MARK NEELD: CLASS ACT

IF there’s one thing tougher than being an AFL coach, it’s being a first year AFL coach.

Brenton Sanderson was the only one of the debutantes to get the points in the opening round; McCartney, Buckley and Watters all yet to open their accounts. Watters can perhaps be considered unlucky, the others soundly beaten by their opposition.

But perhaps the toughest debut was had by new Melbourne coach Mark Neeld.

Put to the sword by the Brisbane Lions, Neeld then had to suffer the ignominy of the rumour mill suggesting that he was racist, in that upon being appointed the Demons new coach, he briefed Melbourne’s indigenous players en-masse, but spoke one-on-one with the non-indigenous players.

When questioned about this on the outstanding Fox Footy program ‘On The Couch’, Neeld performed brilliantly.

He categorically denied the rumours – and not in the beige-cardigan, club-media-unit-carefully-worded-solicitor-prepared-statement either; Neeld looked Mike Sheahan directly in the eye and refuted the allegations in plain, direct language.

Neeld told of the hurt these rumours had inflicted on his family and that he would be directing the matter to the AFL for investigation.

It has since been disclosed that the source of the rumours was in fact the AFL’s Community Engagement Officer, Jason Mifsud.

Rightly, Mifsud offered his resignation. Not content with the public humiliation and summary dismissal of former Adelaide Crows recruiter Matt Rendell, Mifsud then leaked the Melbourne story to his former St Kilda mentor, Grant Thomas.

Mifsud failed dismally in his role. As opposed to staying within his brief, approaching Neeld directly and working through the issues as he had been briefed on them behind closed doors Mifsud again took the name and shame option – the easy way out – only this time to catastrophic effect.

The fact that the AFL refused to accept his resignation is astounding.

To his credit, what could have been a disastrous week for Mark Neeld has become a week that has demonstrated the quality of the man now in charge of the Dees. He has displayed resolve, determination, belief in himself and what he’s trying to achieve.

He strikes me as the kind of guy you don’t want to cop a spray from; both barrels is perhaps just his warm-up. His post-match presser on Saturday afternoon demonstrated that Neeld is prepared to go hard on his playing group and seemingly unafraid of tarnishing reputations or questioning his players’ commitment.

Neeld appears to be the kind of coach needed, not just at Melbourne, but at a number of clubs yearning for success. His motto seems to be ‘perform to instruction or face the consequences’ as opposed to coddling and trying to placate ‘Gen Y’ers’ who question ‘why they should’ as opposed to ‘why they will’.

Mark Neeld is simply a class act. If, as has been suggested, he may be on his way to losing the playing group (which the club denies) then it says more about the hunger for success of the current playing list than the coach’s methods.

Were I an AFL player, Mark Neeld is one coach I would certainly leave nothing on the ground for. I would relish the opportunity to journey to success with a man of his attitude.

And shame on Melbourne if they continue to underperform for Neeld in coming weeks as they did on Saturday.

@SirSuaveStevieB

@NeeldMFC

I’M STILL HERE

Apologies people…

New stuff coming soon.

 

FIRE IN BABYLON – DVD Review

Directed and Written by: Stevan Riley

Produced by: Charles Steel and John Battsek

Stars: Sir Vivian Richards, Bunny Wailer, Michael Holding, Colin Croft, Frank I, Andy Roberts and Gordon Greenidge

Running time: 83mins

The Four Horsemen: arguably cricket's mot feared pace attack

They were the most feared, the most successful, and the most admired sports team of the late 1970’s the 80’s and the 90’s. For close to twenty years, the West Indian cricket team laid waste to every opposition it faced – Australia, England and every other cricketing nation.

They had it all: the perfect sporting storm of God-given talent (Greenidge, Haynes, Garner), killer instinct (Holding, Roberts, Croft), the brazen swagger possessed only by bona-fide champions (Richards) and an unrelenting desire to not just beat their opponents as much as systematically dismantle – and humiliate if necessary – every opposition they faced.

Set amongst the backdrop of the post-civil rights “black is beautiful” seventies, Fire In Babylon explores the intrinsic link between the growth of Rasta consciousness and black pride that fuelled the transformation of West Indian cricket from its happy-go-lucky, benign ‘Calypso cricket’ caricature, to the unstoppable force that was the Windies under Clive Lloyd’s leadership.

The documentary includes in-depth and truly revealing interviews with the key players of the day; Sir Vivian Richards and Michael Holding, Gordon Greenidge and Andy Roberts all brutally honest and candid in their disclosures.

