The Triumph

fly, unloved losing streak, till thou run out thy race;
Call instead upon the lazy leaden-stepping one hit wonders,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is their paltry loss,
So mighty a victory is our gain.
As when the single carriage bestrode the path;
Quintuplicate solidus gather’d within prodigous girth.
For when, as each bad pass and miskick hast entomb’d
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
When injuries steer us not from thy truest quest,
And rightous Shots on Goal thus manifest.
Then long eternal winning shall greet our bliss,
With the ardent seven fold kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us, as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good,
And perfectly divine,
With speed, and pace, and possession, shall ever shine,
About the supreme brown throne
Of those, to whose happy-making sight, alone,
When once our golden-gilded soul shall climb,
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars of brown and gold, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over our vanquished foes, and thee, O losing streak!

‡
 

lost 3-5 vs Spartans?
CB MOM 2, RH 1, TH, TW, GF, CG

Yo people, we had a game that we lost. Let’s have a closer look. The final score was 5-3. They scored 5 goals and we scored 3. Here’s the thing. We started at 0-0 and in the first half of the first half (the first quarter if you will), it was like the Nannas were not quite fully on. You know the low power consumption fluorescent globes we all have these days. You turn them on and they seem a bit dull and not very bright and then may be 10 minutes later they are significantly brighter. As bright as you would hope a light should be.

So this is the Nannas. The game starts and we are on. We’re definitely ‘on’, but we’re just a little bit dull and dim. And while we’re in our slightly dim state the opposition score a couple of goals. Now, the opposition are a team that the Nannas have not played before and they have a style of play that is quite different to what we are used to. They are delicate and gentle with the ball and don’t go in for big body contact. They have footskills, they have fluidity. They’re not whip crack sharp but they’re slightly bewildering. Their style is something new.. a fusion of other teams’ styles that we have played. I call it the ‘banana style’. It’s slippery, delicately flavoured and it has the potential to make a cake out of the Nannas.

But. The big but. Somewhere around the first quarter mark, the gradual brightening of the eco-Nannas has suddenly reached its zenith. And we are on. We are bright. We are glowing. We begin to decode the bewildering banana. It no longer goes around us. Perhaps the Nannas can make a cake out of the banana instead of the other way around. The writer gets a goal. Which the writer can actually remember for once. Perhaps the online brain gym is actually working for the writer. Ok here it is.

“I get the ball.. I’m in front of the oppostion’s goals yet quite far to the right. I line up the shot. I see the bottom far corner of the goal. It looks good. It looks open. I’m thinking.. I’m gonna put it there, right there. And then I shoot. The ball hugs the floor, crosses the goal mouth and goes right into that bottom corner.”

At half-time we are 3-1 down. We pretty much repeat the pattern of the first half. Start dim, lose a couple of goals, brighten up and then fight back. The second half is actually a draw 2-2. The writer gets another goal (which he can’t really remember) and the Captain also gets one (which unfortunately the writer cannot really remember either.. suffice to say that it was awesome and banging and a classic captain’s special).

Personal apologies must go out to Tao. Sorry for calling you a name Tao. There is no excuse for it and I will try to be a bigger man this week.

After the match we took it random styles to the Thornbury Local. The Captain was happy with the reduced hipster factor but equally dismayed by the wall mosaic and the feral factor. There was live music. The label mogul shook his thing but remained seated. His impassive countenance revealed little and it seems unlikely that there will be any new signings. He did think about photographing the Dr Poppy sign until he realised it was an ad for ganja. Speaking of ganja, Coach and the funky nanna were seen departing the Thornbury Local for some unknown purpose and later seen re-entering the Local with noticeably reduced bombast.

PS A note on passing and shooting. (Basic tip #1)

I have been thinking a lot recently about the importance of looking at your target before you shoot or pass. And after a lengthy discussion with Tony Brown (head of coaching at FC Clifton Hill and no relation) on the subject, I feel sufficiently vindicated in my personal musings to bring them to the table of basic tips.

Here is the sequence.

