A Moment in Time

[Brisvegas saint]

I'm just trying to feel greatful that I have been alive for 40% of our finals appearances, and 50% of our grand final appearances.

[Brisvegas saint]

It would appear a human filth troll has worked it's way through the filters

Perhaps new members should have to submit their dental records before being approved?

[Thinline]

Luck huh.

Rather than blaming things that are out of our control hopefully the boys will knuckle down and become better than the best next year.

You didn't read my post did you.

Let me spell it out for you, Einstein:

Neatly ensconced in the void left by the two unfortunate bounces we were forced to rely upon on account of our abysmal second term.

Oh. And the flukish fall of the ball that resulted in the Cloke goal at the death.

Anyone who denies that luck plays no part shaping the outcome of a close game has been eating too many s*** sandwiches.

It's an oval shaped ball. Weird s*** happens. Weird s*** happened in the draw. Undeniable.

[Nick - Saints Man]

There is no need to be rude.

What use or benefit can be got from saying 'we lost because we were unlucky'?

Every action made by every player had a bearing on the game. The ones out of our control were a direct consequence of the ones within our control. Rather than saying 'the ball bounced here or there' we should look at the events that led us to rely on luck in the first place.

[SainterK]

There is no need to be rude.

What use or benefit can be got from saying 'we lost because we were unlucky'?

Every action made by every player had a bearing on the game. The ones out of our control were a direct consequence of the ones within our control. Rather than saying 'the ball bounced here or there' we should look at the events that led us to rely on luck in the first place.

I also don't see any benefit in saying we lost, end of story.

Because there was a story, sure it didn't have the happy ever after, but you can't dismiss a lot of what was done right as well as wrong....

[ChicagoSaint]

I came home two weeks ago and deleted the entire finals series off my Foxtel. I got rid of the home and away games too. The Geelong game from the G that wet and windy Friday night, the Hawthorn draw aswell. Why keep them, I thought. I could still hear the echo of the Collingwood theme song in my mind as I hit the yellow button. I could taste the remnants of last night’s beer. It was an unnecessary drink. Nothing could wash away the acceptance of defeat. The feeling was familiar. I’d felt it last year, I could still remember ’97. It still sits in my gut. It doesn’t go away. I’m a Saint, I think sometimes. It’s our lot.

My mind tried to ignore the day before. It played through missed opportunities, the noise, the colour, the disappointment. It replayed the fortnight previous. A confusing two week period; the hope, the anticipation, the miraculous, the history of what had occurred, the shame of it all, and it stopped on one passage of play.

A moment in time.
And it passed in a flash.

The moment when I saw him, at full speed, running towards the back of the pack. He sat in mid air (and then on Harry O’s shoulders) for what felt like the most euphoric eternity, and then crashed to the ground, ball in hands. Scores were level. It was as close to football utopia as I have felt. I am 35 years old. I have never experienced the soul enriching sensation of a premiership victory, but I have that moment. The minute of my life when BJ took that mark, went back, put it though, and put us a goal in front, in a Grand Final.

I’ve never felt a sense of destiny as strong as that. I genuinely believed that our time had arrived. That we’d (all of us), fought so hard, back from the 4 goal deficit at half time. The sense of hope was palpable in the third quarter. We wanted to believe it was possible, we really did. And then it started to happen. Kosi into the ruck, Gilbert forward, Collingwood fumbling. Lenny, Joey, BJ, Sammy Fish, the great Nick Reiwoldt. They were finding the ball. The backline, the no-names, were dominating. We were surging.

We wanted it more.

Goals from Lenny (who so appropriately wears 7), and the little Milnedog, after three quarter time had tightened the scores to less than a kick.

Then his moment arrived.

I don’t remember much. I remember my feet hitting the ground. I remember the guttural growl when he took it. I remember hugging my brother, and cousin. And rubbing my pregnant sister’s belly, as if for luck. I needn’t have, he was always going to kick the goal. And then he did, and the noise was deafening. The ground seemed a haze of red, white and black. The grass in the afternoon shade an iconic green. The breeze warm. Complete strangers high fived, and hugged, united. A Collingwood army which had been so arrogant and intimidating in the first half was dissolving, silent, worried, disbelieving. The noise continued as the ball made its way back to the centre square, we roared as we watched the replay on the big screen. We had just witnessed something truly memorable.