Fire In Babylon also deftly fuses the on-field insights of the players with the social context provided by Bunny Wailer, Frank I and historian, Professor Hilary Beckles. Director Stevan Riley also cleverly utilises local music acts Lord Short Shirt (who’s blue suede shoes are pure artistry), Tapper Zukie and others to underline the social context provided by I, Wailer and Beckles

While a great watch, at times Fire In Babylon lacks a linear narrative and could do with some kind of sign posting – for example, the growth in the players dissatisfaction with their contracts and how this motivated Colin Croft to tour South Africa. The use of newspaper headlines is clever, but for me, fails to genuinely highlight the transformation aspect in the storyline and the rise of the team as a cricket power  (Fire In Babylon completely ignores the Windies 1975 World Cup win over Australia, save for out of context archival film of Clive Lloyd being presented with the tournament trophy).

Perhaps due to budget constraints, or perhaps editorial cohesion, Fire In Babylon would have been well served by interviews with those who felt the full force of the West Indian attack at its peak; Tony Grieg, Dennis Lillee, Greg Chappell, Ian Botham or Mike Gatting to name but a few. And a nice concluding touch (although somewhat cliche move)  would possibly have been footnoting the players post cricket lives. (“Clive Lloyd retired in 1985 and went on to become an ICC match referee…”)

All that aside, Fire In Babylon is an outstanding piece of documentary making. It is informative, entertaining and accurately reflects the story it is attempting to tell. Fire In Babylon is an essential addition to the cricket fan’s library, but is also essential viewing for those with an interest the inescapable link between sport, politics and social change.

Fire In Babylon is available through Madman distribution.

LIVERPOOL TILL I DIE

It is the non-handshake that shook the world.

The first meeting between Patrice Evra of Manchester United and Luis Suarez of Liverpool since the latter’s eight-match ban for racially abusing the Senegalese-born, French raised international degenerated into a grudge-match for the stupid and juvenile failure of the Uruguyan to shake Evra’s hand in the pre-match formalities.

As expected these days, the twitter-verse exploded into howls of condemnation from Red Devils fans, and inexcusable, pathetic defences of Suarez’s actions from Liverpool die-hards.

If Suarez’s on-pitch antics were a disgrace, then some Manchester United fans hardly covered themselves in glory with some truly appalling tweets with regards to what should happen to Luis. Some perspective: he didn’t shake his hand. He did not shoot Bambi. He did not shoot anyone.

I am – for the record – a Liverpool supporter. This column is not in any way a defence of Luis Suarez. His actions brought the game into disrepute and it is odds-on that the FA will have its say on the matter as the week progresses.

Short of the famed Rangers V Celtic rivalry, there is no fiercer and bitter hatred of an opposition than that of Manchester United and Liverpool. Granted; to pull such a move at Old Trafford is, in one sense, ballsy. But what was a match to propel United to the top of the English Premier League table, or to see Liverpool back into the top four became a grudge match the likes of which I doubt I’ll ever see again.

If you think that the players weren’t affected by the Old Trafford masses baying for Merseyside blood (with the exception of Wayne Rooney, natch) you’re either deaf or stupid. Clubs with the quality of the present Manchester City line-up, or perhaps – in a Champions League tie setting – Barcelona can pull the tiger’s tail. Suarez’s actions wrote a check that this Liverpool squad couldn’t possibly hope to cash. In a sense it was game over before the whistle to start the game had even been blown.

In the bigger picture, it appears – judging from a raft of public post match comments by other black EPL players, Suarez’s hand will be shunned when it is offered in pre-game formalities as a statement against racism. Accordingly, Suarez’s position at Anfield and in the EPL as a whole is fast becoming untenable.

Liverpool players now have to cope with the added incentive for opposition teams to lay waste to the Uruguayan on the field, and as their team-mate, they will be asked to stand by him – as Martin Skrtel will testify to.

It remains to be seen how Liverpool FC deal with Saturday’s events. So far, the club has gone off the reservation – attempting to instigate an unjustifiable ‘victim’ mentality (based on Manager Dalgleish’s post match antics). Accordingly, the club needs to answer a number of questions in the aftermath of the game.

Was Suarez’s snub of Evra a pre-mediated move? If not, the club must force Suarez to apologise publicly. Today would be the appropriate time to see that happen. If it was done with the knowledge of management and staff, those who ‘signed off’ must resign now.

The other side of this is the off-field fall out. Extreme elements of The Kop and the willingness of Kenny Dalgleish to stand by Suarez no matter what, are fast tarring the more moderate of Liverpool supporters with a brush I resent: that of a racist.

Suarez was found guilty, did 8 weeks on the sidelines, and the original incident was – for all intents and purposes – over. Needlessly, we’re back to a he-said-he-said pissing contest that no one will win because of a petulant act that appears to have been indulged by his boss.

No one at Liverpool wins.

AUSTRALIAN OPEN: PRIDE AND PREJUDICE?

