Kevin Hawkins remembers finals time against the Bulldogs
It’s time-on in the last quarter. Adam Cooney, one of the Bulldogs’ best performers tonight, has the ball in hand. He is running towards goal and will almost definitely convert. The margin will rise to 28 points.
Surely the finals race is over.
From my back pocket seat I can’t tell if the ball goes in. To be honest, though, it doesn’t really matter. I know Melbourne’s season is gone, a real shame considering last week’s effort. In that memorable afternoon, the Demons recovered from a 34 point deficit, a seven game losing streak, and a 17 year Kardinia Park hoodoo. It was the perfect way to reinvigorate a fading season, to re-light the burning ambition of finals.
But today, as I sit in the MCG, squashed by a family of diehard Bulldogs supporters, I can’t feel any of that. Melbourne has been behind all day and this is the final nail in the coffin.
But Cooney misses.
Over the next couple of minutes, the score remains unchanged as Melbourne fans decide to cut their losses. Small clusters of the crowd begin heading up the aisles, each one of them putting their faith in Connex in the hope of an empty carriage. As foolish as it is, I muster up an ounce of faith for my Demons, hoping in vain for a minor miracle.
Little did I know it then, but I was about to see one.
With seven minutes to go, Jeff White marks 40 metres out from goal. He lines up and delivers a faultless kicking technique. The ball sails gracefully through the sticks. The margin is reduced to 16.
A minute later, Adem Yze jumps out of nowhere to mark a Lindsey Gilbee kick-in.
His set shot cuts the margin down to just nine.
“Mel-bourne! Mel-bourne!” I begin to chant. The family of Bulldog supporters who linked me up with free tickets aren’t impressed. My senses, however, fail to register their growls; I’m lost in a bubble and the only thing I can see is red, blue and finals.
The scoreboard reminds me that we’re still behind by almost two goals. The accompanying clock indicates that time is running out. In normal circumstances, such indicators would convince me to give up hope. Tonight, however, I can feel that something is about to happen. It doesn’t matter to me whether a Melbourne win is logistically impossible; I refuse to concede defeat.
I guess it’s one of the symptoms of a red-and-blue heart.
At the opposite pocket of the ground, Daniel Giansiracusa wins a contentious free kick. My instincts tell me that it wasn’t a legitimate decision and I join the Melbourne chorus in shouting my disapproval. Much to the masses’ joy, Giansiracusa’s snap misses.
The ball returns to the Melbourne forward 50, this time into the hands of Ben Holland. Holland converts with ease and the margin is down to four. I am boosted with confidence that Melbourne can win it. My only concern is the clock below the scoreboard. The numbers just keep ticking away. There must be only seconds left now.
The Bulldogs respond with an offensive play. Cooney has the ball again, and threatens to break the lines open and kick a sealer. His kick, however, is thwarted by the desperate Aaron Davey. It’s a bold smother and definitely something for the highlight reel, but the clock continues to pester me. Moments later, the ball lands out of bounds in the Melbourne forward 50.
In the subsequent rucking contest, White stands his ground and watches the ball fall towards him. Wayne Skipper, however, has other ideas and knocks his adversary to the ground. The umpire watches the chaos unfold and blows his whistle. He flaps his arm out toward the Bulldog end, and the Melbourne faithful erupt in emotion. Jeff White is awarded the free kick, almost 50 metres from goal.
As White creeps forward from his starting post, every eye in the stadium follows his footsteps. The Melbourne ruckman, though, is careful to ignore the attention. His footsteps increase in tempo. He lets the ball go. He launches his foot at the ball. He keeps his eyes on the goals.
For a couple of moments, the MCG is silent.
Everything moves in slow motion.
Until Jeff White raises his hands.
Surely the finals race is over.
From my back pocket seat I can’t tell if the ball goes in. To be honest, though, it doesn’t really matter. I know Melbourne’s season is gone, a real shame considering last week’s effort. In that memorable afternoon, the Demons recovered from a 34 point deficit, a seven game losing streak, and a 17 year Kardinia Park hoodoo. It was the perfect way to reinvigorate a fading season, to re-light the burning ambition of finals.
But today, as I sit in the MCG, squashed by a family of diehard Bulldogs supporters, I can’t feel any of that. Melbourne has been behind all day and this is the final nail in the coffin.
