Fremantle v St Kilda When they ran out onto Subiaco Oval, Saint Kilda and Fremantle were greeted with a perfect night to play a game of footy. A huge ground, a massive crowd, crystal clear skies, not a breathe of wind and a moon so big that you felt Aaron Sandilands was half a chance to reach up and pluck it out of the sky. Unfortunately that romantic notion was quickly shattered when the Saints cleared the ball from the centre, kicked long to their forwards, Sandilands reached up into the sky…and spilled the mark. Had it been the moon we'd all be dead now. As it was, it was just a footy but the result wasn't much better. Bloody Robert Harvey waltzed in, picked up the ball and kicked the opening goal for the Saints. It wasn't the start Chris Connolly would have talked about in his foul mouthed pre-match spray and the Freo boys knew they'd done wrong. They went in twice as hard at the next centre bounce and as a result Byron Schammer was made into a Saint sandwich. In Dwayne Lamb style, Byron dragged himself up off the ground to take his well earned free kick, dished off a handpass to David Mundy, Mundy kicked long to the forward line and Matthew Pavlich reached up into the sky and brought down a screamer - there looked like there was a bit of moon in there too. Obviously, Pav kicked the goal and scores were level. As the surgeons went to work on Byron Schammer, Freo kept flying the flag in the middle and went full tilt at anything that looked like a liquorice allsort. A bit of handy work from the Carr brother through the centre got the ball forward again for Freo. The old one-two from Antoni Grover sent it Paul Medhurst's way and the former little bloke formerly with big hair unloaded with a 75 metre drop punt for a goal. The old Saints didn't like seeing Fremantle in front and put their niggling into fifth gear. The Dockers weren't interested in their reindeer games though and got on with playing the footy (and getting the odd sly punch in at the bottom of the pack). Troy Cook earned himself the footy and stormed through the centre of Subi Oval, kicked it long to Paul Medhurst and Medhurst took a sensational diving mark. As he focussed his thoughts and waited for Michael Voss's brother to get off his back, he was shocked to hear the umpire yelling 'play on'. He was even more shocked to hear the umpire call out holding the ball a few seconds later - it's a mystery how you can be holding the ball when you're using both your hands to give the umpire the finger, but it was, nevertheless, and an obvious fifty metre penalty for the resulting critique of the umpire's work. There was a square up down the ground though and Freo ran the ball back through the centre with another booming kicking from Troy Cook sending the ball into the forward line. This time Matthew Carr was on the end of it, he fired out a handpass to Peake's kid and Little Peakey kicked the goal. Mount Bruce was into the action again at the next bounce. The ball fell his way after a massive thump from Aaron Sandilands and he used his blistering pace to put a gap in the field before sending the ball to the three most dangerous men on the ground - Pavlich, McPharlin and Jeffery Farmer. All three of them were being held by St Kilda stooges, the umpires decided to give the kick to the best looking of the three and Luke McPharlin kicked Freo's fourth. Fremantle were looking a million bucks. They were hitting the packs hard, running their guts out and kicking goals. They were backing each other up, taking the hits and going back for more. All the stuff the forgot about in the derby a week earlier. The only thing they couldn't control was the umpiring, and while the Freo doctor was rolling Steven Dodd off the ground after he'd been king hit from behind, the umps were picking out a free kick because Antoni Grover put his lips on the water bottle (or something equally as soft). Hamill kicked it to Fraser Gehrig, Gehrig took the mark and kicked the Saints second goal. Another quick one from some traditional Bloody Robert Harvey robot like precision took the edge of the home crowd's enthusiasm and it seemed that the Saints weren't going to be one of those clubs that come west and lie down at the first sign of a home team run on (we usually refer to them as Victorians). The Dockers had to dig in again and go up a notch with the Saints. Somehow Paul Hasleby managed to grab the footy in the centre of the ground, send three players in the wrong direction, take one down in the tackle with him and get a handpass out to Antoni Grover. If you watch the slow motion replay you can also see him sending a text message to turn his spa on at home and filling in his tax return form as well. Grover wasn't bad either, as he ran the ball forward and unloaded to the Tois Dangereux in the goal square. This time the smart money was on Pavlich getting the free kick but the umps like McPharlin again and he dobbed his second. Bloody Robert Harvey pegged one back before the break to get the Saints within a goal at quarter time but it was a pretty good start for Fremantle - particularly compared to their effort just a week earlier. It still wasn't enough to keep Fruity Lips Connolly from going off his trolley though and the runners made sure no children were in ear shot when