Tag Archives: Lachie Hosie

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The Beautiful Behind

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Mist hangs inside the Adelaide Oval, the arena lights smudgy and weary. A sullen sky thinks about raining but can’t be bothered to do so properly. It could be Yorkshire — on a summer’s day.

We’re in the Sir Donald Bradman Pavillion and it’s late in the last quarter of the Glenelg and Adelaide qualifying final.

The ball has morphed into a cake of soap — Palmolive Gold — yet somehow the disposal quality is still impressive — from both teams. It’s ferocious, it’s close. All afternoon, our forwards have been suffocated. The Crows intercept and rebound regularly. Our tackles are often swotted aside with indifference. The indicators are worrying.

Down two goals. On a slippery deck, old friend Brett and I decide this lead is worth four. We’re spluttering but Lachie Hosie converts a timely shot to the northern end. Six points in it but it feels like an unconquerable canyon.

The clock marches on. A bedevilling resignation forms. Crows fans grow louder. In front of us, an elderly couple — she in a Crows scarf, he in a Tigers top. Someone’s going home grumpy.

Every time they surge forward, Adelaide looks irresistible. Our defenders battle to be bold and resolute, to borrow from Macbeth.

Glancing at the scoreboard I see the clock ticking past 24 minutes. I say to Brett, ‘We really need to hurry.’

He replies, ‘There can’t be much time-on.’

26 minutes. Can only be a minute or two. I dread the siren.

Darcy Bailey pumps it to the square. Luke Reynolds slips behind the pack. He’s been below his best, but this is his moment. The ball spills and he edges into the corridor. With the outside of his left boot, he caresses it through like an Italian striker! Bellissima.

Scores are level. Ecstasy immediately swamped by threat of the cruel clock. Planes drone overhead. I bet it’s chilly at the Showgrounds. Only the woodchoppers would be warm — my hot chips are forgotten.

Heading deep into an unbearable thirty-first minute, Jarrod Lyons drives it into the arc. This is it.

Matty Allen snatches a quick handball from Hosie, steadies on a slight angle, and kicks. This afternoon has been one of relentless danger and suddenly, Glenelg finds its twinkling of grace. He dribbles the soggy Sherrin and tumbling goalward, it bounces three or four times and clangs into the post.

Have we just seen the best behind ever?

Tiger roar in the stands. Uniquely, Australian rules football rewards scoring inaccuracy and I love how this reflects our best, laconic selves (Good try matey but not quite. Here have a point!) and so, we lead, 74 – 73. On my all-time favourite left-footers list, number 22 climbs a few rungs to join Freddy McGuinness, Matty Bode and Ruory ‘Space Goat’ Kirkby.

The moments stretch excruciatingly. Allen’s behind is better than a goal — Adelaide must now go the full length of the ground. A major and a quick centre clearance could sink us. More anguish as the ball pings back and forth in our half.

Then the siren. And then the song crashes in: Oh, we’re from Tigerland / A fighting fury, we’re from Tigerland…

Like a Dickensian thief, we’ve pinched it. Seven consecutive wins in finals.

Two to go.

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The Last Moments of the 2024 Grand Final

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Norwood swarms forward, and with a brutal bump at half-back flashy nugget Mitch O’Neill flattens Dr. Chris Curran. It’s ferocious but ill-disciplined and the umpire’s whistle arrests this menacing surge. For long, agonised seconds the gentlemanly Tiger is on the ground before he enacts the biblical instruction, ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ rises and takes his deserved free kick. In the Sir Edwin Smith Stand, we exhale.

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Hunter Window streams around the eastern flank adjacent to the scoreboard and kicks, somewhat optimistically, for goal. Begging the ball to go through and confirm our seventh flag, we hold our breath. Glory sours to deflation as it sails mockingly across the goal front and out on the full. Despair! Norwood claims the ball and relaunches down the western wing. We again swing psychologically from the elated promise of attack to the gloomy duty of defense.

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Reigning Jack Oatey Medalist, Lachie Hosie, had no first-half possessions, but we all knew this would change, likely in spectacular style. It did. Imposing himself late, he slots two goals and then with an athletic leap at the point of the pack, he grabs a rousing mark. It lifts the Tiger faithful. The final score of the season is this kick for goal but it wobbles off the woodwork! Is there a more theatrical moment in footy than the Sherrin crashing into the goal post? The narrative effects are multiple. The scoring side claims what could be a telling single point addition, but the ball is given to the opposition, who steal it forwards like surprised thieves. Minor reward is replaced by the torment of major risk.

