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Shane Malone - Eureka Street

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Round Fourteen, Third Quarter<br />

The concentration has gone by now; the Magpies ten goals down,<br />

And only the seagulls seem to know how to pick up the crumbs. It's unpleasurable,<br />

The manic speed of these business men in striped guernseys,<br />

The scoreboard like Super Mario Bros, even umpires with numbers on their backs.<br />

It's all so different, makes me want to take a good hard look at myself.<br />

The gaze moves to the somnolent 'teeth of goal', and that man.<br />

No slave to fashion, he wears the regulation white hat of the fifties,<br />

The white dustcoat of the company foreman or Nobel-winning scientist.<br />

Making sure the posts are not shifted behind the play<br />

He keeps jotting into the little black book with efficient aplomb<br />

All the barbaric point-scoring going on at the other end.<br />

Could he be the centre of meaning in a world gone made with amalgamations<br />

The one resolute unchanging fixture stands there between the goalposts,<br />

Ready to lean his head back during the thrilling trajectory, pause<br />

In a way to make Stanislavsky proud, then lift the two fingers.<br />

In a better world Collingwood revives in the final quarter, the spiral torpedo<br />

On the bell sealing it, and you wouldn't want to be dead for quids.<br />

Philip Harvey

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