1. Look at the ball.

2. Look at your target.

3. Look back at the ball. Kick the ball.

This may seem quite straight forward and simple but it can make a huge difference to your aiming. Often what happens is one sees the target/ person they are passing to in their periphery and then attempts to make the pass or shot.

YOU MUST EYEBALL THE TARGET

This enables your eye-brain-foot calibration to work. It’s a wondrous thing.

CB, TH, AW, JH, GF, RH(MOM), TK(MOM)

Anger produces an instantaneous surge, which causes your eyes wide open, blood pressure to elevate and your heart to get excited. Let’s get our hairs on the back of neck stand up. We are ready for action. We’re born with a capacity for anger. Anger isn’t something that has to be learned or earned, like other such such ship. It is blasting 50 Cal. Just need better control like someone started to use telescopic sight on top of it at Falkland Crisis. Charge the anger till the time you release.

vs a team that no longer exists at a place that isn’t there anymore.

Once, about 13 years ago, there was a man, and he made a little baby lion by pleasuring an older she-lion with his sperm, and despite what you may think you know about genetics, the little baby lion didn’t come out as half man-half lion, it came out to be all lion. Now the man, as men were want to do back in those days, went about his business without much regard to for the baby lion, but the she-lion, as mothers have been want to do throughout the ages, cared for her little baby lion. As the little baby lion lay suckling at the hairy teat of the she-lion she whispered in it’s little baby lion ears; “As the product of both Man & Lion you are destined for greatness for you will possess the finest attributes of each of them. You will have the strength and savagery of Lion and the wisdom and guile of Man, but you must also be wary for the worst attributes are want to manifest as well.”

Sure enough the little baby lion grew great and powerful. Those who saw him coming feared him, for his jaws were gleaming razors attached to titanium vices, his paws were spiked clubs attached to hydraulic wrecking arms, and his roar shattered the bowels of those who would stand in his way. As he aged he became more powerful, he fought and slew creatures much more powerful than he. He bested foes against whom he had no realistic chance. His legend was total and all bowed before him and called him sire for he was Old King Lion.

Then the man who fathered the Lion felt a stirring in his loins. He thought of his progeny, he wondered what had become of him, he had heard stories from far off lands of the mighty Old King Lion, and he was curious whether Old King Lion might be his offspring. So he journeyed far, seeking Old King Lion, looking for a mighty warrior, a fighter afraid of no-one, besting all who he came up against, but there was no sign of such a beast. The man thought many times of giving up, but the desire to see his scion burned strong within him, so he traveled further and further eventually crossing the river that divided the lands to the South Side. A side where depravity and vice were strong; where hedonistic pleasures were routinely taken at the expense of other less fortunate beings; where sickness and perversion were so pervasive as to be more present than the air being breathed; where moral turpitude festered upon souls of the inhabitants like a cancerous bile duct spurting gangrenous pus onto a duendena; a place lousy with licentiousness, lechery, prurience, and obscenity. There he found what had once been Old King Lion.

He found what had once been Old King Lion camped out in a puddle of his own piss gumming off prostitutes. Old King Lion had hit rock bottom, he was a hooker’s hooker. His fur was mangy and bescabbled, with rancid bits of indeterminate matter coated around his rectal area. His johnston had been rubbed raw in some sort of onanistic dementia, as though in some part of his mind he was still the king and he was getting some. But he wasn’t, and he wasn’t. He was nothing. Opponents who used to fear him in battle barely even bothered fighting him, they’d just rock up and take a shit on his head and laugh at him, or make him drink petrol for cigarette butts, or watch him while he self harmed his own testicles with mouse traps and car jacks, or bend him over and have their way with him, cracking him across the back of the head with a bit of old 4 by 2 with a nail hanging out of it while what had once been Old King Lion maniacally laughed green snot bubbles out the hole where his septum used to be, wailing ‘still the king’ repeatedly in an out of key falsetto.

The man cradled the broken Old King Lion in his arms as a creamy discharge from one of the broken Old King Lion’s pustulant sores slowly wept into the man’s brown cardigan. “I’m getting you out of here,” said the man as a tear rolled down his cheek, “I’m taking you Northside, where you can be king again.” And parts of the Old King Lion were like: “Hmmm, I dunno maybe”, and other parts were whiny like: “But this is the only place we know”, and one particularly recalcitrant part was like: “its a bit harder for me to catch a train from there”. And the man said: “For fuck’s sake! There’s Hampton shit in your hair, and a mousetrap on your nuts. Pack up your kit right now we’re going!” And so they went.

