



The fifth quarter: much asked, little given


Chief sports columnist and associate editor with The Age

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Illustration: Jim Pavlidis

Illustration: Jim Pavlidis

The post-match presser begins.

Reporter: So, coach, what did you make of tonight?

Coach: What? What do you mean, 'make'? Don't worry: I know what you're trying to say. For your information, I didn't "make" anything of tonight. It's not my job to 'make'. (Shuffles stats sheets, lets glasses fall meaningfully to end of his nose) I coach, or try to. I pick teams, make moves, teach ... 

Second reporter (sotto voce): Lose your temper, bang the desk, pull horrified faces ... 

Coach: Sorry? Couldn't hear you. What was that? (Cops kick in shins from media officer, and looks down at media officer's notes scrawled on the back of the stats sheets) Look, it's a game of passions, you know (takes deep breath).

(Long silence).

Reporter: Well, um, what, um ...

Coach (interjecting): Where are you from?

Reporter (nonplussed): Gardenvale.

Coach: No, who do you work for? What paper?

Reporter (a little flustered): Billy's Blog.

Coach: Billy's Blog. Bill-ly's Blo-og. Well, Billy's Blog, you tell your editor ... 

Reporter (cutting in reflexively): Producer.

Coach: What?

Reporter: It's producer. We don't have editors, we have a producer.

Coach: Producer, eh? Well, how many games did your pro-duc-er play, eh? Hmmm? Hmmm? (catches media officer's glare, which says without saying, "we don't say those things any more". Stops. Runs hands down sleeves, as if to calm himself).

(Another long silence)

Coach (scans room): That it? (makes to get up from his seat).

Reporter (hesitantly): Um, about tonight (coach resumes seat). You did lose. By 15 goals. To St Kilda ... 

Coach (pointedly not looking at reporter): That a question?

Reporter (in a shaky voice, but undeterred): Without Riewoldt ...

Coach (still not looking at reporter): Do you even know anything about the ... (media officer nudges him again, as if to say: "We don't say that, either.")

Reporter (conscious of all eyes on him): Look, I'm just trying to do my job.

Coach (amused, now turning to look at reporter): And what is your job, exactly, Billy Bloggs?

Reporter: Well, to write about the game ... to ask you some questions about what happened in the game ... to try and get a bit of, you know, insight ... to, um ... 

Coach (ignoring media officer's kick in the shins): And why do you think I would tell YOU what I think? Why would I want to tell Bloggy's Bill anything? Hmmm? Hmmm?

Reporter: Not me. Readers. Watchers. Supporters. Your supporters. They deserve an answer ... don't they?

Coach (pushing his glasses back up his nose, warming to the theme now): Let me make one thing very clear. Very, very clear. I don't answer to you, or anyone in this room, or any room. I answer to the board of this football club. And my family. My answer is what we do out on the ground, not what I do in the me-di-yah. I only come in here because I'm told I have to. (Now in a mocking voice): 'I'm just trying to do my job.' Well, that's MY job.

Let me tell you another thing, (raises his index finger) you want to know what happened tonight? I don't know. I'm still trying to work it out. But when I do know, you'll be the last to know. Why would I tell you, tell Bliggy's Brog, tell the media, tell every other f... coach in this town (media officer throws up his hands). Hmmm?

(Coach jumps up, turns on his heels and marches towards the door, pauses, looks back over his shoulder, snorts, voice becomes muffled). Complete waste of time. Billy's flog, if you ask me.

Media officer (exasperatedly, following him out): "He's a bit on edge. Bad week. You won't write that, will you?"

(Long silence)

TV director (faint, metallic voice, heard through an earpiece left lying in auditorium): That was fantastic. That'll rate its socks off. Better than the game. Gotta get it packaged up now for the show tomorrow morning. I can see it now: 'The fifth quarter. Leaves the other four for dead'.

I just love this game.

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