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Breaking the rules, but this article HAS to be posted in full here. It is superb!!
The mark that saved the flag
September 26, 2005
Richard Hines
Time stood still for teammates, family, fans and officials, Richard Hinds reports, while Leo Barry plotted his flight path to mark.
LEO Barry knew it would come back again. Even after he had thumped the ball clear of danger yet again. Even with 32 minutes gone in this interminably long quarter. Even as he turned back desperately looking for his opponent, Barry knew this undersized, undervalued Swans' defence that had repelled wave after wave of Eagles attacks would face one more challenge.
Now the ball was in the air. Set in flight by the left boot of Eagles' ruckman Dean Cox, it was tumbling towards a pack of players 15 metres from the West Coast goal. Barry was just to the side and his opponent Michael Gardiner was, well, where was he?
Barry had lost contact, but Nic Fosdike knew where he was. Gardiner was standing beside him. The 179-centimetre Fosdike had played the game of his life. Coming off the bench he had run straight and relentlessly, like the brilliant middle-distance athlete he had been in his youth. Now it looked like he would have to compete in the air with a man 20 centimetres taller, the fate of the premiership on the line. Just one thought crossed his mind: "Oh s---!"
Tadhg Kennelly was standing in front of Fosdike. In the first 10 minutes of the match he had gasped desperately for air, overcome by the enormity of the occasion. Now, having composed himself on a stage he did not know existed just six years ago, Kennelly knew his time had come. He could see the young West Coast ruckman Mark Seaby preparing to take his leap. He would have to throw himself into the pack and somehow try to get a hand on the ball.
At the front of the pack Amon Buchanan had quickly worked out the ball was going to clear his head and threw himself backwards into the oncoming traffic. "Just didn't think, just didn't think," Buchanan would recall later of what was merely one of several moments of bloody-minded bravery he had performed in a heroic final quarter.
Through the minds of others further from the scene came exhortations. Even prayers. Jude Bolton, his head covered with the bandages and helmet that have become de rigueur for any self-respecting "Blood", was 30 metres from the pack. Two words kept rushing through his head: "Spoil it!"
Brett Kirk, the world's most fearless Buddhist, was practising faith of a different kind. Earlier in the quarter, Kirk had thrown his body recklessly into a collision with the Eagles' Ben Cousins. Now, as the ball hung in the air, he hoped ? no, he knew ? someone would make a similar sacrifice. "When it's on the line you stick your head over the footy," he would say. "That's the Bloods."
For those who could no longer control their own destiny, that ball seemed to hang forever. Sitting on the interchange bench for the final 10 minutes of the match, Luke Ablett had composed the apology he would issue his coach and teammates for his calamitous error that had gifted a goal to Cousins..
Behind Ablett sat football operations manager Andrew Ireland. He was still wearing the headphones. The messages from the coach's box kept coming. But he knew nothing could be done. All he could do was watch and see if all that time spent attempting to replicate his success as chief executive in Brisbane would bear fruit. Or would he suffer that same gut-wrenching disappointment he knew three times as a member of losing Collingwood grand final teams?
Others are too callow to let fate dictate their moods. Adam Schneider was still up near the interchange area, bouncing up and down and hoping to get the coach's attention. Craving the spotlight. Desperate to be in on the fun, he watched without fear.
Some could not watch at all. Rick Quade was the first man to coach the Swans in Sydney. He is now a member of the board. When the ball hit Cox's boot, he lowered his head, closed his eyes and braced himself for the worst.
Beside him, Swans chairman Richard Colless was having what he would call a "Zen moment". Few had worked harder to get the Swans this far. Few knew what was hanging on the outcome of this impending contest. "After all this time, after all this work ?" he thought. But with introspection, not panic.
In the umpires' race, old South Melbourne warriors Bob Skilton and Barry Round stood holding their breath. Skilton had played in just one final in his brilliant career. Round had won a pre-season premiership for the Swans in their first year in Sydney, but not the real thing. Both Skilton and Round were warriors, the type of "old Bloods" on whom the current Swans have modelled themselves.