he told his players what they needed to do in the second quarter. It was a good hard tussle right from the bounce after quarter time. You didn't pick the ball up without a cheap shot to the back and you didn't get a kick away without finding out what the Subiaco turf tasted like. But after a good ten minutes of hard work, it was St Kilda who drew first blood and a gay little tap from Fraser Gehrig saw Dal Santo level the scores. There was nothing effeminate about Fremantle's reply though. A short stab pass from Josh Carr found its way to a bloke by the name of Matthew Pavlich at centre half forward. Pav looked up the ground, didn't see anything that he fancied so he let rip from 97 metres out. The ball looked like it had been tricked up by NASA as it sailed over the goal umpire's head for a six pointer. Even Pavlich found it hard to believe how good he was. Funbags Fraser put an end to celebrations with a quick reply of his own and with Pavlich almost kicking goals from the backline, the much talked about forward line efficiency of the Dockers fell apart. They were getting the footy in there but it was really just to let McPharlin have a crack at mark of the year. Meanwhile, Bloody Robert Harvey, some very dubious umpiring decisions and some spilled marks saw the Saints kick three unanswered goals and had the Dockers slipping behind. A goal on the siren to Matty Pavlich pegged them back but the Dockers were still going into the half time break a couple of goals down. They'd been playing with plenty of passion but a few blokes had left their heads in the changerooms. A bit of cordial, a look at the magnetic board and a good old fashioned spray from Blue Tongue Connolly would be just the tonic to get them playing with a bit more direction. The second half started in memorable fashion. Not so much for the footy but for the fact that Jeff Farmer was given a free kick (it was actually a down the ground kick to Hasleby but Jeff got the kick). Poor Jeff didn't know what to do. The umpires had to talk him though it - 'this bloke stands here with his arms up, you go back there and you're allowed to kick the ball without anyone chasing after you'. It was a new world for him. Jeff's kick was a gooden but Pavlich let him down by not being able to kick a goal with five Saints hanging off him - he was like Jesus with groupies. The footy, though, was going the way of a real arm wrestle. Neither team was quite prepared to go all out on the attack but they were pretty keen hold of the ball. Luke McPharlin's impression of Matthew Richardson was impressive but didn't do Freo any favours on the scoreboard as supporters started counting missed chances and looking worryingly at the score. Goals weren't going to be easy to come by from here on in and when Funbags kicked his fourth, there were some worried murmurs doing the rounds of the grandstand. Another opportunity went begging for Fremantle and the murmurs were growing into grumbles. A few more missed shots and someone was going to start passing around a petition. Thankfully Paul Hasleby came to the rescue. Undeterred by the fact that Maguire had seen to it that Josh Carr would be eating his breakfast through a straw, Hasleby threw himself into the thick of it and soccered the ball straight into the hands of Luke McPharlin - who was mysteriously standing on his own on the half forward line. McPharlin took off, unloaded to the empty goal square and bounced it through for a much needed goal. The Dockers had taken control of the game, they were winning the ball at the clearances, beating the Saints to the ball but they couldn't get the little yellow ball to go through the big white sticks. They weren't the only ones having problems though, the umps were struggling to locate Jeff Farmer's back. As always happens when a team get plenty of the ball without scoring, the Saints snuck one through on the rebound and when the three quarter time siren sounded, Freo were still three goals behind. It looked like it was going to take a fair bit of the sailor talk from Potty Mouth Connolly to get the boys over the top. The season was on the line, they'd used up all their mistakes, they'd had all the chances they were going to get. It was win or be pelted by fruit on your way out time. Keeping that it mind, it's hard to figure out how Powell unloaded at the goals inside twenty seconds or how Funbags Fraser was able to take a mark in the opening minute or how Powell snapped on goal again a minute later. Thankfully they all missed but it was nervous times for Fremantle supporters. The flood was on but it was hard to tell if Freo were flooding the St Kilda forward line or St Kilda had opted for the little league style reverse flood. Whatever it was, the Dockers were having all sorts of problems getting the ball past their half back line. Camps were split on whether Fremantle were being unbelievably weak or unbelievably courageous as they fought back wave after wave of St Kilda forward thrusts. One thing was certain though, they needed to get moving and start kicking some goals. A champion's run off the half back line form Paul Hasleby provided the Dockers with the spark they needed. Dodging, weaving and ducking he made his way down the wing before his eyes lit up with what he saw at