DozzyIs A Team Of Nobodies Really A Team? Part IV
May 21st 2009 07:51
Full Forwards
Adrian McAdam
I was there when McAdam kicked seven goals on debut against Richmond at the MCG. Forgetting the fact it was against the Tigers and he was probably picked up by Richard Lounder, it was the most brilliant display of doing absolutely nothing I’ve ever witnessed. I think me and my brother covered more ground walking to the toilet and back that night.
His outright refusal to do ANYTHING involving physical exertion was a sight to behold. Its hard enough go through your normal day avoiding effort - at some stage you’re gonna need to climb some stairs or open a fridge door - but to do it in the middle of a professional sporting contest…In front of 30,000 people…and kick seven! That’s an extraordinary effort…well, ‘effort’ may be a poor choice of words there. Whenever a pack formed, McAdam would simply jog in the other direction. When his man ran off down the ground, there was Adrian, staring intently at the finer detail of his boots.
Even as a young boy that performance left a lasting impression on me and it probably goes a long way to explaining the antipathy displayed by us members of Generation Y. Shit, if Adrian McAdam can kick seven on debut in an AFL game without disturbing his resting heart rate, why should I bother putting on a fresh load of washing? Endeavour is for suckers.
McAdam went on to kick 60-odd goals that year, pretty much doing the same thing…that is, interspersing short moments of sublime skill with long periods of inactivity where he seemed to be exhibiting all the signs of heavy sleep. Opposition teams then figured him out by taking the outrageous step of having another human stand next to him for four quarters.
In a final act of genius, he was traded to Collingwood but refused to turn up to training and went back to the Alice.
I last caught a glimpse of the great man in a documentary about an outback town…there he was, uncredited and in the background wearing a pair of North Melbourne tracksuit pants with NZI insurance emblazoned on the side, probably telling the story of how fucking easy it is in the big leagues. L.E.G.E.N.D.
Scott Hodges
If the stories coming out of the SANFL in the early nineties can be taken as gospel, Hodges was performing miracles on a weekly basis in the Port Adelaide goal square. According to the croweaters Mary Mackillop had nothing on this bloke. Mind you at the time they were still coming to terms with the concept of the Hyper-colour t-shirt, so it’s fair to say they were easily impressed. But either way, with his tremendous mullet and top-shit strut it seemed as though Hodges was a monty for big screen glory.
As it turned out Hodges was destined to go straight to video. In the Beta section alongside the collected works of Matthew Modine.
Scott Hodges was a B-movie star, the Brian Dennehey of the AFL – the type of talent that could never quite cut it in the big leagues. Make no mistake, no one has owned the midday movie more than Dennehey. Up against ‘Days of our Lives’ on channel nine, Dennehy could be seen over on seven regularly chewing up the scenery in the likes of ‘Shattered Dreams : Tonya Harding story’ or a biopic on John Wayne Bobbit. Sure, a couple of films that are ideal company when you’re going through that weird phase in your life when you’re eating a lot of cereal in your underpants and regularly having impure thoughts about Kerri-Anne Kennerly. But when you finally stop smoking brekkie bongs and come to your senses you realise that Brian Dennehey hasn’t been seen in a multiplex since he was chasing around that barely functioning retard, John Rambo. And probably for good reason.
The opportunities Hodges did get at the Crows (and there more than a few) he would take position in the goals square, preening himself in readiness for a performance worthy of the top billing. Meanwhile, Tony Modra, the real A-lister, was busy using the Hodges’ barnet as a step ladder and making his own way to Hollywood.
Simon Beasley
Has there been a more unlikely candidate for a) the hurly burly of the VFL and b) the hurly burly of H division?
Strutting his stuff in the Footscray forward line in the eighties, Beasley was quite the sight. Tall and thin and brittle, Beasley had the complexion of a sickly child from the middle ages. He looked likely to keel over at any moment from rickets or scurvy or the bubonic plague or a combination of all three. A tall drink of water, Beasley also had a melon-head of some impressive dimensions which seemed to be balding in front of our very eyes. The blonde wisps of hair that did remain were more of a thin mist and looked like individual strands of corn-flavoured candyfloss instead of actual follicles. Despite his impressive efforts for the Dogs (he kicked a bagfull of goals) it was almost impossible to shake the nagging feeling that Beasley was just a high school geography teacher who had wandered onto the field after taking a wrong turn in the search for the loo.
Beasley’s time after football has been even more intriguing, after making a mint as a heavyweight bookie, the man who looks as though he could solve algorithms in his sleep blamed poor bookeeping for some seriously dodgy accounts. There was a time when jail team seemed a real possibility. Considering Beasley is about as intimidating as Roland Roccacheli in rollerblades, sending him to the big house seemed farcical. Especially since the likes of Craig Hutchison get to wander the streets seemingly immune from prosecution.