We needed one more to finish it. We needed a centre clearance.
It never came, they goaled, we equalised. It finished drawn.

I watched the draw three times in the week following. I knew that if we lost I’d have to press the little yellow button. I knew that if we lost that it’d be tainted by sadness, and it is. And I knew that I needed to savor the heroics, the deeds of ordinary men, younger than me, who grew up the same, little boys commentating themselves in the back garden, dreaming.

My little boy is five months old. He wakes up at 5.15 every morning. I go in to settle him. Sometimes he sleeps in my arms. I’ve spent considerable time contemplating the what-ifs, daydreaming about the cruel bounce of an oval shaped ball, pondering our reactions and how we might feel, and celebrate. Imagining the role call of players onto the dias, the presentation of the cup, the lap of honour and concluded as such. We didn’t win it, we just didn’t. And no amount of daydreaming and willing, two weeks after the fact in a semi-conscious state can change that. But we came closer than any other time in my life. We got to enjoy, just once, re-watching a Grand Final. I’m sure we will win one, I have to be. Otherwise following football, and the seasonal distraction that ensues would be futile.

The next week, the replay, was a write-off. Simple as that. We just didn’t fire a shot. 1.8 at halftime sealed our fate. It’s almost an irrelevancy now. Because the Grand Final wasn’t that day, it was a week earlier, etched into one minute out of one twenty. From one man’s herculian deed to almost will us to a most famous victory. Perhaps in defeat, again, we can find hope. We will return next year, and not remark upon that game. We will look forward.

But for one glorious minute, one spectacular mark, we believed.



Josh Rynderman

Unless Inker comes up with something better it would appear we have a winner for the 2011 front page article.

[ChicagoSaint]

It would appear a human filth troll has worked it's way through the filters

indeed

[SainterK]

I came home two weeks ago and deleted the entire finals series off my Foxtel. I got rid of the home and away games too. The Geelong game from the G that wet and windy Friday night, the Hawthorn draw aswell. Why keep them, I thought. I could still hear the echo of the Collingwood theme song in my mind as I hit the yellow button. I could taste the remnants of last night’s beer. It was an unnecessary drink. Nothing could wash away the acceptance of defeat. The feeling was familiar. I’d felt it last year, I could still remember ’97. It still sits in my gut. It doesn’t go away. I’m a Saint, I think sometimes. It’s our lot.

My mind tried to ignore the day before. It played through missed opportunities, the noise, the colour, the disappointment. It replayed the fortnight previous. A confusing two week period; the hope, the anticipation, the miraculous, the history of what had occurred, the shame of it all, and it stopped on one passage of play.

A moment in time.
And it passed in a flash.

The moment when I saw him, at full speed, running towards the back of the pack. He sat in mid air (and then on Harry O’s shoulders) for what felt like the most euphoric eternity, and then crashed to the ground, ball in hands. Scores were level. It was as close to football utopia as I have felt. I am 35 years old. I have never experienced the soul enriching sensation of a premiership victory, but I have that moment. The minute of my life when BJ took that mark, went back, put it though, and put us a goal in front, in a Grand Final.

I’ve never felt a sense of destiny as strong as that. I genuinely believed that our time had arrived. That we’d (all of us), fought so hard, back from the 4 goal deficit at half time. The sense of hope was palpable in the third quarter. We wanted to believe it was possible, we really did. And then it started to happen. Kosi into the ruck, Gilbert forward, Collingwood fumbling. Lenny, Joey, BJ, Sammy Fish, the great Nick Reiwoldt. They were finding the ball. The backline, the no-names, were dominating. We were surging.

We wanted it more.

Goals from Lenny (who so appropriately wears 7), and the little Milnedog, after three quarter time had tightened the scores to less than a kick.

Then his moment arrived.

I don’t remember much. I remember my feet hitting the ground. I remember the guttural growl when he took it. I remember hugging my brother, and cousin. And rubbing my pregnant sister’s belly, as if for luck. I needn’t have, he was always going to kick the goal. And then he did, and the noise was deafening. The ground seemed a haze of red, white and black. The grass in the afternoon shade an iconic green. The breeze warm. Complete strangers high fived, and hugged, united. A Collingwood army which had been so arrogant and intimidating in the first half was dissolving, silent, worried, disbelieving. The noise continued as the ball made its way back to the centre square, we roared as we watched the replay on the big screen. We had just witnessed something truly memorable.