And went they did, deep Northside, further north than any of the parts of Old King Lion believed was possible to go. And as they traveled Old King Lion’s strength returned, his sores healed and his mind sharpened. He knew he would have to fight again, for real this time, no back down, no surrender. And when he stepped into the ring he saw a fearful looking opponent from the east, but pretty much 30 seconds into the fight it turned out it was just a tiny little puppy dog in a bow tie with a pink ballon with kitten on it. The Old King Lion roared and the tiny little puppy dog fouled itself, and the Old King Lion raised his once again mighty paw and brought it down upon the tiny little puppy dogs head with the maximum power available and thereupon repeated the action until the little puppy dog was just a stain on the court.

The man smiled, Old King Lion was back.

4-7 v Real Madredful – 6pm Wesley
CB, DC(3,mom), GF(1), CG, RH, TW – supporters OTG, PTG, SB

All the talk was of Preston this week. From my perspective it was all to do with an ill fated house purchasing scenario just south of Bell St, what a freakin’ nightmare. From the Captain’s perspective it was all about Hoddle Street/Punt Road and how we might avoid the weekly monoxide nightmare it has come to represent. Apparently they have spare places in a Preston comp on a Thursday … we’ll see. I for one am up for it but I do harbour grave fears for the structural integrity of the Nannas™ if we were to attempt a move. Morale is low, commitment is lower, the thursday night impromptu has not been see in the wild for a very, very  long time. A move at this point could prove disastrous.  On the other hand it could be just what the brown brothers need to kick start that old  joie de vivre that is so sorely missing… perhaps we should put it to the voter®… or a forum poll perhaps.

The 6 o’clock game is fucker, or if you are the coach, a fister. It played absolute havoc with our transportation ( more grist for the preston mill). I met Giller and the Captain oustide Clifton hill station ( is that a first ? a pickup from PT ?) after a frisk and wriggle with the met police.  We made better than expected time on boulevard of evil and arived… wait for it… 32 mins… that’s right…32 mins early, which was odd. Visitor© and Brown© arrived a little closer to kickoff but no sign of teh Nannas whose names stat with “Ta” so it was a Tight 5 for the first half until Bestlooking© managed to fight his way through the traffic, making us 6 for the second half. Cheezles opened the scoring with a deftly placed shot which was followed quickly by one from the author (a rather novel event) putting the brown and gold 2 ahead after about 5 mins. By half time it was 2 all and 4-7 at the final whistle. We played pretty well for the most part with some good passing, nice running and a great goal at the end (if I do say so myself) but they were killing us on the counter and had a couple of footskills too many. ah well.

The standard post 6 o’clock game full impromptu failed to materialise due to total nanna nannalyness leaving giller and the author to go to Huxtaburger for a mandate ( and full props to huxtaburger fro remembering the forgotten burger), followed by a brief tour of smith street’s artistic output, we were even planning to have a look at Alice’s opening… dirty… but then the tram arrived, so the author didn’t get to… but giller did.

– – – – – – – – –

Preston #1, the one that got away…

Preston #2, the harsh graphic reality…

vs South Melbourne
loss 5-10
CB 2 MOM, JH,DC 1,TW, TK(gk), AW, GF, TH (coach)

Tom set the tone with his excellently selected tie. Papou came along to support us.

We started the game with a little jolt of confidence as we appeared to be holding the opposition well. This little jolt is actually not what we need because it weakens our resolve and opens up our vulnerabilities.

So there we were with our vulnerabilities gaping wide open and telling our homeboys we were scoping. And that was enough encouragement for the frenchy opposition to take us to school. And not in a walking bus.

One day we will win again.

5-4 v Left Footers

CB(2), RH(1)(MOM), DC(MOM), AW, TH, CG

There is something satisfying in hitting rock-bottom, it is solid, it’s grounding, it provides a platform.
Because rock bottom is where the Nannas find themselves. It’s not that we played badly for the entire match, in fact we were all over them for much of the match.

