It was like fighting Mike Tyson at his peak. It was like facing the West Indies at their peak. It was like cycling in the Tour de France against a drugged-up Lance Armstrong. It was like trying to eliminate the Corleone family.
Extra$ money, anyone?
It was as hopeless as Luke Skywalker facing Darth Vader the first time. It was embarrassing like Daryll Cullinan getting out to Shane Warne again. It was as pointless as winning the opening set in a major against Roger Federer.
On Friday night before the preliminary final, the Fox footy panel was asked to nominate their tips and provide a margin. Eddie McGuire was defiantly flippant, as you would expect an opposing club president to be. He picked Sydney by about two-million dollars.
David King as a former North player, was more sensible. He picked Sydney by the combined scores of Buddy Franklin and Kurt Tippett.
My garage was absent of nervous tension. Adam and I were fatalistically calm. The Pole donned his old North Melbourne jumper, desperate for a North-Hawthorn grand final. His reasons extended beyond bipartisan support.
The Pole hates Sydney. Franklin used to play for Hawthorn. Now he’s at Sydney. And Hawthorn lost to the Swans in the 2012 grand final. The Pole is sick of their success.
Adam and I are sick of Sydney too. It’s a hate that took time to manifest. We didn’t hate them in 2005-06, but we hate what the AFL have allowed them to become.
They’re not the Sydney Swans anymore, they’re the Sydney Extra$.
North wasn’t expected to win, which is why we weren’t stressing. That didn’t mean Adam and I weren’t hopeful, we just didn’t want a blow-out. North had won two finals. A massive loss would dent that progress.
A few minutes before the game started, Adam asked about my heart. Its rate hadn’t elevated. Adam’s hadn’t either.
We weren’t into the preliminary final. Our conversation was built around hope, I hope North are in touch at half time, I hope Petrie kicks six, I hope we’re not embarrassed.
When the siren went, my heart lurched. ‘I can feel it now,’ I said. It wasn’t excitement. It was fear.
‘I can feel mine too,’ Adam said.
North kicked the first goal. It took Sydney about ten minutes to get their first and that was the extent of our resistance. The remnants of two tough finals was evident. North was second to the ball, played from behind, couldn’t break tackles and couldn’t make tackles.
The margin at quarter time was 21-points.
During the second quarter, there were times when we watched silently. The vision didn’t need words. Only errors broke the silence. Our lament was stilted.
Adam and I ended the second term on our feet, unable to sit still. Sydney led by six goals. The Pole talked up our third quarters. All I could do was nod.
‘We need to win the third quarter by two or three goals,’ Adam said.
I admired their optimism and tried to envisage a fight back, an eight goal third term. I hoped for something to ease the angst that filled the garage. My heart was yammering. Adam retold the second quarter, the errors and hopeless play. He filled his beer. I couldn’t fill mine.
During the third quarter, I was overcome by disappointment. There would be no fight back. I willed North on without enthusiasm, wanting goals to ease Adam’s frustration.
Sydney monstered North on the inside and slaughtered them in space. At times, the size and strength of the Swans was cruelly apparent. They didn’t just brush us aside, they snatched the ball from our grasp with ease.
Pressure forced errors. They launched themselves into smothers and relentlessly drove the ball deep into the vicinity of Franklin and Tippett. But it wasn’t just the Extra$ show. Adam Goodes and Luke Parker kicked three goals each.
At three-quarter-time with North 52-points down, I went to bed. Not because I was angry or disgusted, but because I had to. My alarm was set for 4am. I was hoping for about six hours sleep before going to work.
I couldn’t sleep. I had to know. The final margin, 71-points, was dreadful.
The following morning, the newsroom was unhurried. I went through the stats. Sydney had eight goal kickers. North had six. Sydney had 27 more disposals and took 13 more marks. Those stats are indicative, occasionally, of a closer game.
But the inside-50 stat told the story. Sydney went inside 25 more times and had 21 more scoring shots. The margin could’ve been much bigger.
Franklin took 11 marks and gathered 23 possessions. Tippett was more subdued with 15 possessions and nine marks. Collectively, they kicked 9.4.58. David King’s prediction was 13-points out.
North didn’t have a hope. They weren’t just fighting history, they were up against the best team Extra$ can buy.
Twenty-years ago, Sydney won their third consecutive wooden spoon. They were a rabble. The AFL, as they do for every club, offered assistance. Two years later, Sydney lost the grand final to North.
The Extra$ have missed the finals just three times since, because the AFL has never stopped providing assistance.
There were premierships in 2005 and 2012. It’s been an extended era of excellence but those premiership teams have got nothing on this current side.
The Extra$ are making the difference.
Sydney has recruited astutely. They develop young players exceptionally well. Their no dickheads culture is non-negotiable. And they don’t suffer as much from the go-home factor as other clubs.
They also gave up a bevy of fringe players to fit Franklin and Tippett into the salary cap.
History, however, shows that any club with Extra$, be it salary cap concessions or extra players on the list, will win multiple premierships. Anyone remember the Brisbane Lions three-peat?
Extra$ money makes the draft and salary cap redundant. Extra$ money might win the Sydney Extra$ another premiership.
