Round 8 Mens Over 55s Match Report by Dusty

The Eastern Warriors tackled Frankston last Sunday.  To say we were undermanned is something of an understatement, ravaged by injuries to key players and a few that seem to have just gone missing. We were considerably smaller than our opponents – Dave H (who is not a giant) was our biggest player, but he was dwarfed by the Frankston full-forward by 30 centimetres and about forty kilos.  I didn’t see an obvious match up for me in the backline, so I picked the guy with the highest number on his back. (If his club doesn’t rate him enough to give him a decent number, such as the number eight I wear proudly, then that’s a good sign.)  Despite being undermanned, the first quarter was a relatively even but low scoring contest where neither side kicked a goal. The world’s smallest ruckman Damo was doing a great job, and Sammy (the Maltese Marvel) was covering the ground with that familiar, loping run, collecting possessions and using the ball well.  

But in the second quarter our celebrated defensive structure was flaccid, we lacked rigidity and could not repel the Frankston forays with the kind of purposeful thrusts that are our trademark. Our looseness was costly, and when the root of our structure Dave went off with a hyperextended elbow joint, we flopped badly.  Frankston had piled on six goals for the quarter without an answering riposte. I was running from place to place trying to pick up loose men, but they seemed to be multiplying as the quarter progressed.  If not for the heroism of Bruisa and the steadying influence of Paz it could have been much worse.

Coach Magoo was unhappy in the sheds at half time – and was not reticent in letting us know that we were not playing as well as we could.  I chewed thoughtfully on a lolly snake and took solace in the fact that I’d taken a few marks and my kicking had been pretty good. I also wondered whether going to a four hour wine tasting of excellent Victorian reds the day before was potentially not as performance-enhancing as I thought it might be. 

A few strategic moves of personnel at the break saw us right the ship and the contest returned to an even keel. We were much stiffer in defence, the addition of Fitzy gave us a real lift and our forward thrusts were much more effective. Our wings, the irrepressible Munga and the medically challenged CT, started to dominate, connecting up well with Ange and Rev. Rodders took a couple of good grabs, his deceptive pace and innocent face luring the Frankston defenders into underestimating his ability. We fought back, as true Warriors do. We outscored Frankston in the final quarter, the highlight undoubtedly being Marko’s goal. 
Elegantly coiffured as always, he took a lightly contested mark in the forward line, right on the edge of his range. The crowd held their breath as the ball left his boot, a presidentially precise drop punt that arced its way towards the big sticks – as the ball sailed through there was an outpouring of joy, an eruption of jubilation, that highlighted what we at the Warriors are all about. We celebrate the moments, no matter what the score, no matter how cold, wet and muddy the bogheap we are forced to play on, no matter how tired our bodies might be. Sometimes we celebrate lots of moments and we win, sometimes they are few and far between – but we celebrate every moment as a team, because that is what good teams do.