Gosh, who knows where to start with the weekend that was.
Extraordinary crowds, eardrum-bursting fast cars and the wondrously large Himalayan mountains are hosting a spectacular Test match. There was comebacks and countdowns and Dustin Martin treating the MCG like a malleable plaything.
Something was humming in Melbourne. Sport readily dripped off the tongue. My eyes darted through the local café, and the newspapers had all been flipped. The photos were alive with colour. By god the dew, spit and ever-changing momentum was palpable. The pages glistened with sweat and BO seeped through the ink.
It was all there. A gaze attached to a red ball. Bursting muscles stretching polyester singlets and four arms locked into one another. Pure joy, crushing despair and infinite Adelaide hands clasping a premiership cup.
But, there’s just too much of it all. Who has the time, energy or inclination to cover every angle? Who has the time to extrapolate from the data points, check out the regression curves and turn it all into great literature?
No, not I.
I am one for the low hanging fruit. Like the best version of Ed Curnow, I stick to my limitations and choose the simple target. So, that being said, this is why Carlton are destined to bring misery to its grotesque fan-base and collect the dreaded wooden spoon.
Wait, I’ve read that all preseason on The Roar. So, topic #2.
“Medical Room
St Kilda: Paddy McCartin was withdrawn late with “hamstring awareness”, Richardson said. The young forward will line up in a VFL practice match on Sunday, where his minutes will be managed.”
Now, I recognise that this isn’t the most pressing story. I mean, Paddy McCartin’s stretch of injuries has momentarily deprived us – the collective footballing public – of a singular talent. However, I suspect that the offspring of other offspring won’t look back and remark with a bit of incredulity “how did they miss this scoop!”
But, indulge me for just a moment and envision the scene.
The St Kilda players are scattered. A few of them are skittish and wobbly and falling out of their skin with nerves and ambition and expectation. All of this energy is discharged into frivolous activity.
Others sit, on the cold floor of an isolated dressing room, with headphones wrapped over earlobes or resting around napes. They’re almost at pre-match Zen, but that’s not achievable. No way. The game is too close and they’ve put in far too much work.
The endless hours of running and jumping and lifting and screaming and eating the right things and sleeping at the correct times and doing everything so often and so correctly that it has become positively boring has to culminate in a productive two hours or, well, what the hell was the point of it all.
And they are in that zone. The indistinct unremarkable soon-to-be blur. The banner is up and it’s not fluttering because the roof is closed and 40,000 people – yes, they caused the congregation of that many people. Imagine that – anyway, they’re patiently buzzing.
And Paddy McCartin is just raring to go. He’s that aforementioned singular talent. The prodigy under the tutelage of St Nick. That rare power-forward to be. And he’s doing whatever a strapping and imposing CHF does before the start of a big game. Drinking milk and protein shakes. Staring down Jake Carlisle. Swatting smaller blokes out of the way as if they are bugs gliding on an egg salad sandwich.
And then – perhaps by the hand of interplanetary or supernatural forces – he looks down and his arm descends. That warm pre-match perspiration has abruptly metamorphosed into an icy sweat. His heart skips a beat as Paddy McCartin notices something on his body that – moments ago – wasn’t there.
Not only was it not there, but the very concept of it was totally alien. A thing that wasn’t a thing has, all of a sudden, become a thing.
And he sees it. His entire world is taken by kinaesthesia. That weird emptiness, the one between the hip and the knee, is for the first time full. The body mind and soul of Paddy McCartin are at once connected. In synch.
He says the word “hamstring” over and over and over. Until it loses all of its substance and meaning. He must have been in a daze. The muscle behind the kneecap is there and it is real and he looks at it and it looks back at him and everything around him just disappeared and became nothing.
And how does one become unaware?
I was at that game. The banner was on the ground for longer than it should have been. The hypnotic raspy version of ‘oh when the Saints’ that plays before St Kilda home games looped over and over.
Time stood still, but it also moved. It crept ever-closer to the 4:35 pm deadline. A pre-match siren went and the Melbourne players – who were on the ground and set in their positions – shot anxious looks at one another. The crowd grew quiet, loud, then quiet again.
And then, finally, the team sans Paddy McCartin but plus Jack Lonie rushed onto the ground. The traditional song was played, but at twice the usual speed. Their on-ground preparation was hastily and partially completed. Everyone looked rattled.
I think the strangeness of it all might have fizzed St Kilda for a bit but then their minds wandered and their feet slowed and Melbourne smashed them for the first time since I think 2006.
And how could these two situations be mutually exclusive? No. I don’t believe that St Kilda’s performance was a true indication of what lies ahead. It didn’t reflect their talent or application. My best guess is that they were stunned by the almost unreal situation that unfurled before them. All because of a posterior thigh muscle.
Anyway, I’m in some sort of rhythm and I could keep going with this dumb pointless story, but I think I’ve demonstrated that I know nothing at all about hamstrings. And then I’d never get to my point.
But, before I do that, it’s worth mentioning that this disconnect between mind and body – the idea that a certain part is unrecognisable and/or doesn’t belong – is a very real thing. If something remotely close to this actually happened to Paddy McCartin, then I feel awful about using it for personal gain. This being the case (or even if it isn’t) please ignore everything above.
But, if ‘hamstring awareness’ is slightly odd terminology for tightness, discomfort, soreness or whatever, then the medical statement tickled me and extracted a chuckle and I wanted something to write about and the opportunity presented itself and I’m sorry for wasting your time.
So, yes, back to the promised point. Hopefully Paddy McCartin is okay and ready to go ASAP and we can see a regular display of that singular talent.
Who’s in your ultimate team? Pick the best team and compete with other fans for daily prizes on Draftstars. For the best odds on the game try out Aussie bookmaker PlayUp. Think. Is this a bet you really want to place? Set a deposit limit.
Jack Ziebell was playing his first match for Avondale Heights when he was yellow-carded for headbutting an opponent during a scuffle following a late…
"It looked like it was gonna go for miles - and then it went nowhere!"
Footy's getting closer and closer to taking over the US!
What on earth was this question from BT!?!
Mitch Georgiades' mates have no chill!
On the scoreboard, it looks like a creditable St Kilda performance. A loss to a Port Adelaide outfit many see as a premiership contender…