half forward - Matthew Pavlich with only two blokes on him. Haze sent the ball in Pavlich's direction, Pavlich goosified the two St Kilda stooges and the goal umpire was waving his flags before the ball had even left the boot. Fremantle were 13 points behind. Another piece of brilliance from Hasleby got the ball going Freo's way again. He started off a string of runners, each more lively than the next until Jeff Farmer, The Purple Jesus, got his hands on it. All that stood between Jeff and glory was fifty five metres of grass and a decision on whether to pass it or kick a goal. With the crowd cheering him on and the image of Scotty Thronton running full belt down the wing still fresh in his mind, The Wiz got a little bit over excited and hedged his bets. He passed it to McPharlin but gave it a bit extra to see if he could accidentally roll it through for a goal. But with no one's shoulders to sit on, McPharlin couldn't get to the footy and it rolled through for a point. Another chance for McPharlin to be a hero didn't take long to come along though. Paul Hasleby poached a mark off Bloody Robert Harvey on the half back line and sent the Dockers forward yet again. Pavlich beat off another couple of Saints and wasted no time booting the ball in the L.McPharlin direction. With daylight and himself separating McPharlin from kicking a goal, Goddard knew all he could do was grab McPharlin and hope for the best. For once the umpire wasn't having any of it and McPharlin got the free. He got the crowd out of their seats by kicking the goal and something special was starting to happen. The Saints were looking flat, the Freee-oooo chant was going up with more vigour than ever before and even though the temperature was about three degrees you could see the sweat pouring off the St Kilda players foreheads. Yet Fremantle still needed to find themselves 7 points and be quick about it. Riding the crowd's enthusiasm, the players lifted. It was on for young and old as every kick left a trail of bodies in its wake and every time the ball headed forward the crowd struggled to stay in their seats. Then with four minutes left on the clock, St Kilda again started to clear the ball from deep in the Fremantle forward line. But this time there was a surprise install. The Wiz was hiding in the pocket. He'd donned the full camouflage kit as he hid in the shadows. Some will tell you that Goddard should have realised that they don't normally have shrubs growing in the pockets of footy grounds but he had no idea what was going on as Farmer lunged at him and the umpire signalled holding the ball. Now fully versed in the free kick caper, Purple Jesus made no mistakes and kicked the goal to get the Dockers within a point of the Saints. Nothing gets the crowd going like a combination of a Jeff Farmer, a holding the ball decision and a goal and with one point the difference the crowd erupted into a mighty roar. The Saints did their best to try and suck the life out of the game but Paul Hasleby had other ideas. An eighty metre torpedo down the ground had people out of their seats again, it didn't go anywhere but, by God, it was exciting. It was cheer at anything time and the crowd were going berserk. But each cheer meant time was passing and with less than a minute left on the clock, things were looking shaky. With forty seconds on the clock and three St Kilda players standing around with the ball on their half back line, things were looking more than shaky, they were looking disastrous. But wait..what's this? Luke McPharlin had borrowed Jeff Farmer's camo gear. He sprung out form behind a suspicious looking small tree and ran down Justin Peckett. There were thirty seconds left on the clock, the players flooded back and there were more Saints appearing in Fremantle's forward line than at a Rockingham Tacho night. There was only thing for it - kick it to Pav. He sprung to his feet and sent the ball in the Pavlich direction. Pavlich went up for it, Hasleby came over the back of him, Polak was backing back, Medhurst was coming from the side - and then it happened. Justin Longmuir flew over the top of the lot of them. He flew so high that he could have been wearing a cape and had his undies on the outside of his shorts and no one would have thought it unusual. And when he got himself in position, he gave his mum in the crowd a wink and pulled down the mark. As he hit the deck the siren sounded and he was a kick away from going down in Fremantle folklore. Of course Justin Longmuir is a bloke who would make Paul Hogan look uptight. He wasn't fazed by it at all. He rolled up the sleeves, dusted off his boots and went though his routine. The trick is to try and clear your mind, so he got about trying to work out what the sound of one hand clapping is. He thought, he pondered, he even mulled on it. Then he took his kick. Now no one will ever know if Justin discovered the answer to the ancient riddle, but when he kicked that goal and won Fremantle the game, he had a fair idea about the sound of eighty thousand hands clapping, thirty odd thousand people screaming, ten thousand banging on the fence, five thousand calling out his name and a few dozen robot dancing in joy. What a bloody legend
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