History, it is said, is written by the victors. This may be true.

It is what makes those priceless vestiges of cultures and peoples of the past so…well…priceless. Think of the Book of Kells, a manuscript of painstaking human endeavour and unsurpassed calligraphic beauty that somehow survived the pillaging of continental Europe and Viking raids of coastal Ireland.

Who knows what other documents were destroyed under the fire and steel of chain mailed warrior-thugs who cared more for a manuscript’s bottom-wiping potential than for the characters and knowledge it contained.

This humble blog, when considered thus as a small prism of historiography, may in its own way serve as the only surviving relic of an event that otherwise would have been lost to history and future alike.

I speak not of the game itself and the report thereof. That story has been told by the victors and the un-invested alike – their story is already archived and will survive to be read again by masochists and boffins in years to come.

I speak instead of ye olde North Melbourne’s perspective of Saturday’s match. As the years go by, I suspect this is a story unlikely to survive the harsh realities of natural selection.

Unlike Kells however, this narrative is more likely to be destroyed from within than by current members of the Norwegian Community Club, such may be the eagerness of the Shinboner eye witnesses to destroy all evidence of Round 20, 2017.

Dear God; has there ever been a more fitting microcosm of North’s season than Ben Brown head butting the Etihad turf with the force of cannon ball dropped from the Clifton Hill Shot Tower?

Just when you thought we’d turned a long, winding, alpine corner into a world of predictable competitiveness and at least one goal per quarter we hand-jive ourselves into two hours of oblivion.

Just when you thought Brown was a legitimate chance to win the Coleman and all the deserved attention that would entail, he ends up getting an up close and personal view of the underlay of the Etihad carpet.

As a homage to Brown, let us not speak in great detail of what he likely doesn’t recall himself.

He has earned the privilege of not having to take part in a review of a match that may leave us with more questions than answers.

And disturbing questions at that.

For, much like the naive child who, after thinking for weeks that a unicorn had been playing in his garden suddenly realised that it was in fact his disturbed father covered in a blanket with a carrot taped to his head, we are left to nervously ponder why and how.

Why? How? After the Melbourne game that put more demons to bed than ever walked the pedicured turf of an AFL field, how is it possible that we can manage to deliver a debacle to rival the 2016 census only seven days down the track from such a season-defining victory?

Is this the capriciousness of youth?

A bitter pill to swallow. I prefer my capriciousness in pizza form, with extra anchovies thanks.

Maybe it’s time to get creative. Maybe in lieu of our principled stance against any form of pokie revenue, North can jump head first into the previously unexplored potential of virtual reality as a means of diversifying its income stream.

Just think: we take all the capital we can raise with projected sales of Kangatech and fund the development of contact lenses that can somehow digitally re-image opposition jumpers to look like Melbourne colours every week.

‘Onwards, to September!’ we shall cry!

Alas, the truth is far more, dare I say, capricious than our recent relationship with the MFC.

The first quarter of Saturday night unfolded like drunken origami – it was a shambles.

And Collingwood supporters wouldn’t exactly be cock-a-whoop about their part in a game that featured more early clangers than a middle-aged boxer’s first attempt at playing Rachmaninoff.

For our part, North employed the ‘handball happy land of the psychologically oppressed’ approach that you’ve seen in previous classics like: The Entirety: St. Kilda, 2017 and The Second Half: West Coast, 2017.

Oh well. You can laugh or cry. Crying may seem more instinctive, but laughing is more unsettling to opposition fans.

They had more to cheer about on Saturday.

Collingwood are blessed with a midfield of midfielders, and (once Brown was carted off on his shield) their defence didn’t have the extra annoyance of having to deal with key forwards who had played more than five games of senior football.

Mark my words and mark them well: Nick Larkey will be a sensational player for the North Melbourne Football Club. It’s fantastic that our current (south by south south) position on the AFL compass means he has the opportunity to taste the big time, but the harsh realities of physics and probability mean that when he and Sam Durdin (swung forward) matched up against defenders like Jeremy Howe and Lynden Dunne, our boys were going to be in for a torrid night.

It’s ok. Larkey and Durdin created opportunities. But largely speaking the pies’ defence zoned off, double-teamed and rebounded at will for most of the evening.

To aid and abet their cause we handled the ball with the whimsical blasé of a politician with a parking ticket.

It won’t be like this forever. Yet it is the temporary price to pay for a rebuilding team.

As it was, too many of the Pies players had too much fun on Saturday night.

Taylor Adams uses and doesn’t abuse the football and he had too much of it for Collingwood’s better efficiency to be a coincidence.

It’s funny now, but I once dreamed a dream of Adam Treloar leaving GWS to play at Arden Street. He is the prototype of a contemporary midfielder – demolition-level speed, ability to win the footy inside and out and a haircut you can set your watch by.

Alas for Adam, he elected McGuire and the dark side, and so I must despise him. He kicked a ripping goal on Saturday night, bursting clear from the centre square to nail a shot at full speed from the fifty.

Ziebell was chasing and showed more toe than his recent injury load should have allowed.

‘Bloody hell’ I thought, nonetheless. ‘That’s a good goal.’

Two minutes later Ziebell tackled Treloar to the earth with a vengeful anger that sent an important message to players of both clubs:

‘You may be on top, mate. But don’t think I’m going to let you take the piss.’

