AFL / John Harms / 17 June 2010 / Leave a comment Bet Now

John Harms escapes from the wilds of Canberra to watch his beloved Cats romp home in style against a promising young Essendon side, and remembers how much he loves Melbourne.

When I was a kid in Queensland, we only got to the footy in Melbourne on the rare occasions of a family holiday.

We always went with great expectation. I never saw Geelong win. It was, after all, the (second decade of the) wilderness years: the 70s, a period that built a solid foundation of brilliant brittleness for the years to come.

We were trounced by Richmond, perhaps in `77. Another year, Melbourne's Greg Wells carved us up on a freezing afternoon at the 'G, and, despite a last-quarter comeback, we lost that one too.

Being there was enough.

We built on that foundation, adding two more decades of even more brilliant brittleness such that we at Geelong had a culture of profound self-doubt.

But as the World Cup in South Africa was in the process of showing, even the most entrenched culture - political, social, sporting - can change.

It's hard to convince the good folk of Melbourne what a privilege they enjoy to see their team most weeks; a privilege I had for seven seasons while living there myself.

Now, I live in Canberra, in semi-exile. Although Foxtel and the internet help, there's something elementally different about listening to the Ox and Francis on SEN while sitting in your Canberra study.

I went to my first Geelong game of the season on Saturday night. Hard to believe it's Round 12. I started at the Spencer Hotel, having a chicken schnitzel (and hence a rare parma-free football experience) and a couple of beers with Vin (the tractor man) and Trev (the film producer), both sports nuts and Bomber fans who've had the smugness knocked out of them over the past decade.

Vin had been to Flemington and wasn't crowing about it, so I assume he took a hammering.

I felt a bit '1977' as I stood there, still boyish about actually being at the footy. But I also felt very '2010'. I really expected Geelong to put on a show, and to win. Cultures really do change.

As the umpy's bounce heads roof-ward, we haven't blown the froth off the ale before Jetta slaps the footy back to Jetta who kicks the opening goal.

Interesting.

The Cats have a few out: Mooney, Hawkins, Scarlett, Ottens, Corey.

This could be the danger game the talk had suggested.

The Cats pounce immediately and, with their prey at paw's length, start to play. Varcoe, an improver since returning from early-season injury, lights up the forward line. Fast and powerful, a mean tackler and a deft creator, he doesn't have a lot of touches. But those he has are telling, in the way they were for the early-career G. Ablett junior. By contrast, now the champion, Ablett has a dozen touches in the opening minutes, and, along with Selwood and Kelly, provides goals for the new forward line, which functions so smoothly it's like Podsiadly has led them for a generation.

Podsiadly, much-loved already, is remarkable.

He times his leads: it's hard to beat well-timed acceleration.

He can take a mark.

He has good recovery.

He has clean skills.

And a true boot.

In what is a scintillating opening quarter of footy from both sides, Varcoe bags two (and a third minutes after lemons) and lights up the game. You just can't help but notice him.

Al (the wit) joins us, and finds good material in Stanton ("Are you captain of your own Dreamteam this week Stanton?"), Watson and sundry others ("Keep your feet"). He has Bomber-expectation in his veins and he is worried this will turn into a blow-out.

So are his mates.

They needn't be.

During the second quarter, the Bombers are more than competitive. Having fought their way back into the game, they take it up to the Cats. Ryder times his leaps and takes some beautiful marks. Watson breaks clear. With the score just seven points the difference, Gumbleton leads and marks, but shows he is a genuinely unlucky footballer when Mark Blake denies him on the goal-line with a grab that surprises the entire stadium.

The Bombers make other opportunities for themselves. Gumbleton snaps: point. Davey hits the post. Varcoe creates a ripper goal for Stokes. Hurley replies. And when the Bombers win the centre bounce and Gumbleton's quick lead is honoured, he can put his side in front. He misses the lot. The boys groan a groan that is remarkably like an early-millennium Geelong groan.

Cats fans might be a little anxious, but there is a sense that the Cats are cruising, and as Trev keeps reminding us will, "flick the switch at any second."

He's obviously watched footy for a long time.

The Cats dominate the dying minutes of the first half to lead by three goals. And then pour it on after the break. By the 20 -minute mark of the quarter, the Cats have kicked half a dozen goals to a single point.

Game over.

The Cats are so skilful, and versatile. Bartel plays up forward. Kelly does the tough stuff and doesn't waste a possession. Byrnes roams for a while. Podsiadly plays the stay-at-home full forward role, but will lead like Vander to the wing when it's required. Johnno is just Johnno. Varcoe winds up with five goals and is unlucky not to be in the votes.

The Bombers play like a young side. Their coach allows them to play a traditional structure but knows they are not quite ready to rely on it. He wants to but he can't. If he leaves them man-on-man around the ground, they'll lose by 20 goals against the tough bodies and tremendous skills of the Cats.

So he calls them back into defence in a zonal-floody-looking thing that renders them impotent (as the boys keeping pointing out). When they win the ball in defence and look for the leading Gumbleton or Hurley or Ryder, he's just not there. However, at a centre bounce, when they have a traditional set-up and win the ball, they look very good.

It has been an entertaining game, enjoyed in entertaining company.

Always good to see Bomber fans shaped in the forge of the mid-80s, showing hints of `06 Geelong.

I leave persuaded that Melbourne is a great place to live.

The tram clanks up Collins Street.