Bubbles on for Easts
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Hands on Hips
Following another weekend of watching the Roosters discover new and interesting ways to lose games, I find myself on Monday morning poring over the ladder with manic movements and a recently developed facial tic dancing across my left cheekbone. Eyes, conditioned by a diet of success, scan the top of the ladder, my heart sinking in the same direction my eyes travel as I scan down the list down, down, past the top eight, down, down, ah, there we are, eleventh. Eleventh! I sit back, slack-jawed and mute, my brain digesting this latest twist in my beloved clubs tale.
I had already performed mathematical aerobics following the gut-wrenching loss to the Warriors, to know where we would be placed by the end of the weekend. In fact, the remaining games played out before my unbelieving eyes like a series of worse case scenarios piling one on top of the other, like so much fertilizer for my dark mood. Still, seeing it in black and white like that (eleventh!) brings with it the bitter aftertaste of evidentiary proof.
So I find myself for the first time in many years doing the math, checking the sums, auditing the chances of my team making the finals. Seven games to go Storm, Dragons, Panthers, Sharks, Rabbits, Broncos, Dogs. Okay, so looking for the definite win, the certain two points, the slam-dunk searching, searching
ah, found one (maybe). Argh!! The full weight of reality hits me, taking the breath from my lungs. Theres a distinct possibility that Easts may not make the top eight, that our season may end a mere seven weeks down the track!
My throat constricts against this unpalatable morsel of information as frustration bubbles beneath the thin veneer of indifference I have attempted to cloak myself in this season. I, like the majority of Easts fans, did not expect great things. Most of us recognised the end of an era when we saw it disappear upon the slumped shoulders of our number six and captain as he retreated for the last time down the tunnel from our view. Still, it is difficult to let go of the expectations that have been planted, tendered and reaped following season after fruitful season. The seed is still there, waiting to be nourished, only problem is that the sh!t being shoveled by the team is only serving to smother it!
Then it crosses my mind that even if we do scrape into the eight, what then? Are we to offer ourselves up as cannon fodder to be blown off the park by the high-flying Broncos or Eels in the first round of finals? Now theres an appetising thought for the day! Is it best to bow out in a blaze of mediocrity at the end of the season proper, or can one possibly take something out of making up the numbers and be happy fulfilling the role of training tool for the possible premiers?
I know that there are plenty of League fans that would be stoked to have their respective sides make the finals, and this must all sound so ungrateful and spoilt. You know what, thats exactly what it is, and I make no apologies. Ive grown complacent, presumptuous and conditioned to success and it hurts like hell to see my team struggling to stay in touch with the competition.
I hear a lot about how we fans should write this season off, ride it out to its painful conclusion, and then focus on next year. Ah, the mantra of the underachievers, next year
well be back next year! For Easts the hopes of the club seem to have been almost unanimously pinned squarely on the chest of our biggest signing, Braith Anasta. Our great white hope, someone to tread in the footsteps of our Messiah, the start of a new era. Lord help the boy if he falters in His path, for the ire of the masses shall rain stones upon him, the like of which have neer been seen!
Negativity
hopelessness. Welcome to but a glimpse of my footy state of mind. But I wouldnt want you to get the wrong impression. Im not a pessimist, really Im not, it's just that I must always prepare myself for the worst possible outcome!
P.S. Forgive me Freddy, I know you hate this at the Roosters (being a sign of weakness), but my hands are squarely on my curvaceous, childbearing hips! The towel has been thrown...
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