Drew-Sta substitutes in for
Jason Maher, who is out injurred. He follows on from Danish's wonderful piece.
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Giving the punt the punt
“C’arn, you mongrel,” Frank yelled, urging Sam Burgess on for more metres. “I need a forward try out of you!”
“Get in ya muppet!” Bob cried out at Mitch Rein. “I’ll got money on your tackle count!”
Both men were watching a large, flat screen television split into two different telecasts. Both telecasts focussed on the Sunday afternoon footy. Both men were divided in their attention.
A knock at the door saw Bob reluctantly get off his tush to answer it.
“Hurry up, you slugs. The games ‘ave already started!”
Four more bodies filtered into the living room. A little bit of hustle and bustle occurred as they found seats in Frank’s living room.
“Got on the Dogs last night at five and a half start,” Fred gloated.
“Yew prick,” Larry answered. “I had those fuggin’ Cowgirls with a nine point lead. Bloody Jonathan Thurston cost me!”
“He cost me too in fantasy footy,” Bob complained.
“That Josh Reynolds; boy is he a points machine,” Harry piped in. “’ad ‘im at first try scorer and top tryscorer – brilliant odds too.”
“What were they?” Scott asked. “Odds, I mean?”
“Two dollars seventy,” Harry responded.
Frank whistled. “Fuggin bargain mate.”
“’ere we go, Brizzy verse Melbourne,” Larry exclaimed. “There’s still ten minutes til Tommy Waterhouse closes all bets. Did you blokes get on Cam Smith for top point scorer?”
“What’s he payin’?” Harry asked.
“Fifteen to one,” Larry responded, a smug smile on his face.
There was a brief silence in the room before five men grabbed their phones and began frantically punching them.
“Sheeeeeeeet, bookies haven't paid me yet,” Bob maligned. “Anyone care to lend me some cash?”
“Not after your Corey Parker fiasco three weeks ago,” Fred snapped back.
There was a rumble of laughter in the room.
“’ere mate, I’ll send you some.” Scott punched some numbers and the cash was in Bob’s bank account within an instant.
“Cheers mate, fifteen to one is just too good to pass up. Tommy’s giving the money away. At this price, I can send the kids back to school.”
“Mine went back two weeks ago. Wife’s pleased I’m finally making some money again; I told her my luck would come through,” Harry said.
“Right, I’m on. Only stacked it with three hun-gies, but that should be enough,” Frank murmured.
“Oh, for fugg’s sake, we don’t care that Adam Reynolds is a good organiser,” Larry blustered, slugging a can of VB as he watched Gus Gould show some tactics highlights of the Rabbits. “He doesn’t score tries, he doesn’t set them up – he’s never a good bet!”
“Pie, gents?” Frank’s wife walked through to the lounge room, a plate of hot meat pies giving the room a lovely aroma of cooking pastry.
“Lurvley work Cheryl,” Bob responded.
“Yep, thanks luv,” Scott answered. The boys all grabbed one each before chowing down on the hot food. Their eating was broken only by their occasional cursing of the players missing opportunities.
“How did yer multi go Harry?” asked Fred.
“Not bad,” he replied. “Dogs, Eels and Tits were the three I needed. Was a bit nervous until Sandow kicked them out to 7+ as well as scoring the last try which meant I had the games won, points scored, first and last try scorers as well as margins for all three games. Not a bad days work.”
“Half yer luck,” Scott complained. “Sandow’s last try cost me mine. Silly little prick ‘e is had the chance to pass to Loko rather than go himself. Wish ‘e ‘ad.”
The final whistle blew for the Brisbane v Melbourne game.
“Aww, sheeeee - ” Fred cursed. “Fuggin Justin Hodges! Why didn’t he pass the ball? I had him as last try assist and Brisbane win! Dumb plank.”
“Tee hee,” laughed Bob, now up and dancing. “Get that up yer Tommy! Yer givin’ me green!”
Cheryl walked back in the lounge room, distributing drinks this time. “Oh, Brisbane lost. Was it a good game boys?”
“What do you mean honey?” Frank asked, a little confused.
“Was the game good? As in did both teams play well?”
“Oh, we don’t care about the game any more, love. It’s the punt that’s important,” Frank responded, switching the telecast over to the racing.
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