Be brave, and think of Napper.

I do, from time to time.

And no, I’m not referring to pinching a snooze while the ball is locked in the other mob’s forward fifty for twenty minutes straight. Although that was a valid option on Sunday.

I’m talking about Napper.

In a way, he is a part of all of us. We just don’t call him by the same name.

As a youngster dreaming a thousand futures for myself, I was given a book: Napper’s Golden Goals.

It was one of a series of short stories very much in the manner of Specky Magee, only The Napper series were English and based around the fortunes of Napper’s primary school football team. And Gary Lyon had nothing to do with it.

Red Row Stars was the name of the team.

In funny now, thinking back. I tried to find the book to help jog my memory for the writing of this piece – but I couldn’t come across it. That’s ok. It’ll turn up.

What I think about isn’t the story itself, but a moment within the story.

And don’t be deceived into thinking that the fortunes of a bunch of grade fives and sixes doesn’t cut the mustard in terms of intrigue, drama and internal conflict.

This book had it all. The crescendo built slowly, it teased like a Kieran Harper highlights video as the lads moved slowly through the season, riding the highs and lows of injuries, meltdowns and cranky teachers.

Come the finale and a chance at the championship, Napper had, after starting the season as the Buddy Franklin of the league, run into a string of poor form.

Anyway, in the final match his team earned a penalty and, for the first time in his illustrious (if relatively infant) career, Napper had doubts about taking it.

Doubt, fear, anxiety. Napper wanted to hand responsibility to someone else.

But, Napper reflected, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to call himself a goal scorer anymore.

And let’s be clear –

Napper’s ‘code’ had nothing to do with scoring the goal. It had everything to do with being willing to take the penalty.

Easy enough when things are going smoothly, not so when times are tough.

Napper took the penalty. I’m not telling whether he scores or not. You’ll have to read the book.

I do think of Napper sometimes. He is, I suspect, the wisest ten year old in contemporary sporting literature.

On Sunday morning I thought of him when I was comfortably seated on my couch with a cup of tea.

The warm embrace of a heated room and large television tempted me sorely with a day of creature comfort and no need to top up the old myki card.

But, I thought, if Napper didn’t take the penalty, he couldn’t call himself a demon goal scorer anymore.

And I, if I choose to stay home and watch the game on telly rather than get off my backside and head across to Etihad, I couldn’t consider myself to be the supporter I believe myself to be.

So I went. And I’m glad I did.

Despite the turnovers. Despite the continuous bombs to the boundary from kick-in after kick-in after kick-in. Despite the missed handballs and a midfield that couldn’t go with the other midfield.

Because I was there to support the team. Just like they were there, willing to represent me and you and have another crack with a team that’s undermanned and underdeveloped.

I was also there to witness a legion of Saints fans celebrate Riewoldt’s last home game – as I suppose we celebrated those of Boomer, Dish, Spud and Dal last year.

Farewell, Golden Nick. I’m told that I should be celebrating your career by signing a petition for you and Bob Murphy’s imminent beatifications.

I’ve also experienced years of being told by my aunt that I like cauliflower cheese as she dumps piles of it onto my plate, despite my sacred word swearing that the opposite is true.

Oh well. It must be one of the most incongruous of the fan experiences – finding yourself on the wrong side of public opinion. Luckily I barrack for North, so it’s become second nature.

No biggie. I can respect Riewoldt the player, even without having to buy into the narrative that surrounds him. And I’ll continue to gag on cauliflower cheese, for the sake of familial bliss.

I can also respect the sentiments of Saints fans who wanted to show their love for their hero at every opportunity. Although I will observe – when Sainters say Rooooooo as a token of appreciation for every one of the big blonde’s possessions, the effect of shouting boooooooo when North players are taking a set shot is somewhat diluted.

As it was, I took in a three dimensional audio-visual experience of the game. I didn’t sit. I anticipated frustration and thought that freedom of movement would counter the potential for angst.

There wasn’t that much angst. It was certainly a better effort than the last time we played this mob. I think I’ve repressed it but I had vague memories of both a facial tick and falling asleep.

Anyway, this time we had more than a crack. Alas, again, the problem lay in the midfield. Once St. Kilda got on top around the stoppages we found it difficult to do much about it.

Indeed, for about thirty minutes of game time (during the second and third quarters) it felt like the playing surface had been tilted on a twenty degree angle sloping downwards towards the Saints attacking end.

Like trying to defend the corner pocket on the Kerrigans ‘Trading-Post-bought’ pool table.

We were like the warm up part of tennis – the bit when one player hits up lobs for the other to smash. Only we never stopped hitting lobs, even after the warmup was over.

Neilson went down early and never came back. Goldstein looked gone in the first and then again later in the game.

The Atley handball in the defensive goalsquare made me wonder if he’s actually an extraterrestrial being sent here undercover to discover what it is that makes humans tick. His cover was nearly blown in that moment.

And even with the loss of key position players, the Saints midfield caused us the most problems.

They won it, flicked it around and from there they were away.

I could spend time hurting my head in analysing how and why we were beaten time and again after the initial contest and gave up uncontested possie after uncontested possie to their player waiting at the back of a stoppage – but I won’t.

There are men and women who get paid for that, and (frankly) I suspect the conclusion I’d reach would be the same as theirs: we’re developing youngsters and recognise the need to acquire one or two established outside mids.

This isn’t bad news, by the way.

Because we’re in a position to do exactly that. And if it happens, the universe may be very surprised with how quickly we can surge back up the ladder.

And I dare to dream. At a minimum next year I’d like to not have the feeling that I should give every uncontested possession that we acquire it’s own standing ovation.

