Deestroy
Norm Smith Medallist
AFL Premiership Round 16
Fremantle V Melbourne
--------- V ---------
________________________________________________________
Sunday Jul 18
Subiaco Oval 2:40 PM (Local Time) 4:40 PM (EST Time)
Perth Forecast Perth Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
Fremantle V Melbourne
________________________________________________________
Sunday Jul 18
Subiaco Oval 2:40 PM (Local Time) 4:40 PM (EST Time)
Perth Forecast Perth Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
I was feeling like shit when I finally pulled into Tambellup, some 325 kilometres south-east of Perth. The air-conditioning in the car was not working, all the caffeine tablets had turned me into a zombie and there were other places I would rather be (check out Tambellup on the internet: the main tourist attraction, I kid you not, is the petrol station). One could not say that the town had seen better days as I suspected they had never come. Imagine the summers!
There was a take-away. After a stretch, I hobbled in and ordered a tea. Grumpily, I slumped into a seat outside and surveyed the view. To my left, there was an old water tower. The football oval was nearby. There was little to commend it: the scoreboard was dilapidated; the signage had been scalded by the heat and the playing surface looked unsafe in the extreme. Even so, who could doubt that it was a veritable ‘Field of Dreams’. Over time, how many young men had trotted out from the dressing-rooms in pursuit of glory and fame? But only one of them – and legion they were - had ever made it to the summit.
Jeff Farmer.
“I hope Deestroy has got it right,” I muttered darkly to myself. “Jeff is not the most punctual guy in the world. And from what I hear, it’s hard to get a squeak out of him.”
My order was brought out. I spent the next hour or so trying to read the tea-leaves. All was ambiguity. I looked up. Standing beside the table was the famous goal-sneak himself: Jeff Farmer. How had he managed to creep up so quietly?
Greetings were exchanged and we sat down. There was a reticence to Jeff; his handshake was firm enough; he looked one in the eye. But it was not hard to detect an innate shyness to the man. I ordered a coffee on his behalf and we got down to business. Prior to the meeting, Deestroy had warned me not to mention his off-field dramas. For once, discretion carried the day.
“Jeff, I have many great memories of you,” I began. “Memories like the time you clocked Crawford at Waverley or your famous goal in the same game. And if Neil Crompton owns the most famous kick in the history of the Melbourne Football Club, the handball is all yours.”
A grin came to his face.
“When I handballed to Gazza in the square. Not the smartest thing I ever did. We got away with it.”
“Can I asked you: how many times have Melbourne fans asked you about your performance against Collingwood in 2000?”
“Lots,” he replied with a twinkle in eyes. I was worried that he was about to raise his hands towards the heavens, Messiah-like, but thankfully they stayed by his side.
The Wiz looked his age. There were grey streaks in his hair and the usual cracks had opened up in his face like a weathered rock. Sad to say, the athlete who had soared over Gary Lyon and Scotty Turner in Round 22, 1998 was no more. Eyes don’t change, but everything else is subjugated to time.
“Jeff, I know you had a stellar season in 2006,” I continued, “but I reckon you played your best football with us. We all loved you. Unlike ‘Brick’ Mclean, there was no outpouring of rage or contempt when you decided to leave – only sadness. Your commitment to your family is well known. The Biz, on the surface, appeared to be a reasonable exchange. But how we all missed you! In some ways, I don’t think you were ever the same, either.”
He clammed up at this point. Bugger: Deestroy had warned me not to gush in this particular interview and I had just overstepped the mark.
We sat there in silence. Perhaps it was the colossal flatness of the WA grain-belt or the clear dome of the sky above, but a sense of torpor came over me as the minutes ticked by. Whatever one said or did, it all seemed to disappear into the expanse to no effect. What did heroism, on or off the field, mean out here?
“Jeff,” I said at last. “Your two old clubs are playing this weekend – what are your thoughts please?”
Jeff became still in himself.
“I hope they both win. But Freo normally wins at Subi. Melbourne has had a shorter break. They don’t travel well. Freo by six goals.”
Fair enough, I thought. But something inside me chimed: Freo might be an interstate colossus but they’ve always had feet of clay. Round 16 is not Mission Impossible.
“Jeff, I always have an interest in father-sons – it’s a great way to top up a list. Your two boys: have they inherited the magic or not?”
“They’re young but they like their footy,” he replied softly. “I played over 100 games at both Melbourne and Freo. They could play for either club. I will let them decide.”
A road-train thundered past, taking cattle to the nearby abattoir.
“I have to go,” he said, standing up. “Did you get what you wanted?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Even so, it was time to leave, and leave I did. The Wiz gave me a thumbs-up and took off. On the way back to Perth, I was restless in the extreme. Was it anxiety over the match to come? Or had an old wound – the departure of the Wiz – opened up? It was hard to say. If Life is not meant to be easy, it is doubly so for a Demons supporter. I spotted the light-towers of Subi as I approached the Perth airport. A bit like the match against Brisbane, sooner or later an interstate ‘signature’ victory will occur. Could it be this week, I asked myself longingly.
Dees by 1 point.
Biffinator.
