It’s amazing some of the ideas that have been thought up by Fremantle coaches, sitting around in the Doig Lounge, taking swigs from the bottles of Stephen Michael Ten Year Old Port (now in their 38th year of vintage).
There’s been a long standing joke amongst Fremantle supporters and sarcastic media types that Fremantle are a different side when they play away. Mark Harvey loves a joke and his previous efforts to get a chicken to cross a road and send an Priest, a Rabbi and a Vicar out on a life raft both ended better than expected so he thought he’d give this one a go too.
He called in anyone who’d ever polled a Brownlow and told them they were dropped, then he gathered up everyone left on the list, as well as a couple of blokes he saw walking past the ground who owned their own guernseys and put them on a plane for Tasmania to play the Hawks.
While Fremantle had a finals place locked up and could easily afford to bugger with drunken selection night antics, the Hawks were desperate for a win. The predicted Hawthorn dynasty that was going to last a thousand years, give or take, had already crumbled under one missed finals series and they were headed for a second if they couldn’t beat the Dockers.
You’d think they would have been more grateful to Fremantle for sending over the B team but, the poor dears were a bit scared of missing out on September again, so they loaded up with big names players and Jarryd Roughead, and headed for Tasmania with all guns ready to blaze.
As the teams lined up against each other, it started looking ugly. On one side you had big, strong, experienced footballers, and Jarryd Roughead, on the other you had either Fremantle or the biggest assembly of waterboys the AFL has ever seen.
But for all their inexperience, small size and lack of ability, when the time keeper cranked the handle of the air raid horn to start the match, they threw everything they had at the Hawks. They moved the ball around like bumpers in a pinball machine, they darted left, right, sideways, backways and frontways, they tackled like cartoon piranhas and they dazzled the Hawks with their youthful exuberance.
Unfortunately none of that was of any help.
Despite what looked like a promising start, Hawthorn just bulldozed their way down the ground, giving up on skill or tactics and just opting for brute force. Eventually they got the ball far enough down their end for Franklin to be bothered chasing after it and he snuck around the back for a try, err, goal.
B-Mantle were unperturbed by the Hawks early score. They kept going just as hard, moving the ball just as quickly, tackling with just as much vigour.
It still didn’t help.
Despite some courageous work in defense by the couple of senior players who’d upset Mark Harvey and been left in the side, Hawthorn managed to put through another four goals while B-Mantle’s best efforts were a long bomb from Kepler Bradley and a difficult set shot, 30 metres out directly in front, from Ryan Murphy.
When the air raid horn sounded for quarter time, B-Mantle were already 32 points down and in a spot of trouble.
Meanwhile back in Fremantle, Pavlich and Sandilands were kicking back behind the velvet rope in Pav’s pub. Enjoying a bottle of champagne and some crayfish stuffed with slightly more expensive crayfish, Roger Hayden had fired up the speed boat for some water skiing, Flinchy McPhee and Nat Fyfe were checking in for their weekend beauty spa, Anthony Morabito had organised with some of his Carny mates for a private running of the Wild Chipmunk at Claremont Showgrounds, Hayden Ballantyne was cleaning off signs that have his name on them and David Mundy and Stephen Hill had gone in search of somewhere they could do a bit of pig shooting - they were pleasantly surprised when they arrived in Armadale.
But there were no roller coasters or pig shooting down in Tasmania (they save that for Christmas Day), they were getting belted. Mark Harvey studied the magnetic board, he moved players around, he worked the match ups then he looked up, looked at his team and decided his best bet was to bribe them with Hungry Jacks after the game if they could manage a goal.
They young B-Mantle side headed back out with renewed enthusiasm. They tackled with vigour, they ran hard, they took risks, they moved the ball like circus jugglers.
It still didn’t work.
The goals kept flowing like the moustache wax in Aurora Stadium members area. Another four in quick succession saw B-Mantle fall 56 points behind. Despite having plenty of the ball in the middle and fighting hard in defense, B-Mantle just couldn’t find anything to kick to in the forward fifty and were staring down the barrel of one of the great thrashings of all times.
Then it happened. A highlight.
Some stunning work by Jesse Chrichton saw him beat Rioli in the air and then on the ground. They moved the ball down the ground at blistering pace to Michael Johnson who sold half a dozen dummies before finally getting around Guerra, at which point he unloaded from 60 metres out to kick an historic goal.
B-Mantle were on the board. It almost made the hundreds of dollars in travel and accommodation worth it for the Fremantle supporter who’d rocked up.
But it was more than just a goal, it was a sign that B-Mantle were breaking down this over rated, over confident rabble calling themselves a football club. The first goal is often the toughest and while Beo weren’t quite set to open the flood gates, they were definitely poised to turn on the garden hose.
There was a buzz, excitement, some hope....and then the Hawks put through another three goals and B-Mantle were down by 69 points.
As the slightly dejected players returned to the rooms, Pav cracked open the 62 Chianti Casalbosco and lit up a cigar, Hayden was blowing up the giant ski tube, the mud bath was ready over at the beauty spa, Morabito was learning how they rig the tennis ball monkey races in Sideshow Alley and Stephen Hill was patronising to Mundy about his shooting skills.
Mark Harvey wasn’t happy. He’d seen these blokes eat before, he was out a few hundred dollars on the Hungry Jacks thanks to that goal but he kept up appearances nonetheless and sent the players back onto the ground with some words of encouragement and a smile - even though he knew he’d be cutting most of them next Thursday night.
Mark Harvey’s not a convincing actor and you get the impression some of the players read him a bit too well. They’d tried taking it up to the Hawks in the first half, in the second they seemed to set out to drag the Hawks down to their level.
It didn’t work.
The Hawks took up where they’d left off, out bodying the Beo players and scrounging out goals. Goals were big on B-Mantle’s agenda though. Six went through for the Hawks but the Dockers could only manage a couple of points.
By three quarter time the margin was out to three figures and still Alistair Clarkson hadn’t started to ease up. He strode out to the middle of the ground with his chest puffed up, as if the world was finally going to recognise his coaching genius...for beating a team of 18 year olds and soon to be former AFL footballers. When his concentration was finally moved from working out his strategic match ups, he stood in front of his team, channel John Kennedy and gave a rousing speech. His players did well not to laugh at him. Over in the Beo huddle they were playing UNO and passing around a box of Cheezles.
Eventually both teams returned to the ground with the players well aware that the next thirty minutes was all about not getting injured. Hawthorn failed dismally.
B-Mantle on the other hand passed with flying colours. They even managed a few goals with Roberton getting Beo close to taking an early lead for the quarter when he soccered through a miraculous goal from tight in the pocket. The Hawks put an end to any thoughts of B-Mantle winning the quarter, with a cruel three quick goal reply before Boe finally hit their stride, Johnson getting his second and Ryan Murphy rounding out his career with two excellent back to back goals.
When the final air raid horn sounded, B-Mantle had lost by 116 points but the main goal, resting the stars, had been a win. And, while they’d enjoyed their day off, all the players who’d stayed home gathered together after the match and got on the phone to acting captain Antoni Grover...so they could ask him where the best strip clubs are.