And after all – it’s not like a lot of quality isn’t already here.



On Sunday Higgins racked up a lazy thirty two disposals in a midfield that supposedly has no outside class. Maybe we should trade him to Collingwood so he can get the plaudits he deserves.

On a couple of occasions Swallow roved Goldstein’s tapwork with the timing of Tolkien’s eagles.

As the young are growing. The sight of Kayne Turner on a half back line was enough to make some look towards the coaching box, half expecting to see a conga line and cocktails inside. Instead, on field Turner largely nullified Jack Billings and won more than his share of footy along the way.

Clarke won’t get a Rising Star nomination, he plays for the wrong club. But he’s putting together weeks and weeks of accountable accumulation – twenty five disposals on the weekend and more and more exposure to the business end of the ground – the bull pit that is our back pocket.

At the other end, Jy Simpkin didn’t find space, he created it. His and Mountford’s defensive efforts were the other great highlights of the day. That’s the sort of intent that isn’t supposed to exist in a young team with ‘nothing to play for’. Another preseason to work strength into a leg that in effect is still recovering from being broken last year and the results should be spectacular.

He may have been watching watch the intent and intensity of Taylor Garner. I love the way he plays footy. Viva la moustache.

One man who doesn’t look like he could grow a moustache if he wanted to is Declan Mountford. Doesn’t matter. Mountford is an eel. He slithered and writhed and jinxed himself out of more tight spaces than overcooked spaghetti.

And he continued to burst off the half back line like the 12.20 limited express from Wendouree to Southern Cross.

This game, in its entirety, won’t be placed in the Shinboner Parthenon. But Ziebell’s goal in the second quarter was perhaps our best play of the year.

Starting from deep in defence Tarrant went back with flight to create a turnover and then won the loose ball. The following chain of handballs involved Tarrant, Turner, Clarke, Mountford, Gibson, Turner again, Dumont, Mountford again, Swallow and Mountford again again.

Declan burst through the corridor and it was a joy – his kick to the advantage of the skipper was the end to a passage of play that is the reason we come to the footy.

Above them all, with a sore eye and sore knee, Goldstein played his best game for the year. It’s too late to save him from the criticisms that have now been cemented in as the narrative of his 2017 season, but for those who cared to see there were more signs that maybe the big fella is fighting and clawing his way back into form.

And then there was the Kingmaker. He was busy on Sunday. Under and beyond the bogs of stoppages and clearances in which we were dismantled Cunnington played the kind of lone hand more often seen in the prelude of a saloon brawl in a 1950s Western.

Twenty two contested possies out of a game high thirty six. Seven tackles. Two goals. One of which came on the back of a don’t-argue that may in-and-of itself have gotten Dusty Martin over the line if he was watching.

Handballs that glided and created beauty like a calligrapher’s pen stroke.

A mighty performance. One more game, Ben, and then you can enjoy some well earned choggy milkshakes.



For which, he’ll be in Brisbane (likely a lot warmer than Melbourne and more conducive to a post-game Big M).

There’s more to say about the history of our two clubs – the parallels and the sliding doors…maybe next week.

For now we and they meet under the judgement and suspicion of the football world who, largely, don’t have much to say about either of us of substance and so instead revert to type: tanking, fixtures and questions over list management. Whatever.

It’s Scott Thompson’s 200th game this week. He’s carved his career from stone using a toothpick, this man. A bloke who plays taller and smaller than himself at the same time. One of the best intercept markers for the past ten years.

The only bloke insane enough to push Barry Hall over when he’s trying to do up his shoe laces.

That act alone is worth the equivalent of an ANZAC Day medal (for those who aren’t privileged enough to play football on such a sacred day for the Collingwood and Essendon Football Clubs).

Shinboner.

Let’s see how we go. Brisbane are going well and we don’t have a great recent record up there.

Thompson and Tarrant will, once again, lock shields in the middle of a defensive shield wall that is more child soldier than housecarl these days.

Cunnington will, once again, inspire and work in a midfield bereft of senior rotations and seasoned bodies.

Brown will, once again, lead and double back and lead again and jump and tackle and kick goals while surrounded by teenagers and tweeners who continue to learn their craft at his feet.

Once again, we’ll have a crack.



And we’ll be watching.

We all have moments, across many moments of our lives, when we can stop and ask ourselves the question that Napper asked himself all those years ago.

Are we shirking the penalty?

Be it to do with work, family, partners or footy – what are those tests we set and by attempting (the result is irrelevant) justify the identity we give unto ourselves?

North don’t take the easy road – but nor do they conform to the pathway others would have them take.

I’m sure others have experienced the same as I – venture beyond your bedroom and the popular wisdom of the fandom and punditry will, at some point or another makes itself known to you.

‘North are irrelevant!’ – they cry.

‘North are irrelevant!’ – they accuse.

Alas, their statement barely masks the insecurity inches below the surface.

What they mean to say is in fact slightly different:

‘North are supposed to be irrelevant!’

This is their real gripe. Their real accusation. Their real fear.

That we are not irrelevant makes some people angry and nervous. It’s the sort of class-consciousness we Australians like to pride ourselves on having left on the Portsmouth dockside, but within the moral safe-space of football parochialism we embrace with the fervour of our colonialist forebears.

It’s glorious. Glorious for me, because I lap it all up safe in the knowledge that behind the sneers and scoffs is the question: why is it that these peeps are so very, very bothered by the actions of a such a small, irrelevant club.

Not for me to say. I just smile.

Every day I’m proud to support North Melbourne. A club who can, without reserve, think of Napper and be content with the answer they give themselves.

Content that they are always willing to take the penalty.

For one last time this year…

Come on you Roo boys.