For dilettantes of the fantasy genre, the finale to The Lord of the Rings was and is (to many) a somewhat baffling exercise in poor man management (or man, hobbit, elf and dwarf management to be precise).

Consider: after approximately 10 hours of hard-core viewing (or up to half a life time of slog reading), you’ve finally made it to the culmination of the world’s most ‘epic’ epic, and things are looking grim. The amassed forces of earthly good have seemingly succumbed to what always seemed inevitable defeat at the hands of Sauron and his army of orcs, trolls and (most likely) members of the Rules of the Game Committee.

As the sun sunk a red midnight on a Middle Earth poised for damnation, Frodo and Sam were marooned and broken beneath the burping fire of a biblical volcano while their remaining friends fought and screamed and fell, surrounded and out numbered having realised that death had finally come to them beneath the black gates of Mordor.

Gandalf was cooked (possible grade-2 hammy). Aragorn was about to be shish-kebabed by a ten foot troll (intentional, high impact, high contact). Legolas was out of arrows (blazed away too early) and Gimli (the dwarf) was dreaming of his last cold beer at the Cricketers Arms on Punt Road.

In North Melbourne terms, it was half way through the final term of the 2015 semi final.

They’d had a crack, but fallen short. It was all over.

Until out of nowhere, the eagles appeared.

No, not Adam Simpson and Drew Petrie (sob) – but giant, feathered, more than a little deity-like, eagles.

Downwards they swooped, searing on the smoking currents with talons and beaks poised and arched to dispatch the black riders and their dragon-horses in a maelstrom of pure celestial fury. In a moment the battle was won and then, farewell! the eagles soared away again, beyond the gaping mouths of men and dwarves and elves who from death had been spared, flying into the very mouth of the fire pit where the two hobbits lay curled on a rock, awaiting an eternal bath of molten lava warmer than even a Brad Scott phonecall.

Next thing you know, Frodo and Sam are waking up in the Hilton and every thing’s hunky dory.

Job done. Ring destroyed. Sauron vanquished. Bad guys – goneski.

Happy days, boys. Here comes Bilbo Baggins with a pipe. Let’s blow some smoke rings and talk about the Josh Kelly and Dustin Martin double deal.

Eagles? What eagles? Oh them, yeah they took off. Adam Simpson’s here though, but he’s staying in his room. Doesn’t like travelling away from home.

Despite the warm and fuzzy feeling of good triumphing over evil, the dilettante will immediately ponder the following bloomer: why the shit didn’t Gandalf and his cobbers give the eagles a call on day one, and save themselves all the flaming malarkey?

Seriously Tolkien, you could have had Gandalf send an email to info@magicgianteagles.gov.org at any stage of the journey and had the job done and wrapped up before quarter time.

Think of all the shit you could have avoided! Frodo’s traumatised for life, Merry and Pippin have been in an orc POW camp for a month, Diver Dan’s father went crazy and jumped off the roof and we’ve currently got 500 dead elephants parked outside.

‘Ahah!’ – says Tolkien (craftier than you and I but not Brad Scott), ‘but if I had called the eagles immediately, we’d never have seen if Frodo and Sam had what it took to make it as inside mids. We’d never have known if Aragorn was truly captain material. And although the ruck combination of Treebeard and a couple of hobbits didn’t work out in the end, we’d never have known that from having the eagles rucking from the first stoppage.’

Tolkien gets it, you see. Sometimes we learn more from the journey than we do from the result.

And despite having no birds of prey handy in the last term of Saturday’s game, for three quarters and more a North Melbourne team moved forward into the unknown with the flair and craft and application to the task of a mixed-race Tolkien army of another time and place.

And if there was any doubt before the game as to who the villain of the piece would be (there wasn’t to me, or you I imagine, but nonetheless…) Mr. Hooker was kind enough to step into the spotlight with the understated touch of a skittish elephant on an ancient battlefield.

