IT WAS a night for forward thinking at Telstra Dome. Two teams on the rise, 22 degrees, roof closed, surface trustworthy at last. Here was a test tube for ways of scoring. The goals came from everyone and everywhere: improbable ruckmen, inopportune moments, impossible angles.

Backmen became jittery. Midway through the last quarter, Blues Kade Simpson, Heath Scotland and Setanta O'hAilpin contrived to spoil each other in the Brisbane goal square, with no Lion in sight. Ashley McGrath, scarcely believing his luck, swooped to kick a goal off the ground. It gave his team a lead it did not again relinquish.

Eight players kicked three each (although curiously, none kicked more). At one stage late in the third quarter, the Lions had kicked 18.1. Carlton then had 16.9, which looked profligate by comparison.

As the tides flowed back and forth, two players, opposing captains, told the story. Centre half-forwards Jonathan Brown and Lance Whitnall were each on their way back, Brown from injury woes that blighted last season, Whitnall from the horrors.

In the first half, they were a match for one another, their opponents no match for them. Each marked strongly, ran smartly, showed vision and deft touch, kicked some goals and made others. Twice, when Brisbane was in retreat, Brown installed himself in the centre square. For as long as this duo stood up, so would their teams.

Their opponents were a contrast. Brown was manned by O'hAilpin, who greeted him in the now traditional way, with a bump, a shove and a a mouthful. And the Irish are supposed to be hospitable? Brown laughed, and outmarked O'hAilpin one on one. Then he did it again.

It became a thrashing. At its height, Brown was once seen to lick his fingers as the ball sped towards him, in the manner of Wayne Carey. This was better than Kentucky Fried ever was.

O'hAilpin continued to push, shove and bump, but rarely to make any other impact on Brown. Soon enough, a umpire will penalise him 100 metres ahead of the ball. O'hAilpin continues to prompt cheers from the Carlton faithful whenever he is near the ball, but frankly, his popularity far exceeds his exploits.

Coach Denis Pagan did not relieve him, for he must somehow provide for the future even as he services the present. Hopefully, this was a lesson learned. Last night, it was about the difference between a myth and a legend.

Whitnall was met with Jared Brennan, another who has struggled to grow into an outsized reputation. He has the appearance of a surfie, and perhaps the disposition, too, for there was none of O'hAilpin's faux brutality in his methods.

Instead, he kept one hand on Whitnall's back, lightly but constantly, in the basketball manner. It would not have surprised if Whitnall had taken out an intervention order, forbidding contact. There is a precedent.

Instead, Whitnall led Brennan a dance for a while. At his best, Whitnall can with no apparent effort direct the flow of the game, like a rock in a stream. Brennan, as is his wont, periodically tried to perform conjuring tricks, meantime ignoring simple options. But no rabbits emerged. This was all tonic for the Blues, who have felt Whitnall's suffering this troubled season.

But in the second half, Whitnall faded. As the Lions began to surge late in the third quarter, he was called to the bench. He began the last quarter on the ground, but soon was on the bench again. His legs failed him. He found himself half a kick out of the play every time the ball came forward, and not even his renown football smarts could make up the metres.

It is too simple to say that it cost the Blues the game. Last night, one man's waning generally was another's waxing. For a while, it was Cameron Cloke. But ultimately, the Blues had one fewer avenue to goal than the Lions. On a night so finely balanced, that was a factor.

At length, the goal fever cooled. The Lions, so deadly early, finished with 3.9 once the spell was broken. The Blues ran colder still. They kicked nine goals in the second quarter, but none in the last until after the final siren.

Twice, Brendan Fevola remonstrated with umpires when the moment demanded that he pay attention to the football, still not cleared by Brisbane.

Whitnall cut a forlorn figure. Brown marched from strength to strength. The Blues booed Brown's each touch, football's ironic compliment. Doubtlessly, the Lions fans would have hooted Whitnall's interventions, too. But, sadly he did not give them a chance.