What the Nannas can’t do is finish a match well, we can lose from any position.

We started well, good goals, Chassey slamming one from halfway, some great set-ups allowing me to pop one home we were confident and moving well. Bit Then. Self doubt, nervousness a lack of cohesion, splintering in offence and defence, a static foward line, simple mistakes. These problems all point to an issue with our mental game, we have lost any belief in ourselves and unfortunately when we’re against the wall we stop working together and try to individually solve problems rather than working as a TEAM. That is where the nannas are at their best.

.

5-5 v Blue Steel

DC(1), RH(2), GF, JH(2), AW, TW, TK(M)

Fear. When the fear crawls up to your ear. What is your action?

You may feel some fear when you see a man with a knife who you don’t know resting beside your bed when you wake up. You may feel some fear when you suddenly see zombies 10m away in dark. You may feel some fear in unfamiliar combat you don’t feel good about.

We know what to do before the negative conditions drive us to uncertainty, fear, panic. We always manage this well and we love this moments as there are no script writers, no excuse, no time to wait, no time to say words. So we just perform twice more accurate, 0.9 – 1.3 times faster how ever you feel comfortable.

Nannas was leading the game. The score was 5-2. 2 minutes to go. Lost 3 goals. The score was 5-5 at the end.

Thinking about the next game against this team? Yes me too. I remember the last 2 min.

PS. great goal the Nannas.

1-2 v Hamptons

DC(m), CB, RH, GF, JH(1), TK, TW, AW

Holy crapsticles, what a day. What a freakin’ week !

Thursday the 31st of January 2013 as pointed out by the Visitor™ has rather a nice symmetry to it. Not only that but it has a deep significance for the author as it was on this day that he marked his 40th complete revolution of the sun. That’s right, 31.1.13 was a big day.

For the Match Report™ I was planning to do something of a comic book photo essay detailing the activities of the day from rise to crash but after starting it all seems a bit too much given Wal is picking me up in less than two hours.

After a brief sleep in I got out of bed, opened cards from the young children and received apologies for lack of present from the wife. Breakfast involved lovely (very pink) company and great coffee but a rather shit breakfast. I definitely don’t recommend the bacon, fig and onion chutney from penny farthing at all, more than a slight suggestion of mince on toast from the Tokaora tea rooms !

Lunch, now this is where it started to get good. I brief whip into the studio was followed by PT into the city to meet up with the Captain and Brown at Gills Diner. After some rather delicious local beers (it’s the year of the IPA according to the Captain) and a round of coffin bay oysters ( and discussion about excessive decorative rock salt use) I had the porterhouse (grass fed) with triple cooked chips and heirloom carrots. My colleagues had the free range pork coteletta with Italian coleslaw. I felt slightly guilty getting the steak as it seemed a bit bland, you know how restaurants always seem to have a nice safe steak with straight up veges for the Dad to get ‘cos he doesn’t like that fancy shit. Any way after some discussion with the waitress about ‘very rare’ v ‘blue’ I ordered rare… of course it came out medium (idiots) but i didn’t have the heart to send it back, and it did taste fantastic… as did the fig salad and the continued IPA drinking.

Leaving Gills, we went in search of bar. Unfortunately our groovy new secret underground back alley bar knowledge has accrued about 15 years of rust so went to the rooftop bar. Points in it’s favour: the view – Points against: No shots ??? and a group of flouro-vested-middle-aged-tourists gawping at the jobless patrons. Ah well, the sun was out and Chassy spilled a $16 margarita while talking us through it’s purchase. We were quite tipsy by this point and the concern was mounting on the forum.

From curtain house we jumped on a tram with the notion of having enough time to squeeze in one more drink. No sooner were we on the tram than the heavens opened up with ‘red on the weather radar’ level tropical downpour. There was much laughter and Photostream™ commenting as we trundled down St Kilda Rd. A crazed dash through the rain had us in the Belgian beer cafe sipping on Patron and noting the whiskey like flavours of a high quality tequila.