But Cooney misses.
Over the next couple of minutes, the score remains unchanged as Melbourne fans decide to cut their losses. Small clusters of the crowd begin heading up the aisles, each one of them putting their faith in Connex in the hope of an empty carriage. As foolish as it is, I muster up an ounce of faith for my Demons, hoping in vain for a minor miracle.
Little did I know it then, but I was about to see one.
With seven minutes to go, Jeff White marks 40 metres out from goal. He lines up and delivers a faultless kicking technique. The ball sails gracefully through the sticks. The margin is reduced to 16.
A minute later, Adem Yze jumps out of nowhere to mark a Lindsey Gilbee kick-in.
His set shot cuts the margin down to just nine.
“Mel-bourne! Mel-bourne!” I begin to chant. The family of Bulldog supporters who linked me up with free tickets aren’t impressed. My senses, however, fail to register their growls; I’m lost in a bubble and the only thing I can see is red, blue and finals.
The scoreboard reminds me that we’re still behind by almost two goals. The accompanying clock indicates that time is running out. In normal circumstances, such indicators would convince me to give up hope. Tonight, however, I can feel that something is about to happen. It doesn’t matter to me whether a Melbourne win is logistically impossible; I refuse to concede defeat.
I guess it’s one of the symptoms of a red-and-blue heart.
At the opposite pocket of the ground, Daniel Giansiracusa wins a contentious free kick. My instincts tell me that it wasn’t a legitimate decision and I join the Melbourne chorus in shouting my disapproval. Much to the masses’ joy, Giansiracusa’s snap misses.
The ball returns to the Melbourne forward 50, this time into the hands of Ben Holland. Holland converts with ease and the margin is down to four. I am boosted with confidence that Melbourne can win it. My only concern is the clock below the scoreboard. The numbers just keep ticking away. There must be only seconds left now.
The Bulldogs respond with an offensive play. Cooney has the ball again, and threatens to break the lines open and kick a sealer. His kick, however, is thwarted by the desperate Aaron Davey. It’s a bold smother and definitely something for the highlight reel, but the clock continues to pester me. Moments later, the ball lands out of bounds in the Melbourne forward 50.
In the subsequent rucking contest, White stands his ground and watches the ball fall towards him. Wayne Skipper, however, has other ideas and knocks his adversary to the ground. The umpire watches the chaos unfold and blows his whistle. He flaps his arm out toward the Bulldog end, and the Melbourne faithful erupt in emotion. Jeff White is awarded the free kick, almost 50 metres from goal.
As White creeps forward from his starting post, every eye in the stadium follows his footsteps. The Melbourne ruckman, though, is careful to ignore the attention. His footsteps increase in tempo. He lets the ball go. He launches his foot at the ball. He keeps his eyes on the goals.
For a couple of moments, the MCG is silent.
Everything moves in slow motion.
Until Jeff White raises his hands.
“EEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, an indecipherable one-syllabic roar, echoes from the 30,000 strong crowd. Demon fans jump on strangers and embrace one another with ferocious bear hugs. The cheer squad erupts into a spontaneous party. The M.C.C. stand is brewing with contagious ecstasy.
In my forward pocket I jump to my feet, much to the dismay of my neighbouring family. Their contribution to the sound is a collective sigh of bewilderment.
Thirty seconds later, though, the siren sounds.
Melbourne is into the finals. The Bulldogs have missed out.
The smile on my face doesn’t leave for another sixty minutes. In that time, as I share a ride home with them, not one member of the Bulldog family opens their mouth.
Together they share the sentiment of a funeral. In the meantime, I chuckle to myself in the back seat, re-living the experience moment by moment inside my head.
And even to this day, I still have a chuckle about Jeff White and that blissful Saturday night.
In my forward pocket I jump to my feet, much to the dismay of my neighbouring family. Their contribution to the sound is a collective sigh of bewilderment.
Thirty seconds later, though, the siren sounds.
Melbourne is into the finals. The Bulldogs have missed out.
The smile on my face doesn’t leave for another sixty minutes. In that time, as I share a ride home with them, not one member of the Bulldog family opens their mouth.
Together they share the sentiment of a funeral. In the meantime, I chuckle to myself in the back seat, re-living the experience moment by moment inside my head.
And even to this day, I still have a chuckle about Jeff White and that blissful Saturday night.