We needed one more to finish it. We needed a centre clearance.
It never came, they goaled, we equalised. It finished drawn.

I watched the draw three times in the week following. I knew that if we lost I’d have to press the little yellow button. I knew that if we lost that it’d be tainted by sadness, and it is. And I knew that I needed to savor the heroics, the deeds of ordinary men, younger than me, who grew up the same, little boys commentating themselves in the back garden, dreaming.

My little boy is five months old. He wakes up at 5.15 every morning. I go in to settle him. Sometimes he sleeps in my arms. I’ve spent considerable time contemplating the what-ifs, daydreaming about the cruel bounce of an oval shaped ball, pondering our reactions and how we might feel, and celebrate. Imagining the role call of players onto the dias, the presentation of the cup, the lap of honour and concluded as such. We didn’t win it, we just didn’t. And no amount of daydreaming and willing, two weeks after the fact in a semi-conscious state can change that. But we came closer than any other time in my life. We got to enjoy, just once, re-watching a Grand Final. I’m sure we will win one, I have to be. Otherwise following football, and the seasonal distraction that ensues would be futile.

The next week, the replay, was a write-off. Simple as that. We just didn’t fire a shot. 1.8 at halftime sealed our fate. It’s almost an irrelevancy now. Because the Grand Final wasn’t that day, it was a week earlier, etched into one minute out of one twenty. From one man’s herculian deed to almost will us to a most famous victory. Perhaps in defeat, again, we can find hope. We will return next year, and not remark upon that game. We will look forward.

But for one glorious minute, one spectacular mark, we believed.



Josh Rynderman

Unless Inker comes up with something better it would appear we have a winner for the 2011 front page article.

Thanks for bumping CS, I didn't read the OP...very well written Josh.

[ChicagoSaint]

a glorious piece of shitspeak IMHO just glorious, a glorious read.

[saintspremiers]

Luck huh.

Rather than blaming things that are out of our control hopefully the boys will knuckle down and become better than the best next year.

Nick - do they normally let you have this much internet access in lockup?

[Birdman]

Incredible post Josh. Brought tears to my eyes. I'm 39 and too have never experienced the joy of a flag. I replay that moment over and over again in my head. At work I've got a picture of that mark sitting on my wall above my desk. I can't bring myself to take it down - it seems disrespectful. I just don't know what I feel whenever I look at it - what does it mean?

It's a picture of one of the greatest moments I can remember - the roar of the crowd, the waiting finally over. It was finally worth it - that mark would bring salvation, an end to the pain of all these years waiting and watching others celebrate. This was our moment. There was never a question it would be a goal. Never. And this moment flying above the pack would always be remembered as bringing us home at last.

But it was not to be.

I don't want to take that picture down. The moment turned out to be a cruel lie. It wasn't our saviour. It was just a great mark that led to nothing for us in the end. But god it was good while it lasted.

I want that feeling again. And I will never forget the first time I felt it, on that bittersweet day in September 2010.

Go Saints.

[Sean]

Yeah great post josh. When Goddard took that mark I thought we were a good chance of winning. There was 7 minutes left at the time so it was no where near sealed. As we saw with Saints Footy, it never over until its over.

[bozza1980]

Yeah great post josh. When Goddard took that mark I thought we were a good chance of winning. There was 7 minutes left at the time so it was no where near sealed. As we saw with Saints Footy, it never over until its over.

I was fighting back tears, it felt like we had them.

Had we won, what a glorious Premiership moment it would have been.

It still should well and truly burst into the list of best GF mark.

[dcstkfc]

It was actually happening. Everyone could sense it. For one glorious minute we all believed. It was euphoria, the look in the eyes of fellow Saints fans told it all. We were on our way. Lenny, Milney, BJ... It was all going so gloriously right.

Often we had spoken about it, had to convince ourselves it was happening, but this time needed no convincing.

The cup was in our hands. One glorious minute.