Kale. It’s an overrated vegetable and (after a his fourth quarter pantomime) it’s an overrated footballer. You may call what you have on your head a man bun, Kale. I call it an undercut with string and so does the mid-nineties.

And much like the paleo diet for which your name is now forever tarnished, your actions will be remembered more for their ridiculousness than their clinical significance.

He doesn’t realise it, but Hooker may have inadvertently lit a flame within Daniel Nielson’s soul that will ignite a long, distinguished AFL career.

I hope Nielson remembers the fourth quarter of Saturday’s game for seasons to come. Not in a, ‘I need a sports psychologist’ kind of way, but in a, ‘This will never, ever, ever happen again’ kind of way.

Our time will come. Theirs has already been and gone. And in what could have been an opportunity to not only win the game, but confirm himself as a genuinely elite dual-role player in a fourth quarter display of determination and experience, Cale Hooker instead chose to immediately undo any and all of his football achievements with exactly the smug, un-sportsmanlike, short-sighted floggishness that many consider a trademark of the club he represents.

Perhaps it was short-sighted most of all. Yes, your team won the game. And yes, your last quarter may well have been a deciding factor in that win (although with the amount of entries coming into the Bombers forward 50 it’s likely they would have broken through even without Hooker).

But noogies are annoying, big fella. And noogies are humiliating. Many’s the punch-on they’ve caused in the corridors of secondary schools the world over.

And Tolkien and eagles and man-management aside, our aptitude to take and remember and own a slight can fuel our very existence for years to come.

We remember many things about Essendon.

We remember that you blocked our entry into the VFL time and time again.

We remember that when we did enter the VFL, you made sure that you kept most of what should have been our natural supporter and drafting zones.

We remember you calling for a head count against us in 1958.

We remember Sheedy and the marshmallows.

We remember it all.

And now we’ll remember this.

In that sense, North Melbourne is more akin to a proud old house in Game of Thrones than a cuddly little hobbit traipsing through the countryside –

House Shinbone.

Sigil: The Roo.

Words: We remember all noogies.

You won the battle, Essendon, but you’ll lose the war. And thanks to Paleo Hooker, we have enough motivation to last well through the next few seasons.

Besides, you didn’t even really win.

You see, in some matches, scoreboards are less relevant than in others.

This was one of those matches. The numbers on the big screen provided a summary of points scored, but in no way could hope to convey a summary of each team’s relative growth.

With an injury list steadily becoming the length of a Tolkien first-draft, North arrived at the ground expecting to field a team comprised of a debutant (Nick Larkey), near-debutants, nearish debutants and a sprinkling of housecarl veterans. By the first bounce, one housecarl was out (Tarrant) and a second debutant, Josh Williams, was in.

Everywhere we looked, we saw more signs of new life than a garden party in The Shire.

Williams, Larkey, Zurhaar, Nielson, Durdin, Simpkin, Mountford, Clarke – add a sprinkling of Garner, Hrovat, Daw, McDonald, and Brown and all of a sudden Shaun Atley was forced to come to terms with the new role of wizened veteran.

Maybe it was merely the exuberance of youth and no more. But for a couple of hours on Saturday arvo the comrades were swept along with the joyous abandon of a team taking the game on as only the young and young at heart can do.

And whereas in recent times a North Melbourne attack has tended to tip-toe forward via the wings and pockets, the young and the restless of the Shinboner back-half set up so well behind the ball that – miracle of miracles – Essendon were forced into error and turnover time and time again and – miracle of miracles of miracles – we rebounded in true Barassi style, ‘Right up the guts!’

Indeed, in an echo of charging warriors in days of yore, a new battle-cry of ‘The corridor! The corridor!’ seemed to echo into the souls of the blue and white faithful from the rolling assault of McDonald, Mullett, Mountford and Williams as they sring-boarded us into attack again and again.

In joyous accompaniment, Durdin and Nielson patrolled the defensive fifty like an interpretive dance premiere of Iron Dome at a local community theatre. Durdin in particular (with a game high 11 marks) intercepted everything within range.

