DozzyClark Keating Was The Missing Link
November 7th 2008 03:22
It’s become pretty obvious over the last few weeks to friends and family that I have a serious man-crush on V.V.S Laxman. And it’s not only because of his awesome name. It’s mainly due to the fact that he refuses to perform against anyone except the best team in the world. He is the epitome of a clutch performer. His average is ten runs better against us than any other nation and that incudes Bangladesh and that feckless crew of incompetent cast-offs otherwise known as the English cricket team.
He reminds me a lot of another man with a ridiculous name, Clark Keating. Not in any physical sense of course. Clark’s similarity to Carlos Tevez is no coincidence, he was a caveman.
Leigh Matthews used to bring Clark out of hibernation around the beginning of September. No one knew where he’d been for the regular season, presumably he’d spent it clubbing things and generally freaking out about fire.
With his long, stringy hair and gruff exterior Clark was built like a battle axe and looked like the missing link. As the prototype of early man Clark had little time for the subtleties of professional sport, nor modern life for that matter. Clark was known for his monosyllabic instructions to his teammates. During the annual celebration that was a Lion’s premiership all Clark could be heard asking for was the hindquarters of a bovine and twelve virgins and most of that was done by semaphore and crude cave drawings.
But shit was he effective. He boiled ruckwork down to its simplest essence i.e hit the ball as far forward as you can. And in Grand Finals amongst all the hubbub of ‘tempo football’ and ‘gut running’ the most important thing to do is get the thing going your way.
Malcolm Blight surprised himself in 1997 by selecting the most unlikely of big-game performers. Surprised not because he didn’t think Shane Ellen would perform on the big stage but surprised because he, like the rest of us, didn’t know who Shane Ellen was. Blighty remembered the face, but it was more like a face you remember from a strange dream you once had after eating too much cheese. But sure enough, there he was, this vaguely familiar construction of Blighty’s subconscious, bobbing up to kick five goals on the last Saturday in September.
A player who genuinely existed was Glenn Freeborn. He had supporters of both sides scratching their heads when he banged in three quick goals in 96’ not because they didn’t know who he was, but because they didn’t think he was any good.
But reputations are made and lost in the heat of battle on the biggest stage. The main reason why VVS and his crew have been having their way with us on a wearing pitch on the fifth day is because the podgy bottle blonde from Blackrock is busy playing poker. Speaking of clutch performers…whether it was the final over of the day or the last drinks bell at the local, Warnie - The Master – could always be counted on to get one to fizz out of the footmarks. He is greatly missed.
He reminds me a lot of another man with a ridiculous name, Clark Keating. Not in any physical sense of course. Clark’s similarity to Carlos Tevez is no coincidence, he was a caveman.
Carlos Tevez
Leigh Matthews used to bring Clark out of hibernation around the beginning of September. No one knew where he’d been for the regular season, presumably he’d spent it clubbing things and generally freaking out about fire.
With his long, stringy hair and gruff exterior Clark was built like a battle axe and looked like the missing link. As the prototype of early man Clark had little time for the subtleties of professional sport, nor modern life for that matter. Clark was known for his monosyllabic instructions to his teammates. During the annual celebration that was a Lion’s premiership all Clark could be heard asking for was the hindquarters of a bovine and twelve virgins and most of that was done by semaphore and crude cave drawings.
Clark Keating
But shit was he effective. He boiled ruckwork down to its simplest essence i.e hit the ball as far forward as you can. And in Grand Finals amongst all the hubbub of ‘tempo football’ and ‘gut running’ the most important thing to do is get the thing going your way.
Malcolm Blight surprised himself in 1997 by selecting the most unlikely of big-game performers. Surprised not because he didn’t think Shane Ellen would perform on the big stage but surprised because he, like the rest of us, didn’t know who Shane Ellen was. Blighty remembered the face, but it was more like a face you remember from a strange dream you once had after eating too much cheese. But sure enough, there he was, this vaguely familiar construction of Blighty’s subconscious, bobbing up to kick five goals on the last Saturday in September.
Shane Ellen
A player who genuinely existed was Glenn Freeborn. He had supporters of both sides scratching their heads when he banged in three quick goals in 96’ not because they didn’t know who he was, but because they didn’t think he was any good.
But reputations are made and lost in the heat of battle on the biggest stage. The main reason why VVS and his crew have been having their way with us on a wearing pitch on the fifth day is because the podgy bottle blonde from Blackrock is busy playing poker. Speaking of clutch performers…whether it was the final over of the day or the last drinks bell at the local, Warnie - The Master – could always be counted on to get one to fizz out of the footmarks. He is greatly missed.
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