I try as hard as possible not to take life too seriously. I try – as much as possible – to live and let live and by extension work hard at tolerating a range of beliefs and attitudes that stand in direct contravention to mine.  Without getting into an Aaron Sorkin style soliloquy, this is but one challenge that comes with the notion of free speech in a democracy.

I found the following tweet in my timeline this morning. It had been re-tweeted by someone I follow. The text was:

“To the Aussies in the crowd screaming “You’re shit Hewitt”, get the fuck out of my country!” The author of the tweet – whom I’ll call JP – had the support of the retweeter: my man posting a reply in endorsement of JP’s thoughts, which was posted during Hewitt’s singles match against Andy Roddick last night.

JP is welcome to say or tweet whatever he likes, that’s what twitter and free speech is about. The tweet, however, highlights – what seems to me, anyway – to be an ever-increasing part of the zeitgeist during the two weeks of the Australian Open. Or, to be more succinct, the prevalent zeitgeist until the last Australian singles player is eliminated from the tournament.

Am I alone in thinking for some reason, rampant Nationalism and jingoism has seemed to unleash itself with increased fervour at each tournament over the last decade or so?

Returning to the tweet,  “JP” believes that voicing your opposition of Australia’s favourite tennis son since Pat Rafter from the stands constitutes grounds for deportation; that if you aren’t 100 per-cent in support of Lleyton Hewitt, you are therefore, that most intangible, cowardly and totalitarian of slurs: un-Australian.

I’ve shown the post to a few people today to make sure I haven’t misinterpreted the intention of the tweet. Was JP saying using obscenities at the Tennis was poor form?  Was JP ashamed that such behaviour would wrongly paint Australian tennis crowds as boorish and obnoxious? As I suspected, there was agreement that if JP were disappointed at the crowd behaviour, surely “get the fuck out of Rod Laver Arena” would have been used.

All this would be fine up to a point, except for the fact that players on the ATP and WTA tour are playing for themselves, not their country. When they win, their prize money goes into their own bank account. Not yours and not mine. Players take to the court in their own right, as individuals, not as flag-bearers for their country. They do this in Davis Cup. Not at Grand Slams

Cliches like “Carrying the hopes of their country” shifts a few extra newspapers and perhaps generates a few extra ratings points, but I’d be surprised that when Roger Federer or Rafa Nadal suit up at Wimbledon for the Men’s Singles Final, or for that matter Serena or Venus in past U.S Open finals, that they give a moment’s thought – if any – to the “hopes of their country” as they take to the court.

I suspect that I’m in the minority on this and that’s fine. Support your favourite players, by all means, but to infer that by not being wholeheartedly behind Lleyton Hewitt (or, judging by the front and back pages of the Herald-Sun in Melbourne in the last few days, Bernard Tomic) that you are no longer welcome in this country is laughable at best, frightening at worst.

And for those about to suggest I should stick my latte up my arse, feel free to replace Australia with Cypress, Serbia or perhaps even Scotland where I talk about rampant nationalism at the Tennis.

Australia’s not alone in this, but we’re certainly staking a claim for race favourite.

INTESTINAL APOCALYPSE NOW!

25/11/11 – Friday

Perhaps the Gods have frowned upon my hedonistic holiday lifestyle, but Bali Belly has hit Big Boss in the late stages of the trip. There’s no cramping or serious repercussions, just the knowledge that straying from the smallest room in the house may not be the wisest of moves. Or it could be an internal, subconscious resistance against a trip into Kuta planned later that day.

Ms Emma has a job interview this morning. She’s been up early preparing in order to avoid holiday brain (forgetting knucklehead everyday stuff) in order to avoid screwing the interview pooch. Being yet another scorching hot morning, I availed myself of the pool while Ms Emma is being interviewed. I’m at one end of the pool reading my book, with my coffee perched on the edge of the deck. It is relaxing and although I’m not totally into the book (‘Hardboiled Wonderland and the End Of the World’ by Haruki Murakami) it is a great waste of a morning Ms Emma later tells me that while the interview was underway, she watched a giant lizard enjoying a cooling dip the pool (Komodo dragon size, but not actually a Komodo). Unable to excuse herself from the phone conversation, she claims to have been watching in amazement that I seemed oblivious to the fact of this fucker’s presence. In her telling of the incident, Ms Emma says that the lizard swam around in the water, came up close behind me, then spun around from whence it came, scampered out of the water and into the garden. As long as my arse points to the ground, I can honestly say I had no idea of a presence on the pool nor did I hear anything at all. Hmph!

This afternoon is a trip to the dark side. Centro shopping mall in Kuta; my ‘Apocalypse Now!’ moment. To paraphrase Martin Sheen’s ‘Captain Willard’ thus: “I was going to the worst place in the world and I didn’t even know it yet. A couple of miles up Jalan Bakung Sari that snaked through Bali like a main circuit cable that plugged straight into Kuta.”

