



Pies win, lose, win and draw again


Greg Baum

Magpie Scott Pendlebury takes possession over Clinton Jones.

Magpie Scott Pendlebury takes possession over Clinton Jones. Photo: Pat Scala

WIN, lose or draw, Collingwood does grand finals hard. It might as well be written into the club's motto beneath ''Floreat Pica''. The premiership wasn't, isn't and seemingly never will be, a cakewalk.

This Collingwood grand final channelled so many others. There was 1966, against the same opponent, when Barry Breen's wobbly behind beat them. Yesterday, Lenny Hayes's wobbly point denied them. There was 1970 when they led Carlton by six goals at half-time and didn't win. Yesterday, they led the Saints by four goals at half-time, but they did not win.

There was 1977, playing North Melbourne, when they won it, lost it, but in the end neither won nor lost it. The Magpies won this one, lost it, won it back, but came away with no spoils. In 1977, Twiggy Dunne's pack mark saved them. Yesterday, Nick Maxwell's pack mark saved them. You might even draw a parallel with 2002, Collingwood's last grand final, when it led Brisbane midway through the last quarter of the finals, but lost. Yesterday, ditto. The Magpies have now played in 13 grand finals since 1958, and won one.

At the sounding of the fateful final siren, unable to laugh or cry, most players showed no emotion at all. Many sprawled on their backs, limbs splayed like beached starfish. At length, they did not so much gather themselves up, as congeal. In the rooms - which weren't their rooms - their faces were blank, their hearts empty, their legs heavy. All those organs and limbs and adjectives are interchangeable.

Dane Swan said he felt ''nothing'', ''weird''. Leigh Brown said the feeling was ''surreal''. Dale Thomas said he was disappointed, but was the first to glimpse a silver lining: at least the Magpies had qualified for another grand final, he said. An hour after the siren, most were still in their guernseys, as if they were already kitting themselves mentally for next week. But Swan admitted that the reloading would be hard.

Collingwood looked to have put the grand final together the way it put the season together, piece by piece, until its position was impregnable. Its football was like the pre-match ceremonies, eschewing flourish, pared back to fundamentals. Swan won the first clearance of the match, leading to the first goal 20 seconds later. Ben Reid was flattened but got up. Thomas kicked a 55-metre goal from the boundary line with a torpedo. The Magpies had bolted.

In the second quarter, Collingwood was dominant. Nine shots to one fairly reflected the balance and flow of play. Nick Riewoldt was not a factor because the ball rarely came near him. Nearing half-time, Travis Cloke twice missed straightforward shots. It seemed no more than irritation then.

The tally of behinds continued to grow. Nearing three-quarter time, Thomas and Jarryd Blair missed. Kicking at goal has been the Magpies' Achilles heel all year, and now they were limping on it. All the momentum was with the Saints.

In a breathless, deathless last quarter, Collingwood first fortified its lead, then surrendered it, then reclaimed it when Chris Dawes, sitting on his backside in the goal square, searched out Cloke with a handball. Then Hayes's hither-and-thither snapshot looked momentarily as if it might fall propitiously into the arms of Stephen Milne. Instead, it dribbled through for a behind.

The siren was a pin to a balloon. No one knew what to do or where to look. It was the same in the stands; all were rooted to their spots. Considering the deadweight of history brought to this encounter by both sides, all were prepared for some sort of wrench at the end, but not this stalemate.

The speeches were short and perfunctory. Few players exchanged handshakes; there was nothing to shake on yet. The two gatherings on the field were like two encampments, done with the battle, but not with the war.

McKenna, an American band, was scheduled to play a song called Last Man Standing, but could not, because two were still standing - just. This had been a titanic contest, but that was beside the point, or technically, beside the behind. The Magpies hadn't lost, but they hadn't won. Again.

Collingwood's unofficial mantra these past 50 years has been that there was always next year. But first there is next week. When the sun comes up this morning, and Magpie heads are clear, they might dare look forward to both thresholds. This team is young - seven of yesterday's 22 have played 50 games or fewer - and it will still be young next week and next year. By next week, Blair, for instance, will have played 12 games for two grand finals, Reid 28 games for two grand finals. That is experience not even Collingwood's money can buy.

Youth is indomitable. Youth recovers quickly. Youth cannot wait for next week to come. Youth was Sharrod Wellingham, trudging purposely across the MCG an hour after the final siren, guernsey still on, making for the Westpac Centre, a recovery session and the start of another grand final week. Shortly afterwards, a shower of rain washed over the MCG as if to cleanse it. A fresh start.

The grand final is over; let the grand final begin.

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