Now, throughout an epic grand final, this team had filled Skilton and Round with pride. Whatever happened when that ball came down, they were going to sprint onto the ground and embrace this club's new heroes. But for the moment, they stood transfixed.
Paul Kelly was standing near the two old-timers. If the Swans won, he would present the premiership cup to the winners. All day his body had twitched and contorted, the instincts of a man used to shaping such contests with his own will. Now he could not throw that small frame in front of the charging pack, but merely hope someone would meet the challenge. Someone like Buchanan.
Amid all these thoughts and emotions and the deafening noise of the crowd, the mental calculator in Barry's head had plotted his flight path. The ball was turning perfectly. He was beside the pack. He had a few steps to propel himself. There would be a couple of players blocking his way, but he would roll the dice. He would back his famous leap to propel him over the pack and his strong hands to grip the ball. He would ignore the mantra of all stout defenders ? always punch from behind.
As Barry took off, in the crowd of 91,898, there was probably only one man who had no doubt what would happen next. Leo Barry snr is a big country bloke with a broad smile, a firm handshake and a nice way of making what would be one of the greatest moments in the history of grand finals seem as inconsequential as Leo jnr climbing a particularly tall tree on the family farm. "He loves a challenge my boy," Leo snr would say later. "He just loves a challenge."
After Barry took that challenge, there was a split second of confusion. Bodies colliding. A pack crumbling. The ball disappears.
In the coach's box Paul Roos thought it had been marked by the Eagles. But Roos had also thought Nick Davis's matchwinning goal against Geelong was a point. For a man who lives such a charmed life, the AFL's new super coach is a born pessimist.
Kennelly looked around and saw Barry's hands on the ball. Seconds later he heard the siren, but Barry did not. He did not know it was over until he was being hugged and kissed by Kennelly, then Buchanan. Fosdike, who had seen the No. 21 rise up before him and pluck the ball away, slumped over in elation and relief.
Quade heard a roar and thought the worst until he was thumped by Colless. The old-timers ran onto the ground as fast as their arthritic joints could carry them. The rest was mayhem. And history that will be retold for as long as they wear red and white. The mark that saved the flag.
The mark that saved the flag
September 26, 2005
Richard Hines
Time stood still for teammates, family, fans and officials, Richard Hinds reports, while Leo Barry plotted his flight path to mark.
LEO Barry knew it would come back again. Even after he had thumped the ball clear of danger yet again. Even with 32 minutes gone in this interminably long quarter. Even as he turned back desperately looking for his opponent, Barry knew this undersized, undervalued Swans' defence that had repelled wave after wave of Eagles attacks would face one more challenge.
Now the ball was in the air. Set in flight by the left boot of Eagles' ruckman Dean Cox, it was tumbling towards a pack of players 15 metres from the West Coast goal. Barry was just to the side and his opponent Michael Gardiner was, well, where was he?
Barry had lost contact, but Nic Fosdike knew where he was. Gardiner was standing beside him. The 179-centimetre Fosdike had played the game of his life. Coming off the bench he had run straight and relentlessly, like the brilliant middle-distance athlete he had been in his youth. Now it looked like he would have to compete in the air with a man 20 centimetres taller, the fate of the premiership on the line. Just one thought crossed his mind: "Oh s---!"
Tadhg Kennelly was standing in front of Fosdike. In the first 10 minutes of the match he had gasped desperately for air, overcome by the enormity of the occasion. Now, having composed himself on a stage he did not know existed just six years ago, Kennelly knew his time had come. He could see the young West Coast ruckman Mark Seaby preparing to take his leap. He would have to throw himself into the pack and somehow try to get a hand on the ball.
At the front of the pack Amon Buchanan had quickly worked out the ball was going to clear his head and threw himself backwards into the oncoming traffic. "Just didn't think, just didn't think," Buchanan would recall later of what was merely one of several moments of bloody-minded bravery he had performed in a heroic final quarter.
Through the minds of others further from the scene came exhortations. Even prayers. Jude Bolton, his head covered with the bandages and helmet that have become de rigueur for any self-respecting "Blood", was 30 metres from the pack. Two words kept rushing through his head: "Spoil it!"
