It's halfway through the last quarter. We're three goals down - a far from insurmountable margin. Jordan Roughead takes a strong contested mark, only 10 metres out from goal. Roughie's night has either been wretched, if you look at the paltry three possessions he has amassed, or selfless, if you are of the school of thought that he sacrificed his own game to keep one of the competition's leading ruckmen, Todd Goldstein, to a modest eight touches. As Roughie lines up, it should be a suspenseful, dramatic moment: a kick that could put us that step closer with time still in hand, setting the scene for a barnstorming finish where we overpower the Roos. But I feel none of the usual tension, the excruciating agony of the wait to see the goal umpire march to the line to signal if it's a goal. You see, I'm convinced that Roughie will miss. Which he duly does. I'm not quite sure why I felt so pessimistic (that is, if you discount a lifetime of Bulldogs barracking - ok, that IS the explanation). But for me there had been an earlier moment where my finely tuned antenna for disaster had been activated. The Dogs had made a hesitant start where, sadly, we'd appeared overcome by the occasion; the brave statements that we would relish the big stage spotlight of Friday night footy rang hollow as we fumbled and bumbled around. But we'd clung on, always within reach. And there were signs of gathering momentum in the third quarter; it was still a struggle, but you sensed that just one goal, one uplifting, inspirational moment, would change the landscape completely. The Bont looked like he would be That Man. He loped toward the goal at the 50 metre mark. This was IT: our prodigy was about to swing around with that booming left foot and transform our stodgy efforts with a moment of sheer individual brilliance. The Bont handballed instead. The alarmed recipient was a flat-footed, over-awed Dailey Bailey. We knew what was going to happen. We feared what was going to happen. We groaned as it happened. Dailey Bailey's 45 kg frame nearly snapped in half as he was tackled by some 48 year old North Melbourne brute, and the ball crashed to earth. The groan reverberated around the ground, one of those pivotal moments that said it all. This was just not our night. The stats said differently, of course, belying the evidence of our own eyes. All but the tackles (yet how telling a measure) were in our favour. But it was impossible not to travel back in the time tunnel (unfortunately, not the one that would have forestalled the Bob knee injury) and wince; we saw so many of these performances in the unlamented BMac era. Effort reigning supreme, our contested ball stats worthy and respectable, yet ultimately meaningless without flair, skill and polish to deliver their reward. There was our forward line, seemingly awash with glittering talent when we slammed on seven unanswered goals in the opening quarter of season 2016, battling to put together six for the whole evening. Our opponents, North Melbourne, are a team that should be kindred spirits to us; another small, unglamorous club that battles for recognition and respect in the footy world. However in recent years my dislike of them has grown and grown; with previous villains of my footy world, perennial nasties Carlton, Essendon and Collingwood not currently posing a threat, the Roos have rocketed up a prestigious ladder. The Ladder of Teams The Tragician Hates The Most. Is it their fake 'tough guy' culture, the sort of aggression which manifests itself in knocking over Barry Hall when he bends over to tie up his shoelaces? The shinboner spirit these days is more about targeting the lightest and youngest guy among their opposition, or an array of sniping tactics such as knees 'accidentally' crashing into backs after a mark. Is it their petulant morose coach? Is it their supporters who have a braying sense of injustice, whinge and call out 'BALL' incessantly, never seeing anything beyond free kicks to their own players (in complete contrast to the even-handed approach for which the Tragician is well-known)? Is it the fact that they have adopted the most ridiculous of practices, a pulsating sign on the screen accompanied by pumped up sound entreating their fans to "MAKE SOME NOISE"? Worse still, they dutifully obey; like sheep rather than flesh and blood supporters they bleat out some cheers on cue. What next, thinks a grouchy Tragician: "STAKEHOLDERS!! PLEASE TAKE UP THIS UNPRECEDENTED ENGAGEMENT OPPORTUNITY!" Though it was at our 'home' venue, as the 'away' team, we were displaced onto the top level. Sitting surrounded by unloveable North supporters I concluded that the thrust and parry of sparring with opposition fans is vastly over-rated. I much prefer to be in the midst of my fellow die-hards, the kindred spirits with whom I may never have exchanged a word, but who, just like me, have spotted that abominable missed free kick, with whom I will share crazy disbelieving laughter when Jake does something outrageous, and share the sigh of disappointment when an opportunity is missed. Another disadvantage of being up so high is that the birds' eye view makes it harder to forgive mistakes and easier to condemn missed chances. Perched on the highest level, the game's pattern unfolds far too obviously before us, leading to whimpers of anguish as a player rebounds from defence, fails to spot the unattended guy who's run hard to make space, and instead picks out four North players who've camped out on the wing in anticipation of just such an opportunity. From our vantage point we watch in despair as four of our defenders cannon into each other to spoil the ball; as Jake opts for ridiculous speckies instead of leading into the space that we can see stretching before him; as tired-looking players give up the chase a little too easily. Even worse is the slow-motion view that is afforded of the dreaded run-down from behind. While we shriek like kids at a pantomime: "WATCH OUT!! HE'S BEHIND YOU", a person (who may have been Fletcher Roberts but I'm not one to single out individuals) takes one too many lumbering steps forward, seemingly the only person in the entire stadium oblivious to the hot breath of a North player on his neck. Watching this and other disasters unfold, I realised with sinking heart that a phenomenon that I thought had been relegated to the not-so-nostalgic sepia-coloured, BMac era, past had re-emerged, just when we needed it least. Yes, loyal readers: as you can see above, the Catastrophe Performance Index (CPI to insiders) a tried and true, illustrated representation of our BMac era gameplan, consisting of aimless chaotic attempts to go forward, was rearing its unloved and ugly head again.