And in keeping with the theme of shooting down enemy guns, Essendon’s two AA monties were soundly thrashed by their respective opponents. At one end, Scott Thompson ignored Joe Daniher’s tri-quarterly ambition to take Mark of the Millenium to out work and out-niggle his opponent, while at the other end of the field Michael Hurley felt the immovable force of Jarrad Waite’s backside followed by the Ben Brown’s bionic arms.

When Waite plays, we’re unbelievably more potent. With Brown in his current form, the same is equally true.

On Saturday Waite sold more candy than 50 Cent. He led Hurley to the ball and out-marked him in the contest. He finished with 4 goals that could have been 6 – he dished off one for a club-sanctioned Mullett bomb from outside 50, and passed off another in the first quarter that resulted in a delectable finish from Taylor Garner for our second goal of the afternoon.

And then there was Brown. He doesn’t need me to invent questionable similes to describe his play. He is now a consistent A-grade forward and is fulfilling the expectations he has set for himself. He marks on the lead, he marks in the contest and he kicks straighter than any other forward in the league.

In many ways, this game was set up for Brown. And in may ways, Brown’s season and season’s to date have epitomised the North Melbourne modus-operandi. He hasn’t attracted the media adoration of his flashier counterparts, but against Essendon he toiled and dug and eventually removed the ground from beneath the very feet of those who should have seen him coming a mile away.

Now they’re starting to take notice.

And have another look at North’s first goal of the match. It was the chase, pressure and incessant intensity of Brown that nagged Collier into a left footed shank that floated morosely into the waiting arms of the perfectly positioned Josh Williams.

Josh Williams. He burst onto the scene like a pre-term giraffe – an unprepared bundle of arms and legs and loping grace. Tarrant a late, late out? No problem. 14 disposals, 6 marks and a goal. Next. Not many teenage debutants would have the confidence and technique to go back and ice a set shot from fifty with their first kick of AFL footy. We have a good one, here.

And (hot tip) Williams was even considerate enough to keep what is possibly his best trick tucked safely in his kit bag. This guy has serious wheels. Possibly our fastest since Daniel Wells. Keep both eyes out for him bursting off a wing for years to come.

He’ll be getting fed by Trent Dumont. No one sent a bigger individual response than he did on Saturday. Sent back to re-find form in a Werribee side likewise annihilated by injuries, Dumont demanded a recall to the senior team with a 34 possession dominance against a Richmond team flooded with AFL-listed talent.

28 disposals, 3 tackles, 1 goal. And within those a wealth of confidence that we need him to keep putting to use. He has in abundance that valuable combination of clearance ability and an instinct to lower his eyes and kick to advantage.

This is how the whole demotion/promotion thing is supposed to work. Go back, suck it up, play your role, demand selection in the firsts, play your role again.

Andrew Swallow knows this, too. The old warhorse was in everything on the weekend. No one on our list has his ability to time a run at the foot of a ruck contest, and since returning from a spell in the twos he seems to have re-found some of the old balance and clean hands that have foiled and spoiled the best opposition midfielders in the league for the passed decade.

It doesn’t hurt to have Majak putting it down your throat at every second ball-up. Interesting game by Maj. We know that he’s a ruckman – he proved it again on Saturday by breaking even against Tom Bellchambers, regarded by many as having his finest season to date.

Daw was involved throughout the game and should take heart from his performance. Does that mean I’m one of those kind-hearted souls who was aghast at the spray he copped from Scott after being shoved off the line of the ball in successive stoppages and giving Bellchambers a couple of easy clearances?

Not on your life. If Brad gave Maj a spray, it’s because he knows Maj can handle it and he wants a response. We all want a response. If – and it’s a big if – Maj can unlock his own personal mantra that will allow to unleash complete and uninhibited intent at the contest, then he will reach his true potential as a player. This is what Scott knows and wants to see.

Fire up, Maj.

