All sport is rigged. We all know that.
Stephen Bradbury’s famous come from behind victory? Obviously fixed.
Michelle Payne’s Melbourne Cup victory on Prince of Penzance? Couldn’t happen without something illegal going on in the background.
The Cronulla Sharks and Leicester City winning titles in the same year? Yeah, right.
In a world of betting agencies, the associated advertising and the exotic odds offered on just about every possible outcome and quirky statistic, no sport is safe from the corrupt officials and administrators who have sold their souls to the corporates and manipulated their games to suit the most popular and financially beneficial outcome.
As is the case with the A-League grand final to be played this Sunday. In fact, not only is the outcome of the actual match a forgone conclusion, due to decisions made months ago by middle aged men in suits, the entire week will be a staged charade.
Press conferences will be choreographed affairs that pit the musings and thoughts of the grumpy and hoarse Graham Arnold, up against the terse and frigid ideas of Kevin Muscat.
Both will demand underdog status, claim no right to be seen as favourites and use verbal linguistics on a daily basis in order to avoid losing the psychological advantage.
It will all be meaningless between the two managers, who, after parrying questions away regarding issues they wish not to discuss, will both cite a respect for each other and the opposition.
This is the public relations part of the week where the FFA seek a tense, yet feel good vibe to the tone.
The media will play their role with aplomb. Prodding and poking with questions designed to tease both managers out from their cones of silence, their questions arrived early Monday morning and have been colour coded for clarity.
Purple questions asked on Tuesday, blue questions for Wednesday and the hot fiery red and orange questions for Thursday and Friday, before the coaches go into hibernation on Saturday.
Supposedly, the first day of the weekend provides them with a chance to dot their i’s and cross their t’s in their preparations, yet realistically both squads are called together, behind closed doors to run through some of the actual events that will unfold on the night.
It’s a little WWE in its execution. A little like when Stone Cold Steve Austin knew that he would escape numerous three-counts and go close to a tap out, before producing an amazing ‘stunner’ against The Undertaker in 2001.
The big moments, the goals and the controversial calls will all be simulated, complete with referees on hand, to ensure that everything will be right on the night. As an added bonus, the review system has been worked into sixteen different moments during the game, which should add drama and controversy.
With a five o’clock kick-off, the FFA were also hoping that the use of the review system might elongate the game a little. Their numbers look something like this.
Sixteen reviews multiplied by, on average, eight replays per review, comes to a total of one hundred and twenty eight replays. With each review taking approximately fifteen seconds and time added on for discussion, push and shove and coaches lambasting the fourth official, the FFA reckon they can stretch this baby out to 10.05pm.
What a treat we are in for.
The script has ample room for ducks and drakes. The fabricated Milos Ninkovic ankle complaint was just to whet the appetite, this week will see Besart Berisha and Marco Rojas go down with potentially game threatening injuries.
Berisha will slip in the shower while conditioning and Rojas will experience a fungal infection in his foot which threatens to nullify his speed.
Or so they will tell us.
On the Sydney side, Alex Wilkinson was the obvious target for the FFA around whom to build some drama. Mystery bird-flu type symptoms will threaten his grand final dream and the chatter around the potential retirement of Alex Brosque is fabricated fodder to create a more romantic and heart wrenching week.
Apparently Brosque stands to receive a bonus if he can force out a couple of tears throughout the week while speaking to the media, I can already hear the Ed Sheeran track warbling away in the background, as the video tributes roll pre-game.
This will be countered with the usual hype around the enigmatic Berisha, with huge, white, size 36 font, numbers rolling across the screen conveying his career goal tally.
Simon Hill has been working on his pre-game monologue for over three months, ever since the finalists were initialled settled upon. Apparently it is Shakespearean in content and De Niro-like in execution.
My sources tell me that it makes Taxi Driver look like a children’s pantomime and despite its 17 minutes in length, they claim it will keep viewers captivated in those last few moments before kick-off.
There will, of course, be a little Ninkovic madness in the lead-up. Every cliché has been sourced and provided for the commentators; the little genius, the master, exquisite, the Serbian assassin and marked man Milos should all get a run in the pre-game and during play.
By kick-off we should all be in a complete lather.
The game itself? Well, with a combination of multiple goals, constant reviews, violent fouls and Muscat spitting at Arnold every five or so minutes, it will be a classic.
To top off the entire contest, each and every member of the crowd is on ‘flare and violence’ incentives, as the FFA feel that the mainstream media’s assault on the game is actually terrific for the product.
So much so that a rent a crowd section has been set up to really spark things up. Whether the FFA have thrown in a streaker is something of which I am unsure. One can only hope.
As for the result, well, let’s just say that the FFA have left no stone unturned in their quest to produce a grand final like no other.
Fabricated or not, it will be spectacle to behold. The ‘Biggest Blue’ of all, might see the deserved Smurfs claim their first toilet seat for a while or the most consistent team in A-League history snaffle another title from under the noses of the Sydneysiders.
Even though I know the result, I can’t wait.
P.S. Valued readers, sorry for disappearing for a week or so, but the dreaded man flu took a mighty big swipe at me.
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