And then to the game. There was much mockery and laughter but the 3 of us were pumped, except that i had no kit due to a family stuck in traffic north of the river. That’s where the brotherhood of the Nannas really comes into it’s own, from nowhere came a pair of shorts and a top. No Caoch (due to his new role as a Land Lord) meant no sub sheet. Having so badly fvcked up the last one i was determined, even through my patron haze, to get this right, and I did, but forgot how it worked before running on. Subbing chaos ensued including 2 re-drawings (in one of which the Captain wholly omitted Wal from the lineup) but no matter as we were one up thanks to Jim. I’ll admit, the game is somthing of a blur, but we were doing OK. There was some nice passing and some nice running, but it was freaking hot, three of the on court players and been drinking since 1pm and our defence began to fall apart. I had a couple of runs on goal which could have ended better, Brown could have converted his penalty, we could all of had some slightly better finishing. In the end it was somewhat deflating draw. but no, not only had we veered off script when i didn’t score the winner in the dying seconds, in fact we had lost ! WTF ? In any case the Nannas were magnanimous in the extreme, awarding the birthday fool the MOM.

Saying goodbye to the entirely selfless Miri (who had driven 3 children through peak hour traffic to watch their foolish father’s fortieth football fumblings) we headed to the Waiters. The captain and Brown had lost a little of their pre-game pizzaz but the Author was determined to keep the good times alive so gratefully accepted a peroni while contemplating another plate of red meat. Everything pointed to the sardines, but there weren’t any on the specials board. Te fall back would of course be the Porthouse with pepper sauce but I’d already had one of those only a few hours earlier so I opted for the Fillet Mignon. To be honest it was pretty rustic following Gills but that’s the joy of the waiters right. It should also be noted that the Funky Nanna had by this time joined the party. Bestlooking threw Osso Bucco all over himself and then it was time to find a bar. But not of course before a partaking of mildly discombobulating reliefer downstairs from Waiters. Suitably bewildered we headed into the city. Giller, unlike relier in the day, knew where we should go and soon the nannas were ensconced in a hipster bar looking only mildly out of place. The bar man somehow convinced the Visitor and I that some kind of fancy Jose Cuervo was actually better than Patron (idiot) so it was that and some beer I can’t remember. Brassy also came to the party at this point with some of the black magic of which Brassy is so fond.

And then at last, the highlight of the evening, Daytona. Not only did i not fuck up and find myself solo racing (and yelling at the staff) as usual (though both Brown and the Captain did somehow manage this act (I’ll admit there was the tiniest touch of schadenfreude)) but we even worked out how to buy-in after the race has started… Ahhhh sweet car racing games, they really are a disproportionate amount of fun.

From here, we started to lose people. Like 2 giant solid-fuel booster rockets Brown and the Captain peeled off, returning spent to earth as their precious payload continued it’s stratospheric journey into the night. Bestlooking also left for much more pragmatic reasons. Nam Loong provided some questionably hygienic pork buns before we went to troika for a quiet one, a beer I believe, more Peronis perhaps. The Visitor™ recorded some candid camera video with his highly prominent new iPad Mini before himself disappearing into the evening shortly after midnight leaving Thefunkynanna, Wal and I to ponder dessert.

John Saffran wasn’t there and we didn’t get the big plush leather seats beside the Return of the Jedi™ window but jesus christ, the supper club really payed the dessert bills. Crème brûlée, sticky date pudding and a lemon tart. All washed down with a glass of Pedro Ximénez (interestingly, the only one on the menu (and completely unknown by our waiter (idiot))). boom. unfortunately i did at one point inhale some of the PX which was a really bad thing to do, for a long moment i thought i was either going to throw up or pass out or both.

By the time we caught the cab home, I was so fucking full I had a little shelf just below my sternum, not a Robert Crumb fantasy butt shelf you could rest a cup of tea on, more like a rest your 0.2mm pilot fineliner shelf.

I finally crawled into bed about 1.30am irritating Miri with the led light on my phone as I tried to finish off my “a man turns 40” video diary… holy crapsticles, you only turn 40 once right !

* illustrations to follow