At the start of the week Fremantle weren’t sure what to make of Melbourne. They’d given the Dockers some trouble of the years and their form was all over the shop. Brilliant one moment then Melbourne like another. Were they heading over to Perth with their sights set on joining the likes of Richmond and Adelaide in taking the scalp of a top 4 side or were they going to treat the trip as a midseason break from the tin rattles and lamington drives that make up the week’s activities over at Melbourne?
It was no good trying to read the coach. Dean Baily is so laid back, he’s the sort of bloke who, as a kid, dreamt of growing up to be the first man to yawn in outer space. Then there’s the diabolical puppet masters - Cameron Schwab and Chris Connolly. They were clearly up to something - but they’re always up to something, so you’d struggle to pin them down on one thing.
As the week went on and no one at Freo was able to work exactly what the Demons’ intentions were, they decided there was one sure way to know just how serious Melbourne were taking things. So they picked up the crippled Michael Barlow, stuck him in a chair at the airport and told him to watch the arrival gate to see if Jimmy Stynes flew in to town. If Jimmy shows up they rate themselves a big chance.
So he sat their for three days (he didn’t really have a choice, he can’t walk) and, being Michael Barlow, managed to uncover a terrorist threat, stop a shipment of heroin arriving into the country and re-united a set of long lost twins, but he didn’t see Jim - Fremantle were good to go.
And go they did.
In the opening minute, David Mundy cruised past a Melbourne player, took the ball off him and then strolled in to boot a goal from fifty.
In the next minute Pavlich had spotted up publican Paul Hasleby in the pocket who slotted through Freo’s second.
When Paul Duffield drilled goal number three for the Dockers, the only Melbourne player to have touched the ball had coughed it up to Mundy. It was barley five minutes into the game and already the Freo supporters had the calculators out crunching the numbers for the Dockers percentage.
Melbourne eventually managed to jag a goal when Paul Johnson appeared to trip over the ball and knock it through but the Melbourne supporter barely had time to re-adjust his scarf to make sure each side was hanging perfectly parallel to the other over his woolen coat before Fremantle were making the goal umpire work again. This time it was Nat Fyfe, dobbing his first, from a few metres out.
Fremantle were an unstoppable football playing machine. Precision passing, hard running, merciless tackling. It was a wonder Melbourne didn’t just lay down and play dead in the hope that Freo would leave them be. Luke McPharlin in particular had the crowd excited. He must have been playing in some secret underground super league and used ‘knee injury’ as a cover, the way he was running about, moving the ball, directing traffic and taking spectacular marks as if he’d never missed a game.
David Mundy jailed one from the Jakovich suck pocket to stretch the margin out to 22 points and get the Freeeee-oooooo chant going, before Greasy Palmer took his side into the first change with a 5 goal lead and a strut that can only be done justice with a Bee Gees backing track.
It was a party atmosphere and Fremantle players and supporters were enjoying the sunshine and celebrating being back in the winners circle after their weekend of horror in the Etihad Dank. There was, of course, still three quarters to play until they technically had the the win but the way Melbourne were playing, or not playing, and the class the Dockers that was on show - the reality was it was just a question of how many.
Apparently by one less than they’d originally calculated.
The second quarter kicked off and Melbourne kicked a goal. Unexpected was a bit of an understatement.
Concerned that Melbourne might be about to get their act together, Fremantle set about turning up the pressure. When the ball went inside the Freo forward line, it was a brave man not in purple who went near the footy. It was like baiting a trap as the Fremantle deforwards waited turns to maim their next victim. When they’d finally filled their blood lust, Hayden Ballantyne decided it was time to get himself back in the good books and flung himself, like a flying squirrel, at the footy to intercept the ball, take a mark and kick a goosifying goal.
It was a costly mistake for Melbourne. Not because they’d buggered up a kick and given away a goal but because they gave the little bloke a taste. While the likes of Superman and Spiderman have an array of super powers which allow them to fight crime, save the world and pick up chicks, Ballantyne has a far less practical super power - the ability to smell goals.
Once he got a sniff of that first one, he could smell a whole bag full of them and set about collecting them up to drag back to his secret hideout (while technically a secret hideout, it’s not that hard to find - it’s the only building in Mandurah without his name on the side of it).
So while other players ran about belting Melbourne players, taking screamers and, in the case of Matthew Pavlich, simply concentrating on not falling over, the Mayor chased goals.
He got his next when Ryan Crowley, after chasing down eight players got the shock of his life when he actually caught one and was able to bury him into the turf. As the ball spilled, The Mayor scooped it up, rolled around onto his right and right foot and snapped it straight through the middle.
He had a brief rest while his team mates continued their new trick of missing goals from all sorts of possible angles, before drawing a free and a fifty from Aaron Davey and kicking the ball over the stand and onto the soon to be renamed Hayden Ballantyne Drive, for a goal.
Half time was approaching and so was the fifty point margin. Unfortunately Melbourne got a kick out of the centre and the Fremantle defenders had all gone cold.
