SOFT.
When I think of soft I think of Tontine pillows, the music of Kenny G, cuddly tickle me Elmo dolls and any movie starring Hugh Grant.
It’s not the sort of stuff to inspire greatness. It might inspire a long, lazy Sunday afternoon snooze but not a blood and thunder, guts and glory performance on the footy field.
Calling a footy team soft is about as insulting as it gets. It’d be like claiming Lemmy from Motorhead slips a bit of Bucks Fizz or Westlife onto his ipod when he’s home alone.
The Saints were called soft last week by their coach after a truly awful performance at the Gabba.
They didn’t play like they’d been listening to Westlife. In the second quarter they played like they were Westlife caught in a street fight with the boys from Motorhead. It was a car wreck of a performance only slightly ameliorated by an eight goal final quarter which gave the scoreboard all the respectability of Sir Les Patterson at his barfing best.
What made it more depressing was the fact that in our heart of hearts, most Saints fans expected things to unfold exactly as they did. Having won just a handful of games at the Gabba in total nobody genuinely believed that this would be the time and place our boys would make a stand. In recent years teams with serious intent have done their talking behind enemy lines.
The Swans did it again last week at AAMI stadium against Port Adelaide. Port started their run to last year’s Grand Final with a come from behind win in the wet against Collingwood at the MCG. People started believing the Cats were the real deal when they produced a stunning win against the Power last season in Adelaide. Wins like this act as a statement of purpose and resolve.
We’ve seen it occasionally. Last year in Perth for Harvs’ 350th it was exactly what we delivered. Sadly though, these moments have been rarer than a Scott Lucas handpass. So the Saints have been singled out for some rough justice in the press and on talkback radio while the Prez has publicly day-dreamed about 10 years of continuity and harmony. I can’t say I fault his ambition or his vision. I’m still prepared to believe that he’s chosen the right people to make it happen. I don’t think I could stand another round of self flagellation and blood letting that have been the St.Kilda trademark when the water gets a bit choppy. Look at how much joy that’s brought us over the years.
So to another week, another match and another chance to get things right for the boys out on the field. C’mon Ross. We need an ipod audit in the change rooms. Confiscate their pods, check for any signs of Westlife fans among the group and force feed them a little Motorhead.
That should do the trick.