Adrian McAdam
I was there when McAdam kicked seven goals on debut against Richmond at the MCG. Forgetting the fact it was against the Tigers and he was probably picked up by Richard Lounder, it was the most brilliant display of doing absolutely nothing I’ve ever witnessed. I think me and my brother covered more ground walking to the toilet and back that night.
His outright refusal to do ANYTHING involving physical exertion was a sight to behold. Its hard enough go through your normal day avoiding effort - at some stage you’re gonna need to climb some stairs or open a fridge door - but to do it in the middle of a professional sporting contest…In front of 30,000 people…and kick seven! That’s an extraordinary effort…well, ‘effort’ may be a poor choice of words there. Whenever a pack formed, McAdam would simply jog in the other direction. When his man ran off down the ground, there was Adrian, staring intently at the finer detail of his boots.
Adrian McAdam walking his dog
Even as a young boy that performance left a lasting impression on me and it probably goes a long way to explaining the antipathy displayed by us members of Generation Y. Shit, if Adrian McAdam can kick seven on debut in an AFL game without disturbing his resting heart rate, why should I bother putting on a fresh load of washing? Endeavour is for suckers.
McAdam went on to kick 60-odd goals that year, pretty much doing the same thing…that is, interspersing short moments of sublime skill with long periods of inactivity where he seemed to be exhibiting all the signs of heavy sleep. Opposition teams then figured him out by taking the outrageous step of having another human stand next to him for four quarters.
I last caught a glimpse of the great man in a documentary about an outback town…there he was, uncredited and in the background wearing a pair of North Melbourne tracksuit pants with NZI insurance emblazoned on the side, probably telling the story of how fucking easy it is in the big leagues. L.E.G.E.N.D.
Scott Hodges
If the stories coming out of the SANFL in the early nineties can be taken as gospel, Hodges was performing miracles on a weekly basis in the Port Adelaide goal square. According to the croweaters Mary Mackillop had nothing on this bloke. Mind you at the time they were still coming to terms with the concept of the Hyper-colour t-shirt, so it’s fair to say they were easily impressed. But either way, with his tremendous mullet and top-shit strut it seemed as though Hodges was a monty for big screen glory.
As it turned out Hodges was destined to go straight to video. In the Beta section alongside the collected works of Matthew Modine.
Scott Hodges was a B-movie star, the Brian Dennehey of the AFL – the type of talent that could never quite cut it in the big leagues. Make no mistake, no one has owned the midday movie more than Dennehey. Up against ‘Days of our Lives’ on channel nine, Dennehy could be seen over on seven regularly chewing up the scenery in the likes of ‘Shattered Dreams : Tonya Harding story’ or a biopic on John Wayne Bobbit. Sure, a couple of films that are ideal company when you’re going through that weird phase in your life when you’re eating a lot of cereal in your underpants and regularly having impure thoughts about Kerri-Anne Kennerly. But when you finally stop smoking brekkie bongs and come to your senses you realise that Brian Dennehey hasn’t been seen in a multiplex since he was chasing around that barely functioning retard, John Rambo. And probably for good reason.
Scott Hodges
The opportunities Hodges did get at the Crows (and there more than a few) he would take position in the goals square, preening himself in readiness for a performance worthy of the top billing. Meanwhile, Tony Modra, the real A-lister, was busy using the Hodges’ barnet as a step ladder and making his own way to Hollywood.
Simon Beasley
Has there been a more unlikely candidate for a) the hurly burly of the VFL and b) the hurly burly of H division?
Strutting his stuff in the Footscray forward line in the eighties, Beasley was quite the sight. Tall and thin and brittle, Beasley had the complexion of a sickly child from the middle ages. He looked likely to keel over at any moment from rickets or scurvy or the bubonic plague or a combination of all three. A tall drink of water, Beasley also had a melon-head of some impressive dimensions which seemed to be balding in front of our very eyes. The blonde wisps of hair that did remain were more of a thin mist and looked like individual strands of corn-flavoured candyfloss instead of actual follicles. Despite his impressive efforts for the Dogs (he kicked a bagfull of goals) it was almost impossible to shake the nagging feeling that Beasley was just a high school geography teacher who had wandered onto the field after taking a wrong turn in the search for the loo.
Beasley’s time after football has been even more intriguing, after making a mint as a heavyweight bookie, the man who looks as though he could solve algorithms in his sleep blamed poor bookeeping for some seriously dodgy accounts. There was a time when jail team seemed a real possibility. Considering Beasley is about as intimidating as Roland Roccacheli in rollerblades, sending him to the big house seemed farcical. Especially since the likes of Craig Hutchison get to wander the streets seemingly immune from prosecution.
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Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Comment by Anti Hutch
Someone needs to Chk Chk Boom Hutchy.
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power