Living History

A day at the Footy: Part 2

First quarter: The Eagles were straight into attack from the opening bounce and, with the exception of a brief spell during the middle of the term, that was where they remained. The Bulldogs, however, defended with commendable determination, repeatedly forcing the play onto the eastern side of the ground from which, given that the wind was blowing from the north west, kicking for goal was more problematical. That, at least, was certainly the Eagles experience: as time-on commenced, they led by 7 points, 1.8 to 1.1, having squandered numerous scoring opportunities either by poor kicking or over elaboration. On at least two occasions, players marked within easy goal kicking range, but elected to play on, placing team mates under intense pressure with poor handballs, as a result of which the Centrals defenders were able to clear the danger.

Deep into time-on, the Bulldogs back line finally cracked, not once, but twice, allowing a somewhat relieved group of West Torrens players to head for the quarter time huddle 19 points to the good. Even so, on balance of play it ought to have been much more.

Up in the grandstand, where the three of us were sitting as a concession to Pop's advancing years, I munched cheerfully on the pie I had bought in preference to a Budget, and asked Charlie what letter Port was represented by on the progress scoreboard. "D," he informed me, from which intelligence I was able to ascertain that the Magpies, like Torrens, had seemingly squandered scoring opportunities in the opening term against North at Prospect, as despite having managed 7 scoring shots to 3, they trailed by a point. Ah well, early days. "What letters are South and Sturt?" I asked. "G and H," proffered Charlie, and then added. "Hey, Pops - Sturt's leading South by 4 points. "The old guy chuckled sagely, or was it wistfully? "Ah, no worries Sturt, no worries."

Second quarter: Central District's lack of experience and poor team discipline were glaringly exemplified for most of the second term. Despite enjoying the not inconsiderable wind advantage, Centrals failed to dominate to anything like the same extent that Torrens had in the opening quarter. Kicking long and hopefully only succeeds as a tactic if you have superior numbers at the fall of the ball, or else players who are capable of winning more than their share of the ensuing one on one contests. With Braidwood, Jackson and Graham in superb touch on the Torrens back line, the Bulldogs were unable to concoct more than a handful of scoring opportunities, and although by the long break they had managed to reduce the margin to 11 points, there was nothing to suggest they were capable of overhauling their more poised and efficient opponents.

Third quarter: The third term was a virtual carbon copy of the first, with Torrens enjoying almost total territorial domination, but Centrals defending with considerable grit and effectiveness. A prolonged break in the play when Torrens forward John Staker was taken from the ground on a stretcher after sustaining a badly gashed leg threatened to undermine the Eagles' momentum, but with David Lee, Freddie Bills, John Graham and Lindsay Head in the thick of the action they maintained their ascendancy virtually all over the ground, except in front of the big white sticks. During the lemon time interval, Charlie and I jumped the fence and headed out onto the ground. While Charlie trotted over to the Eagles camp to listen to Ron Ashby's words of wisdom, I elected, for some obscure, unknowable reason, to eavesdrop on Eustice. It was a providential decision, giving rise to an experience that I can still recall quite vividly almost 40 years later, an experience rendered almost seminal in my recollection - no doubt disproportionately so - by the subsequent events of the final quarter. OK, I exaggerate... but seldom can so much invective, and so much saliva, have been so fervently and advantageously expended. Footy may well be the world's most majestic and spectacular sport, but underpinning and informing it is a primal energy that the conventions of civilised society for the most part emasculate or divert. Footy too, which inevitably reflects society to some extent, is not above such emasculation, but thankfully to date the essence of the game has remained untouched, although recent needless experimental tinkering with the scoring system, as essential an element in the fabric of the game as the shape of the ball or the concept of the handpass or the mark, perhaps prefigures a worrying stage in the sport's development. The more regimented and subject to measurement and control a sport becomes, the less capable it is of tapping into those elemental reaches of the human soul in which philosophy, science and theology alike inform us, fulfilment and self-realisation lie.

Fourth quarter: But back to Elizabeth Oval in 1967, and the to me incredible sight of a hitherto inept and uncoordinated Central District outfit raising both the tempo and the tenor of its performance to such an extent that, for the entirety of the last quarter, Torrens scarcely managed to get the ball ahead of centre, let alone trouble the scorers. It is a dreadful cliché, but no less true for that, that the Bulldog players played like men possessed, always seeming to have more bodies at the fall of the ball than their opponents, and slowly but surely reducing the leeway with what, at the time, seemed like predetermined certainty. With a couple of minutes to go, and scores deadlocked, minor cult hero Julian Swinstead, having marked within easy goal kicking range, kicked truly, and Centrals had finally captured the lead, so that Eustice's passionately fiery, if scarcely comprehensible, diatribe had born fruit. Indeed, during that tumultuous final term, no one took the sentiments uttered in the 'lemon time' huddle to heart more thoroughly and unquestioningly than the coach himself, whose 12 final quarter kicks gave him a match total of 35, and automatic selection - later endorsed by the umpires at Magarey Medal time - as best afield. The Bulldogs' eventual 6 point win was one of only five achieved by the team all year, and like all the others (Woodville by 4 and 7 points, West Adelaide by 4 points and Norwood by 4 points) it was achieved both against the odds and against the grain, a victory not so much for talent as for passion and strength of will, two of the most essential contributors to success, not just in football, but in virtually any field you care to name.

‘Port's lost,’ said Pops, with rather too much relish for my liking. He pointed at the scoreboard, where the attendant had just affixed the fateful numbers 'C 12.7 D 8.12'. I determinedly adopted a poker face, belying my inner angst. '19 points!' I quickly calculated. 'That's almost a massacre!' Then came a moment I couldn't help but enjoy. 'G 8.25' the scoreboard informed us. Dreadful kicking, but... Yes! There it was: 'H 9.8' - a win to South by 11 points. ‘Hey Pops, Sturt's gone under,’ I helpfully announced, carefully if somewhat exaggeratedly adopting my most cherubic facial expression.

His response, like so much else, is lost in the mists of time.

John, Victoria

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