Unfortunately, before I or we or the North players had a chance to expand upon the physical message the captain was trying to establish, Brodie Grundy returned the favour and Ben Brown’s evening was finished.

We all could have left at that point, but that would have disrespected Brown and those from both teams who went down injured during the evening’s proceedings.

Injuries are grim. One goal in a half of football is also grim. One goal in a half of footy while watching two of your old favourites run around in black and white is even more grim.

Oh well again. Neither Wells or Greenwood finished the game.

An injured Wells is something supporters of both blue and black vertical stripes can now appreciate, although Pie fans can ‘take a number’ if they think a year and a half of not being able to have Wells consistently on the park is something new and specific to their own narrative.

The vision of Wells getting strapped on the bench elicited sage nods from all North fans present and watching from afar.

We lived that reality for many, many years. It just that now he plays for the big club, the tail-sniffers of the media pack have all of a sudden taken notice.

What they won’t have noticed are a few more of the ‘brush strokes beneath the whitewash’ in Saturday night’s effort.

It’s important to see and celebrate progress, no matter the circumstances that may surround it.

Declan Mountford is progress. He’s doing a bit of everything, this guy. Our first goal was his to own. A lead, a strong mark, a great kick. It was unfortunate that after this we marched boldly into a scoring wasteland without a compass.

Ryan Clarke picked the worst possible game to gather a career high disposal count (if his plan was to receive any form of public plaudits). He had thirty one of them (disposals, not plaudits) playing as a defender-come-link-up man. This in a defence that was left as exposed as a bushman’s dunny.

Actually, in terms of numbers our midfield didn’t stack up too badly. Our team didn’t stack up too badly.

Cunnington and Dumont won enough of the footy (twenty eight and twenty seven disposals respectively) but it was what happened next that had us turning to our phones for the distraction that only a swipe screen can provide.

McDonald scrapped and busted packs, Gibson presented and presented again, Atley ran into open points in the honest misadventures of a confused puppy, Hrovat zagged and zigged and Garner roamed across the field like a hunting cat who waited in vain for the antelope to reach the water hole.

Neilson showed me closing speed. Durdin showed me versatility and composure.

We had enough of the footy, we just couldn’t use it.

We hit the scoreboard, but we were aiming for the goals.

And in the back half we switched play with the speed of an unfit glacier – if you can call our switches switches at all. If they start on a wing and end up in the defensive goal square it’s not really a switch, it’s just kicking the ball backwards.

At times I even found myself agreeing with that great poet philosopher Matthew Richardson, who, in a match in 2016 suggested (to the scoffs of his colleagues) that at times it would be a greater good to sacrifice a goal so as to move the ball back to the centre square and a fifty-fifty contest, rather than suffer the water-torture death of being forever trapped inside your defensive fifty.

At some point our tackling efficiency dropped off like a heavy sinker cast over a shelf of reef – everything was turnstiles and cart wheels and whirly gigs and spinning tops.

Great fun at the Melbourne Show, not so fun when you’re trying to get the footy back.

But then there stood the captain.

His shoulder was busted. His ribs were busted. His body is busted.

But there he stood.

It was the second half and Scott gave unto him the forward fifty.

All it took was for the season to be shot and for us to have more injuries than rookie day at a human pyramid holiday camp.

Whatever. Better late than never.

You can’t play a key back on him because Ziebell is too mobile. Which means you’re playing a medium/small back on him, for which he’s too strong and canny.

Five goals and the sort of leadership you used to see on propanganda posters.

It’s easy to motivate a winning side. Ziebell is learning the craft of captaincy the real way, through the mud and bruises of defeat and humility.

Watch the way he interacts with his colleagues when you get a chance.

Not when we score, but when they score. He never drops his head; he’s omnipresent in his engagement and encouragement of rookie and veteran alike. That (and kicking five goals in a half) is how a captain of the NMFC conducts himself. Demanding excellence whilst dealing with imperfection.

It’s a journey, as they say.

And in the VFL curtain raiser more steps were taken in the journey of Ben Mckay. He’s back in form and he’s back at the back – defence that is. After starting his development as a key forward Mckay is returning to an area he spent a lot of time in as a junior player – and as a key defender he is able to employ his ability to read the ball in flight while continuing to learn (the hard way) the running patterns required to attract the footy as a key forward.

Larkey has had a taste and will continue to grow. Ziebell is wounded again. Brown will surely, surely not be cleared to play.

It could be that Mckay is ready to be called upon for a well-earned debut.

For which he’ll need to pack his tooth brush, as it’s off to Launceston and the humbled Hawks.

I don’t have fond memories of this venue (Buddy Franklin and a certain prime number spring to mind).

But we have to look forward – there certainly isn’t much point looking back.

But if I did, I wouldn’t look back and think of Ben Brown being knocked out.

I’ll think of the fact that Ben Brown is ok. That’s uplifting, and more important than goals and points.

I could also think of Brown being carried off the field and giving his family, friends, supporters and colleagues a quiet ‘thumbs up’.

There’s no more of an iconic image of North Melbourne this season.

Even when we’re down and out, we’re not downtrodden.

We continue to write our history, which embraces both disappointments and triumphs alike.

And as such I won’t be giving up this blog for any marauding Scandinavians who come knocking on my door.

Thumbs up, comrades.

Come on you Roo boys.