floreat pica

The game vs. the Kangaroos, Gold Coast, Canberra, North Melbourne gets off to a inauspicious start. Turning up at the Collingwood membership tents roughly 15 minutes before bouncedown, Mrs Pica having not received her members card yet, we find a line of bemused (putting it nicely) Collingwood members, all waiting less than patiently for their cards.

Missing Paul Licuria’s farewell lap, we hear the roar of the crowd at the opening bounce and it feels like 1994 again, standing outside any number of Sydney clubs. Fortunately there’s no “one in, one out” policy here and 10 minutes into the game, we find our seats. From the blue and white clad family in the row in front, I learn that Josh had won the toss and going on this years trend of “coin toss win=loss”, I resign myself to this predetermined fate.

We’re breaking from spectating tradition this time. Knowing that, like in Round One, we’ll be way up on the third tier, I’ve packed in the walkman to help out with clarifying proceedings that occur way over in the other side of the field. With one earplug in my left ear and one in Mrs Pica’s right, I dial through the stations , trying to find one that reaches us up here in the mesosphere. An all too brief first quarter is capped by a Didak goal from beyond the 50.

The sloppy play continues through the second quarter, with an Ablett-like failed one handed speccy by Daisy (he held the ball as long as Ablett did, anyway) and some typical groundwork magic from Leon, the only highlights. North are gifted a shot on goal at the half-time siren, thanks to an unsure Heath Shaw switching kick, but fail to take advantage. Pies by 15 at the half. They’ve built their lead in a dour manner, and the subdued Magpies cheersquad reflect it. The scoreboard tells me, in between ads for beer and cars, that there have been 8 total contested marks in the first half (5 to 3 Pies).

Collingwood hold the Roos at arms length for most of an uneventful third quarter, and take a 5 point lead into the final break. Neon kicks the first sausage roll of the last term, the Roos quickly reply and Medhurst counters immediately, in typically nonchalant fashion. Fraser adds another and according to SEN, the ‘Pies are taking the game by the “scruff of the throat”. I should do this radio dealie more often. Fraser crumbs, an underappreciated aspect of big Rogan’s game, baulks and goals. It’s 95-74 and we’ve got a firm grip of the scruff right now.

But North aren’t paying any attention to the malaproping radio men, and narrow the gap to 15, then 8. And then 3. There are roughly 10 mins left. The Roos cheersquad find their voice, and a multisyllabic chant and suddenly find themselves in the lead.

Now, one thing, amongst many others, that make this game of ours so fantastic is the odd shape of the ball. The ability to read the bounce (and often a small sprinkling of luck) can determine the result of the individual contest and in some cases, the result of a game. On the other hand, there’s the next 7 seconds. Umpire Sully takes one step, arcs his arms back and slams the ball into the centre. It bounces on a 45 degree angle, whistles like a Howitzer shell past Fraser and directly into the arms of Simpson for the Roos, with an open path into the Magpies 50. They goal, and Sully is the first field umpire in footy history to be credited with a clearance. The Kangas are home.

Or possibly not. Medders goals and on the ensuing bounce, the Pies push forward one last time, and somehow find Didak open, streaming toward the goal with no defender in his way. 999 times out of 1000 he’ll slot this, but 999 times the ball doesn’t defy the fundamental laws of bouncing Sherrin physics, either. He misses. North goal again, and the siren sounds.

That night, after meeting up with some of our southern friends at Lygon St, I have a fitful sleep. It’s punctuated by nightmares of little men dressed in blue and white, like angry smurfs, dancing around footballs bouncing off all kinds of impossible angles.

In recent seasons, us Picans have flown south for winter, what with cheaper airfares and less free time either side of weekends, now that we do this whole employment thing. So as the heavily laden Festiva pulls out onto the main south link roads I offer thanks to the NSW and Vic school holidays scheduling people . We’re heading off on a footy trip cunningly disguised as a 10 day rural Victorian sojourn. We’ll catch the North game on the 19th, head back out to the goldfields region for a few days, then back into the big smoke for the Anzac day clash.

This is our first southern inland road trip in a while, and it’s funny how the familar landscapes and subconscious distance markers come back so quickly. The Pheasants Nest servo. The Suttons Forest servo.The descent down the range into Yass and the rhythmical beat of the rest stops past the Barton Hwy turnoff. Brekky at one of these beats, amongst the everpresent morning Hume fog and, in between mouthfuls of weetbix, I struggle to get the ipod FM transmitter dealie to workaround the noise from far too many easy listening stations. Finally, Steve Malkmus and Panda Bear win through, and the latest Australian Idol dud is vanquished, at least for the next 100 kms or so.

Planning to stop at Albury, we find it a little more difficult than it used to be. It’s been bypassed. So there’s no longer the zig and zag and a zig into town to find food. And a last zag to find yer way out. Scoot along the stretch of dual carriageway just short of Wodonga where the old Morris Minor ran dry back in Easter ‘97. Damn you Chiltern, and your non-Sunday operating petrol stations!

We pull into Bright, where we spend the next few days walking along the Ovens and climbing up various haze covered vantage points. Find out later that it’s burnoff week across Vic. Not happy to settle for only seeing the top 20 metres of Mt Bogong, I play a very brief game of “spot the realistic Demons fan already securing their chalet”.

After getting our fill of autumn shades, we head out via Beechworth and its famous bakery, where we fight off busloads of greyhairs for the last custard tart. Wolfing down the spoils, the afternoon sun starts to descend on the fantasy footy trade open period, and as I mull over the possibility of trading Leuenberger up for Dean Cox, we luck upon the Wangaratta Information Centre. Or more accurately, its internet node. “Wangers” comes up doubly trumps, when on the way back to the car I nab a fantastic country check shirt from the local Salvos.

Tips and teams settled, we catch a bit of serenity (and a tonne of dust) at Bonnie Doon, where there’s now no evidence of a lake ever existing, and as such, no two stroke tinnie cranking up in the distance. Still plenty of powerlines though. Reminded how fantastic the drive amongst the tall timbers around Healesville is, particularly with the smoke from the burnoffs wafting through the canopy on sunset. Then south to Yarragon, via as many roads starting with C as possible, for a Friday night meal with Mrs Pica’s 94 y/o grand-dad. He’s a former dairy farmer, has no time for the footy, it’s a waste of good energy that would be better used on the land. We yarn over some vegetable stew and hot bread, and in the comfortable silences in between mouthfuls, I wonder what he makes of these Sherrin-centric journeys us northern Picans force upon ourselves each year.