players were impelled to work harder and given that some are underdone, just starting to get to know players and last minute call-up’s it was not too bad.

There were some highlights and some lowlights and they seemed to balance themself out with the lowlights holding sway again. This is beginning to appear like a Dickens novel where Mr. Macawber as the resident curmudgeon never sees the sun shining, but is more content to a be the bearer of bad news and revel in that role, but in many ways the footy Gods are not yet smiling on De La with injuries mounting, cruel bounces dictating the outcome and some players happy to be spectators at crucial times, whereas in previous years it may have gone the other way.

In summary the Highlights included the following:

Sam Pickett actually playing a game, and not basking on some beach in Bali
Jack Jarvis presenting and working hard across half forward,
Sam Morwood the smiling assassin who ran down 2 players from behind – all we need now for him to take a couple of plucks and we’re away,
Marc Matthews in his first game getting amongst it and contributing despite wearing a pair of Shermo’s boots,
James Hansen starting to get a bit more of the aggot,
Roaster getting more of the nut and sticking his head over the nut and returning to form
Kev Smyth taking on the gorilla in the goal square and keeping him pretty quiet,
The Goat rucking all day, and
Jim Pitcher returning to a bit of form and working terrifically hard to lead the team through his on-field efforts
Booza took hanger of the day, and after hitting the ground sent more sand into the stratosphere.

The were some good signs, but I am tired of writing about signs, I want to write about results and given we are zip and three it’s about time that we moved on and created some positive energy and like the prize fighter who never knows when he is beaten get up off the canvas and deliver the blow that stuns our opponent and allows us to open the account and get 2008 going. However, for that to happen we need to have faith and I’m not talking about praying to some higher authority kinda faith, I realise that’s faith, but it’s not the faith I want to see, and I’m not talking about the George Michael pre toilet loitering days kinda faith where he sings “ooohh, you gotta have faith,” all the while strumming on a some badly tuned acoustic guitar all the while gyrating in his allegedly alluring wiggly boy thing kinda way that all pop wannabe’s think is enticing. No, that’s not it, the faith I’m talking about is faith in ourselves, and our ability to turn it around and get the chocolates this week against the purple people eaters at Collegians.

To paraphrase Jack Little the doyen of wrestling commentary in the late 1960’s and 1970’s pre this wishy washy ‘roids stuff where they spend too much time prancing, parading and poncing about, I’m talking about the stuff which was on the telly after Sunday mass stuff which was before there was ever this Sunday footy stuff and was considered to be so real by me as a spotty schoolboy I would sit there terrified waiting for Big Jack’s deep rumbling vocal chords as he stared down the camera after having his comb-over ruffled by some sweaty big jocks wearing pot bellied wrestler and then give it the “woooow!!, be there this Saturday night, …. they’ll be swinging from the rafters.” To paraphrase “Be there this Saturday as we take on the purple people eaters at Harry Trott and bring home the points, ‘cos I ain’t waiting any more, and I wanna sing the song and sing it with some gusto.