If he needs inspiration, look no further than Cameron Zurhaar, apprentice don’t argue merchant and purveyor of penetrating drop punts. The impact of his palm embracing the face and neck of Mark Baguley reverberated around the stands of Etihad stadium like a seismic shift. Somewhere, a single tear rolled down the cheek of a Ben Cunnington.

There were so many things that we could discuss about a match that felt more like a victory than a defeat.

Garner’s ridiculous mark running back with the flight of the ball. McDonald’s chase down of Mcdonald-Tipungwuti. Gibson’s shot from the pocket. Atley finding the pill 25 times. Higgins getting a handball from Swallow from a tap from Daw and the kick being marked by Brown 2 metres out from goal. Clarke linking up with Zurhaar. Simpkin dishing off to a wave of overlapping mids.

We could talk about North actually enjoying periods of control during the match. Indeed, in a year in which many of North’s goals have appeared more akin to the end result of a rugby maul than a professional AFL transition, many of the faithful enjoying the sights and sounds of Saturday afternoon at Etihad felt compelled to give every uncontested possession a brief standing ovation.

There are many things to talk about, and the final score isn’t one of them.

In a match in which we gave everything, the youngsters ran out of legs in the final quarter and the weight of stoppage domination told against an overwhelmed defence.

Forget about that. It’s neither here nor there, in the big scheme of things.

What is here and there is the intensity, coherence and scary forward potency that we saw for three and half quarters.

And the ability to respond within a game and score quickly. When the Dons went bang bang bang at the start of the third, even the most philosophical North fan would have been forgiven for smiling ruefully and murmuring, “That’s that then”. But this young, brash North Melbourne team hit back with a three goal burst of their own to give unto the souls of the faithful that precious manna that can sustain any supporter base through times of transition: faith in the movement.

When kids play well, the world takes notice. And even deep into the final quarter the Northerners continued to run and push and attack the game with the same discipline and joie de vivre that will carry them to success sooner rather than later.

Even more so because it looks as though we’ll have a high draft pick coming our way this year. That and/or a couple of quality midfielders will see this team rocket back up the ladder faster than painter’s apprentice when the boss makes a surprise site-visit. Our long term defence is set. Our long term forward line is set. Our long term inside midfield is set. Our outside midfield is the missing link.

Maybe we’ll find someone from Tasmania (those in the know will immediately hear the name “Tarryn Thomas” echo through their subconscious).

Speaking of which, we’re back there this weekend. Into a Hobart of capricious breezes and Ben Brown siblings who will, with luck, witness a continuation of the greatest winning streak since Arthur “Nudie” Cooper won a controversial first place in the Barkstead Gift of 1992.

Melbourne at Blundstone. Saturday arvo.

We’ve been living rent free in this mobs head for a long time.

And it’s another perfect opportunity for the joeys to have another crack at a team that’s traveling nicely and will fancy themselves favourites heading into the match.

Goldy might not be back. I lasted a half at a Box Hill that was more reminiscent of a highland pig pen than a footy ground on Sunday afternoon before calling it quits and running for the car. It was cold, wet and slippery. Not ideal conditions in which a ruckman of Goldy’s attributes can easily shine, and I’m not sure he did enough. With Preuss still not back from a sore back, my money’s on Majak having another crack at the main job.

Lindsay Thomas did enough; hands and above the most dangerous forward on the ground. Stats didn’t do Nick Larkey any favours on Saturday and he was far better than the archives will suggest – but don’t be surprised to see Thomas come in for a young fellow who’s taste of the big-time will stand in him good stead as he develops his body to handle the rigours of AFL defenders.

Will Ziebell be straight back in? He’ll say yes. But if he’s still sore, this is not the time to risk him.

This is the time for joyous abandon. This is the time to experiment. It’s still the time to win. It always is. But it’s also the time to invest in the journey.

Put any magic rings securely in your pocket and be sure to have packed an elf, dwarf, and wizard. The ultimate result will then take care of itself.

And make sure you have info@magicgianteagles.gov.org ready to go. They might come in handy…

Come on you Roo boys.