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There’s a menacing wave of red and blue as Norwood again flows through the centre square. Baynen Lowe launches the ball long and high. Like an American football kick, it achieves good hang time beneath the Riverbank Stand and both teams run on to it. We’re now inside the final minute and the execution of his disposal seems more prayerful than geographic precision. We need someone to scramble back and intercept this indiscriminate bomb. We’re five points up. And in what could be the concluding gesture of his 191-game career, Max Proud materialises miraculously by the goal square to rescue us yet again. With superior anticipation, he minsters customary relief. Norwood is thwarted.

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Time stretches cruelly, advancing at a glacial pace. The ball’s on the members wing. A desperate Redleg kick—but Will Chandler smothers it! There’s an appreciative roar for this startling defensive action during which the ball is arrested before it commences its trajectory. On all fours, Chandler leaps up and across at the kick and there’s a near-catastrophic but selfless beauty in his diving at a violently swinging boot. In that brief space and moment, danger and grace co-exist but only one can prevail. It’s grace.

The siren sounds.

photos courtesy of the author and screenshots from Channel 7

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2023 Grand Final: A Fighting Fury

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From the top deck of the Sir Edwin Smith Stand I see the scoreboard flags dancing in the breeze. It’s a bright Sunday for the season’s climax and I reckon three or four goals would capitalise on Max Proud winning the toss.

My teenaged son Alex and his mates are with me and during the footy enjoy just one meal. It begins before the opening bounce and in Henry the Eighth style, is still going in the car as we drive home along Anzac Highway.

Both sides exhibit what KG might describe as ‘exceptionally ferocious tackling’ and after eight lengthy minutes a shrewd Lachie Hosie snap in the pocket gets the Tigers away. With his deadly ability to pounce and attack he’s the human form of our mascot.

Cole Gerloff begins brightly and his major from just inside fifty makes the boys roar between cheeseburger bites. It’s a balmy afternoon and Oval management has the Big Ass fans (it’s true, look ‘em up) turning in all the stands.

Then a classically laconic kick from the Ken Farmer Medallist adds another goal. Minus the bloodbaths, ironic dialogue and 1970’s soundtrack, it’s a start that Hollywood director Quentin Tarantino could’ve written for Glenelg.

In the second term Sturt menaces and this continues all afternoon. In the eighth minute they goal and I’m reminded of the 2019 decider when former grand final gluttons, Port, took until just before half time to register their opening major. I don’t ponder this as I want to avoid notifying karma.

Luke Reynolds converts an opportunistic snap and then from the Chappell Stand boundary Corey Lyons slots one magnificently. There’s a healthy crowd of 33,000 and some compulsory rowdiness is already gurgling from the Scoreboard bar. The siren concludes the first half with our lead just short of five goals.

With the psychological if not fiscal comfort of a bucket of chips I prepare myself for Sturt’s inevitable surge. The boys take a break from their eating festival to wolf something else. I ask, ‘Did any of you have breakfast?’ In chorus they reply, ‘Nup.’

Beginning quarter number three for the Blues Matthews kicks one from mid-air. Then they get another. I fidget in my chair. Across halfback Glenelg has been terrifically resolute with the captain marshalling his lieutenants in his composed and visionary way. The umpiring has been excellent thus far.

Sturt now gets a third straight and the surge is on. Suddenly it’s quiet in the jungle. Too quiet. I try not to think about the Double Blues one-point victory over Port in the 2017 grand final.

Then Hosie gets his fifth to restore order and faith. And then he kicks number six. The margin is also six goals. How on earth did the Roos not want him? I say a silent prayer of thanks to North Melbourne for sending Hosie home. With a combined nine goals it’s a pulsating quarter that does justice to the notion of the Premiership Quarter but Sturt is unable to erode our lead.

For the final term the arena is characterised by lengthening shadows and lengthening beer queues. It’s a tussle and we hold firm. The Burley footy is misbehaving for Sturt and in the tricky wind they register four consecutive points before a goal to their speedster in Frederick.

But it’s already ten minutes in. Our defence is superb with smothers aplenty and unrelenting pressure acts to thwart the men from Unley. As KG probably never said, ‘The cruel, uncaring clock is now their enemy.’

I see some Blues scarves easing down the stairs of the Sir Edwin Smith Stand. A mate texts to announce that ‘the Tigers have done it!’ I can’t relax. Not yet. The ball spends long, agonising minutes at the wrong end. Like a constipated mathematician without a pencil, we can’t work it out. Then it finally pings forward and Matty Allen seizes the ball, swings onto his left and it’s home.

The siren. ‘Tigerland’ blasts out across the arena. Still hoovering up food, the boys and I stroll out into the jubilant afternoon.

It’s been a joyous, affirming season. We’re premiers!