Ms Emma goes underwear shopping (functional, everyday stuff, not kinky and playful shit. Relax lads). My Bali belly kicks in and I double-time it to the latrines. I give their shitters maybe two out of ten. Not for the faint-hearted, but I am grateful there’s even a toilet to help me in my time of need.

Kuta itself – while slightly like Kurtz’s compound sans a tripped-out Dennis Hopper greeting you and imploring you to shock the locals with your siren – isn’t necessarily a bad place. It’s the fuckheads who inhabit it that I can’t handle. The place is littered with schoolies and white trash. And yes, they are mutually exclusive terms in this instance. The schoolies are a mix of Bieber haircuts, LA Lakers and Bintang singlets, ill-fitting and unflattering bikinis and preposterously bad fake-tans. The white trash are obnoxious dirtbags with mullets, bad tattoo’s and offspring for whom hard-working people like you and I, dear reader, shall spend our lives paying for, as they opt out of working for a living and spending the rest of their lives watching both daytime television and car bodies rust on their front lawns. If my thoughts here make me an elitist, then sue me.

We spend that evening catching up with an ex-pat friend of Ms Emma’s who we’ll call Marion. Marion is very well-connected to a number of businesses and, mainly due to our KuDeTa disappointment, recommends a few contacts to us for wedding costings.

The night is warm, fragrant and relaxing and the drinks are plentiful. We spend out final night in Bali sleeping in the knowledge that we’re both ready to return home to the ‘real world’.

MS EMMA & BIG BOSS Pt 14

24/11/11 – Thursday

A lazy day… again. Apologies to all those stuck at work.

Miss Emma gets another in room massage before we head out to Seminyak for some shopping and a general look around. It is once more a hot day, but not as brutally hot as recent days.

Shopping in Seminyak is interesting to say the least. It’s almost entirely a mix of designer boutiques with the odd Quicksilver and Hurley chain thrown in. Unless you’re on the chubby side, if you can’t find clothes you like in Seminyak, you’re a hard person to please.

The sales staff here are also an interesting study. This level of outlet in Melbourne usually employs the kind of people who make you feel that simply walking into their store is an impost and they sigh that typical Gen-Y ‘whatever’ when you have the temerity to ask them a question, thus disrupting them Facebooking or tweeting how like, totally boring their day is. In contrast, most of the stores in Seminyak greet customers with a friendly hello and then ignore you. In a good way, of course. We spend the bulk of the afternoon wandering Jalan Laksmana in a really lackadaisical fashion. Ms Emma treats herself to some yoga wear and – her most prized purchase on the holiday – a kimono that she’s been trying to track down for a few visits.

Ganesh Altar, thoughtfully placed poolside, Cafe Bali, Seminyak.

We rest at one of Ms Emma’s favorite stops: Café Bali. After we both avail ourselves of the facilities – which are impeccable, I must say, we sit and admire the décor, as well as take some pics of the coolest Ganesh altar I think I’ve seen. We head back to the villa and as with our shopping trip in Legian Rd, it’s only on reflection during a taxi ride into Kuta the next day that we realise how far we walked. Impressive, in my mind, given the heat and general conditions that we did it in.

Dinner that night is at Sardine in Kerobokan. And no, we didn’t say hello to Schapelle. Sardine is an amazing seafood-inspired restaurant set in an awesome expanse of rice paddies; the owners keen not to disrupt the balance between local self-sufficiency and maintain some authenticity. Many people in Bali are saddened that much of the development that takes place on the island – resort accommodation, villas, new eateries etc, often comes at the cost at reducing arable land that local farmers used to rely on for an income. Bookings here are essential, like most of the best restaurants in Seminyak and Kerobokan. The entrance takes you to a bar where you wait to be seated at your table and you can watch a pool of Albino fish swimming lazily around.

Truffle Ravioli & Seared Diver Scallops, Sardine-style

Like Sarong, the meals here cost only a fraction of what they would in Australia and there’s no concession at all to quality. By Bali standards, though, it’s still a pretty penny, but who’s complaining when you shell out around $A100 for a meal that would easily cost you $A200 at home. Ms Emma enjoys a Barramundi fillet and I have the (ahem) truffle ravioli with seared Diver-retrieved scallops (if you don’t mind). It is the finest meal I’ve ever had. Even better, the owners do the rounds of the floor chatting with diners, asking how they enjoyed their meals and spreading general bonhomie – something I always like at a restaurant. It’s a ballsy move to place yourself in that situation; you’ll either get hammered about the smallest of issues or simple thank-you. It shows that a place backs their chef and the menu and are serious about making sure you enjoy your time at their establishment.

We adjourn from the table and have a coffee on one of the lounges where the rice paddy fields start. The evening breeze is cooling and relaxing at once. We enjoy a coffee and discuss more wedding thoughts before hitting bed.