Roger Hayden could hardly turn, Luke McPharlin could hardly jump and Michael Johnson could hardly hold the ball in one hand and sell ridiculous dummies to the opposition before drilling the ball onto Pav’s chest. The end result was a goal against the flow of play to give Melbourne some hope before the siren finally sent them back to the safety of the change rooms.
Thanks to a bit of lairising and the umpires refusal to pay Aaron Sandilands a free kick for being scragged, when the half time siren did sound, the gate wasn’t shut. It was almost closed, the hinge was rusty and there were a lot of heavy boxes piled up in front of it but it wasn’t quite shut.
So in the back of the Fremantle players minds was a trip they made Melbourne a couple of years ago where the Dockers squandered a forty point lead at half time to lose to the Demons in humiliating circumstances.
Of course, that wasn’t going to happen here. This was a new Fremantle, a top four Fremantle. They were battle hardened, professional, well coached and besides, it was only a 39 point lead this time around. No one at Fremantle was worried.
They get a lot of things wrong at Fremantle.
Before you could say “what the bloody hell is tree day” Melbourne had put three goals on the board. The Dockers’ match winning lead had been cut back to a comfortable lead, with barely a Fremantle hand touching the footy.
It was just a minor hiccup though. A bit of over confidence, a natural easing off after such a dominant quarter of football. No one was worried. Fremantle knew they would be able to regroup, refocus and the scoreboard would start ticking over again.
They get a lot of things wrong at Fremantle.
The Freo players had hit the snooze button on the wake up call and Melbourne turned on their skills to put through another three of goals. The margin was back to a point. The lead was gone. They were making the Dockers look very, very ordinary.
The Fremantle supporters didn’t know how to react. Getting thrashed like this was unheard of them - it must be what it’s like to be an Eagle’s supporter.
But before they reached for a bottle of Chardonay, the Purple Baron wrapped his arms around Bate and clung on for dear life, earning a free kick, saving a certain goal and actually getting the ball into a Fremantle’s players hands.
The ball was sent down to the purple end of the ground and the Fremantle deforwards got back to the business of buggering up easy shots at goal. Eventually, Ryan Crowley got the job done and Fremantle kicked their first goal for the quarter to give them some breathing space.
The siren saw to it that it became Freo’s only goal for the quarter, giving the Fremantle supporters some satisfaction that Mark Harvey was about to give his players the bake of their lives.
Disappointingly, no medieval torture equipment was wheeled out into the centre but rumour has it Mark Harvey can get some pretty nasty things done with a paper clip and a lever arch folder - and Chris Scott did seem to be carrying an unusual amount of stationary with him for a football game.
The crowd were on the edge of their seats waiting to see what was going to happen after half time. Was it just one bad quarter, to be followed up with a return to the champagne football that Freo had servedup in the first quarter or was it going to be a return that day in Melbourne that no one dare mention (well, one of the days in Melbourne on the don’t mention list [top 5 at least]).
Fremantle knew that the start of the quarter was all important. It would set the tone and send Melbourne a message that they were hear to play and the free ride was over.
They get a lot of things wrong at Fremantle.
A couple of minutes in and the Dockers had made enough mistakes to let Brad Green get a goal and bring Melbourne within two points of an improbable victory.
But, despite both teams dazzling their supporters in their respective quarters of competence, it soon became clear that it wasn’t going to be a highly skilled, flashy shootout to the final siren. It was headed for a Rocky style slog until someone fell down or they dinged the bell and handed it to the one wearing the loudest shorts.
At one end, Michael Johnson and Luke McPharlin made sure that Melbourne’s punches didn’t do any damage while Fremantle were doing all the blocking at the other end too.
A brilliant run down the ground gave Fremantle their first decent chance, with Kepler Bradley running into an open goal. He sprayed it. Paul Hasleby, who’s a good mark for his size, let one go straight through his hands beforethe secure hands of Matthew Pavlich finally gripped onto the footy. He missed - didn’t even have the courtesy to hit the post this time, missing for a behind.
Then, finally, a skull crushing tackle from Adam McPhee gave him a shot thirty out on a slight angle. Absolution was at hand. He could wipe away all his sins with one kick....he missed too.
Fremantle were doing it in points. Kepler was back up to the plate taking a shot - out to a 6 point lead, one more point was as good as a goal - he missed everything this time.
It was a debacle. The crowd were running out of expletives. Luckily they don’t sell anything resembling fruit (or food for that matter) at the football or the players would be copping a barrage.
Enough was enough. Someone needed to step up, walk tall and fill the big shoes of a match winner. That man was Hayden Ballantyne.
A big boot from Luke McPharlin bounced of the hands of Paul Hasleby, who’s normally a good mark for his size. It hit the deck and was immediately picked up by The Mayor. He looked up and saw a path to goals. It was around two Melbourne players, out towards the boundary line, back in around another Melbourne player, further out to the boundary and then required a kick on his wrong foot, through a gap that involved a the ball spinning anticlockwise at the exact right moment.
He did it to perfection. The crowd went mental. Slightly more mental than Ballantyne.
With a few minutes left to go, Freo milked the clock and when the siren sounded the players erupted...then felt slightly embarrassed and snuck off the ground quietly happy to have hung on to the four points.