This is not to be confused with Chaos Theory, the style implemented with such magical results since the arrival of Bevo Our Saviour. In this much more pleasing version, we hold our breath as waves of defenders stream out of the backline in kamikaze formations, shooting daredevil handpasses out (wait! that can't come off!) to another red white and blue player who launches a manoeuvre equally implausible (did he just do that?) before the ball arrives in a forward line teeming with opportunities (WOW! GO DOGS! ) That form of chaos, though, normally had Bob Murphy at its heart, with his elegant lope through the middle, or those kicks that scythed through the opposition's press. They often featured a JJ dash to connect up the red white and blue Men of Mayhem. Their absence means we are not simply two elite ball-users and line-breakers down; it's like we're cutting and pasting less skilled men into the same frenetic game plan. Without these sublime talents Chaos Theory just looks like suicidal madness. For a 17 point loss to the competition ladder leader, Friday night's performance has thrown up a disproportionate amount of angst, as we grapple again with that gigantic battle between hope and pessimism, much more stark in a team so long without success. Unsurprisingly, not only the CPI, but its usual sidekick - Flawed Tragician thinking - have materialised. (And judging by the rants on fan forums this month, I'm not alone. DROP JAKE STRINGER, PEOPLE?? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS?) It felt far too easy to over-state the meaning of the loss, to begin the panicky internal monologue of preparing myself for the possibility that this group, too, will break my heart like so many others have. It's a state of unnecessary gloom and doom that only fans of unsuccessful clubs can understand. I try and channel the mindset of successful club supporters to ward off these evil thoughts. Flawed Tragician thinking Our game style has now been exposed. Other teams have worked us out. It's THE END. Reasonable, rational, smug, premiership-glutted Hawthorn supporter type thinking If even one of Bob, JJ, T Boyd or 'Celeb' Daniel had played, the Dogs would have won. Simple as that. Flawed Tragician thinking Last year was so much more fun. We've gone back into our shells. We don't 'believe' any more. Reasonable, rational, smug premiership-glutted Hawthorn supporter type thinking The season is a marathon, not a sprint. It's about holding on to a top four spot; of course there are bumps along the way. It's how you regroup that matters. And let's not forget, the Dogs lost to St Kilda, Brisbane and Melbourne last year. Flawed Tragician thinking We never win the big games. Our culture of failure is now seeping into this promising group. There's something wrong with our very DNA!!! Reasonable, rational, smug premiership glutted Hawthorn supporter type thinking What a load of tripe. The Dogs' list is the second youngest in the competition, already well ahead of where they should be, and with an incredible amount of upside. The Roos are a bunch of geriatrics, THREE WHOLE YEARS older than the Dogs on average, and with all their players fit. Yet even playing poorly the Dogs still had many opportunities to win the game; the rematch will be a different story. Flawed Tragician thinking Our goal kicking is hopeless. We never nail that crunch goal. It's like a disease, handed down through the generations. Breathed in from the Whitten Oval mud. Like a dark malevolent cloud, wafting off the John Gent stand. Reasonable, rational, etc Oh for heaven's sake, you do love a melodrama. Settle down and take a breath. Goal-kicking is fixable: the coaching team are aware of, and working on, this issue. Why on earth should the points kicked in the 2009 Preliminary Final, have anything to do with Jordan Roughead missing an absolute sitter at a critical moment, just when we really really really needed him? (Sorry, I may be getting my personas mixed up). Flawed Tragician thinking I just don't like losing very much. Reasonable, rational, smug premiership glutted Hawthorn supporter type thinking Winning's much more fun. And I should know. But you're going to find that out a hell of a lot over the next few years.
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About the Bulldog TragicianThe Tragician blog began in 2013 as a way of recording what it is like to barrack for a perennially unsuccessful team - the AFL team, the Western Bulldogs. Categories
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