Collingwood v Carlton
Geelong v Richmond,
Punter'$ Paradi$e, Fannie Bay Racecourse, Darwin
LUNCH-TIME Saturday. I'm in tropical Darwin for the racing carnival. It's Palmerston Sprint Day. The Cup is on Monday. I'm in a taxi from the centre of Darwin out to Fannie Bay Racecourse. I've been thrown in with three blokes I've never met before. But within minutes we've worked out we all know a mad Albury punter called Jumbo. These blokes — Ferg, Goody and The Smollett Street Beer Baron — have raced horses with him.
We arrive at the track. I wish the boys all the best. I'd have a beer with them but I really haven't got time. I need to find a TV. I have the ABC radio preview from Kardinia Park in my ear. It's close to the opening bounce.
The first race is run. It's called by legendary Territory race caller, Mick Stumbles. The maidens bumble by. The oiled, sand track smells just like the old sand greens at the Oakey Golf Club.
There is no shortage of bars or drinkers at Fannie Bay. A bloke called Mango tells me proudly that Darwin is a three-and-a-half-stubbies-a-day town ("man, woman and child'). Not even two o'clock and some are over par already. It is, after all, 30 degrees in the shade.
The mood is spirited. Laughing. Drinking. Yarning. Remembering. Ribbing. Punting. But still no TV with the footy on. Not in the ring. Not in the public marquees. Not upstairs in the corporate dining area. I am getting worried.
Steve Johnson kicks the first goal of the match. You can just picture Gerard Whateley concentrating, chanting a mantra under his breath, "I must not use the word mercurial, I must not use the word mercurial." Mooney kicks another and it sounds like the Cats are away. I need to see this.
I am contemplating a few loyal dollars on Maybe Better, who is resuming in the Bletchingly, when a bloke called Mick introduces himself. He is on the committee at the Bairnsdale Race Club. He tells me he is working: getting ideas for racing carnivals. He has one of the main ideas in his hand and another idea ready to go on the table nearby. Mick is clearly an ideas man. Tom Alvin is on tour with them, his hair as long as ever. I back Maybe Better. He runs on encouragingly. It seems everyone has potted Haradasun. They cheer Apache Cat home.
I have one last chance: the Punter'$ Paradi$e. It is well-named. Bar. Tote. And, yes, at last, a TV with the footy on. I spot those magnificent blue and white hoops contrasting against the yellow and black, perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing contest in the draw. Only a few are watching. Gerry from Apollo Bay wears his Cats cap.
The boys are dominant. They are playing with such confidence, such strength, such pace. Although Johnno has a long way to go to deserve a reputation like Brent Crosswell's, he has that rare quality. They write poetry while most of the players around them file reports.
You can tell the Cats are playing brilliant football. In tight contests the ground appears small. Players can find little room. They struggle to release the game. But when a side moves the ball as quickly as Geelong does, there is so much room. The ground is enormous.
Given there is only one TV I am surprised it is not tuned to Collingwood and Carlton on the other channel. I soon learn why. A party of Geelong supporters sit at a nearby table. They are 1970s footballers from Bendigo. The big bloke (who looks like he could still play on Barry Hall) has taken charge of the TV. He is a relative of one of the Geelong players. And he is watching Geelong.
When Johnno kicks a freak left-footer he tells me Johnno was the third victim in the hat-trick he recently took in a game of backyard cricket: Brad Ottens, Andrew Mackie and Johnno. He says the boys are totally committed.
He is with some legends of the Northern United FC. Bill, the computer man, coached them. Gary Mountjoy won a stack of best and fairests. Doug Cail once kicked 29 goals (many of them drop kicks) against Harcourt. Now approaching 60, farmer Doug has booked into the Darwin backpackers as Sven.
The Cats, despite some lairising, look comfortable. In a gesture of goodwill, the big fella changes channels. Fifty Collingwood supporters are immediately around the TV. Carlton look keen, the Pies shaky. Another Blues' goal and faces grimace with worry. Our big centre half-back taunts: "Look at 'em." He starts singing: "We are the navy Blues."
I recognise this as unwise behaviour in any environment, but here in Darwin, it has an element of gauntlet in it. Yet I am strangely unperturbed, confident that this bloke could have defended the entire Top End in 1942.
Instead I am celebrating Mark Blake's maiden goal. And enjoying the feeling of Geelong momentum.
To the relief of Pies' fans, Carlton finds a way to lose.
I bump into the Albury boys again. Their first bet of the day romped home at $9.50. The nag was called Throne Inn. Thinking back to the taxi ride, it was the omen tip. They are flying. "You only need one winner," Ferg says.
Make mine Geelong, any day.