Brett Kirk, the world's most fearless Buddhist, was practising faith of a different kind. Earlier in the quarter, Kirk had thrown his body recklessly into a collision with the Eagles' Ben Cousins. Now, as the ball hung in the air, he hoped ? no, he knew ? someone would make a similar sacrifice. "When it's on the line you stick your head over the footy," he would say. "That's the Bloods."
For those who could no longer control their own destiny, that ball seemed to hang forever. Sitting on the interchange bench for the final 10 minutes of the match, Luke Ablett had composed the apology he would issue his coach and teammates for his calamitous error that had gifted a goal to Cousins..
Behind Ablett sat football operations manager Andrew Ireland. He was still wearing the headphones. The messages from the coach's box kept coming. But he knew nothing could be done. All he could do was watch and see if all that time spent attempting to replicate his success as chief executive in Brisbane would bear fruit. Or would he suffer that same gut-wrenching disappointment he knew three times as a member of losing Collingwood grand final teams?
Others are too callow to let fate dictate their moods. Adam Schneider was still up near the interchange area, bouncing up and down and hoping to get the coach's attention. Craving the spotlight. Desperate to be in on the fun, he watched without fear.
Some could not watch at all. Rick Quade was the first man to coach the Swans in Sydney. He is now a member of the board. When the ball hit Cox's boot, he lowered his head, closed his eyes and braced himself for the worst.
Beside him, Swans chairman Richard Colless was having what he would call a "Zen moment". Few had worked harder to get the Swans this far. Few knew what was hanging on the outcome of this impending contest. "After all this time, after all this work ?" he thought. But with introspection, not panic.
In the umpires' race, old South Melbourne warriors Bob Skilton and Barry Round stood holding their breath. Skilton had played in just one final in his brilliant career. Round had won a pre-season premiership for the Swans in their first year in Sydney, but not the real thing. Both Skilton and Round were warriors, the type of "old Bloods" on whom the current Swans have modelled themselves.
Now, throughout an epic grand final, this team had filled Skilton and Round with pride. Whatever happened when that ball came down, they were going to sprint onto the ground and embrace this club's new heroes. But for the moment, they stood transfixed.
Paul Kelly was standing near the two old-timers. If the Swans won, he would present the premiership cup to the winners. All day his body had twitched and contorted, the instincts of a man used to shaping such contests with his own will. Now he could not throw that small frame in front of the charging pack, but merely hope someone would meet the challenge. Someone like Buchanan.
Amid all these thoughts and emotions and the deafening noise of the crowd, the mental calculator in Barry's head had plotted his flight path. The ball was turning perfectly. He was beside the pack. He had a few steps to propel himself. There would be a couple of players blocking his way, but he would roll the dice. He would back his famous leap to propel him over the pack and his strong hands to grip the ball. He would ignore the mantra of all stout defenders ? always punch from behind.
As Barry took off, in the crowd of 91,898, there was probably only one man who had no doubt what would happen next. Leo Barry snr is a big country bloke with a broad smile, a firm handshake and a nice way of making what would be one of the greatest moments in the history of grand finals seem as inconsequential as Leo jnr climbing a particularly tall tree on the family farm. "He loves a challenge my boy," Leo snr would say later. "He just loves a challenge."
After Barry took that challenge, there was a split second of confusion. Bodies colliding. A pack crumbling. The ball disappears.
In the coach's box Paul Roos thought it had been marked by the Eagles. But Roos had also thought Nick Davis's matchwinning goal against Geelong was a point. For a man who lives such a charmed life, the AFL's new super coach is a born pessimist.
Kennelly looked around and saw Barry's hands on the ball. Seconds later he heard the siren, but Barry did not. He did not know it was over until he was being hugged and kissed by Kennelly, then Buchanan. Fosdike, who had seen the No. 21 rise up before him and pluck the ball away, slumped over in elation and relief.
Quade heard a roar and thought the worst until he was thumped by Colless. The old-timers ran onto the ground as fast as their arthritic joints could carry them. The rest was mayhem. And history that will be retold for as long as they wear red and white. The mark that saved the flag.
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