Rolling with the Big Dog, Rolling with the Punches

The rappetty-tap-tap-tap of the keyboard doesn’t stop the anger, nor does the mechanical hum of the constant stream of traffic ease the uncomfortable agitation. Taking the wind and observing the putrid and very real tales of Irvine Welsh does little to help. Somehow miring yourself in tales of scag abuse, dirty estate living, petty crime and the futility of existence do not help you regain perspective.

Of course, this isn’t the anger or depression or the sadness of something real. Not in any personal sense, at any rate. This is the Monday morning comedown of The Sports Freak and The Gambler when things turned just a little sour and the weekend delivered more beatings to you than he did to North Sydney fans for the better part of three-quarters of a century. Mike Gibson may disagree but his time, like that of the Bears, has come and gone, the highwater mark slowly slipping out of sight as the march continues.

That feeling every punter and every sports fan gets on Monday when things went, as they say, wrong. The hollowness. The bitterness. The self-defeating process of what if’s and if only’s. The cold sweat of a junkie and the flashbacks of an acid head. The primal urge to do something about it, a quick fix to put an end to all that is wrong. The manufactured, righteous anger akin to that of a student politician, self-flagellation for the born rich. Depression. 

It was a rough and vile weekend. On nearly all fronts.

For those of us experienced in the rollercoaster ways of sports and the punt, the comedowns are inevitably less harsh. Just like the high of the win does not compare to the first cloud-walking victory, the shock of defeat diminishes over time. But for all those who care, the comedown is always there when the game inevitably turns on us.

It was one of those weekends where nothing went right. The Bulldogs lost a close one against Manly. Richmond blew a big lead again. Every bet seemed to lose. Every hand at the Hold ‘Em table beat. And to cap it all off, the neighbours have found it necessary to intervene with my penchant for loud music as a cure, seemingly not fans of The Cold War Kids or The Tragically Hip.

“Fell asleep with stains, caked deep in the knees, what a pain”

A word on Canterbury, if I may…There is nothing to panic about at Belmore. Not on the field, at any rate. Good coaches know about timing and Steve Folkes is a damned fine coach, just a notch below the Wok and a few strides off Ando. Aside from that useless fool Ben Roberts, the Dogs are showing some positive signs and can get themselves up for a big win. The only concerns are contractual and they will soon sort themselves out in a manner akin to pro wrestling with some being cast as loyal heroes and others being cast as treacherous sodomites worthy of castration…

And now a word on Richmond…Ye Gods, I thought this was a club steeped in Catholic tradition and one that would therefore have the benefit of some luck. But, seemingly, no. There is little more frustrating in life than following the Richmond Tigers. They try so damned hard yet just can’t ever seem to get their bollocks together. And Richo is the personification, working so hard for the ball and then kicking like a giraffe on opium. This season has been painful, watching three leads blown, three games slip from the grasp. When all you want to do is belt out Tigerland and you lead thrice at the third break, the term disappointment doesn’t even begin to describe the mush of fury, frustration and disappointment in your bones.

And that, along with a mind bending late-night travel down memory lane with a prominent socialite who used to get her kicks slumming with wordsmiths and some vicious beatings on the punt, was the weekend.

There were some vicious wagering defeats but these days, they matter a lot less than a Bulldogs or a Tigers loss. When you have been in the game long enough, you soon see all the vicious ways you can be beaten and when the dice are against you, brutality is the name of the game.

The Punting Gods get their kicks (and vengeance) in kinky ways. Photo finish defeats. Lost protests. The jockey weighing in light. Falling at the last fence. Falling at the first fence. Running off the track. Running through the track. Late meaningless tries to put you the wrong side of the line. Late meaningless field goals to put you the wrong side of the line. Disallowed tries. Ridiculously allowed tries. A penalty goal in front of the sticks to ruin the overs. A penalty in front of the sticks to make the overs, only to see some deadbeat tap and go. Last second rushed behinds. Last second 50-metre goals to send the margin to 41 when you have the team 1-39. Hoops players not shooting the last 23 seconds to fall a point short of the overs. And a point short of covering. Meaningless lay-ups in this dead period to cause the chop-out when players never shoot in this situation. Constant last-second missed foul shots to see you fall a ½ point short. A last inning grand slam. Some crack-head leaning into play and knocking the ball away from a certain catch that inevitably led to things going very wrong. Blown break points. Blown set points. Blown match points. Retiring when well ahead. Losing when in a Novotna winning position. Dropped catches. Bad LBW decisions. Stupid running. Lots of stupid running. Daft shots. Putters with the ypes. Drivers with the shanks. Flushes on the river to knock out your flopped straight that was bet to perfection. Quads over the nut boat. Two-outers killing you on the river. Oh, Lordy Lordy, what hath thou done to deserve such brutality…

But you soon realise that this is the lie of the land and all decent gamblers quickly move on, the cold sweats becoming more temperate and the flashbacks not nearly as crippling. And this is one of the keys to being successful in the punting game. You can’t get rattled by the brutal losses because you will cop plenty of them. It is those who can shake it off and return to punting equilibrium on the hop who make a quid from the game. Shake it off Big Guy.  Those who don’t learn to shake off the crippling blow of hard-luck defeat soon find themselves destitute and naked in the gutter, wondering what the hell happened.

Well, here is what happened…you didn’t listen to the sound advice of Uncle Punt.

You gotta roll with the punches or you’ll have your head battered. Just ask any pugilist. Or decent punter, for that matter.

But when it comes to barracking, only a whole heap of valium will ease the pain. That is simple reality.