Chapter 22: St Kilda

On Sunday evening we play the poor Saints. Those hapless cellar-dwelling party boys. Those good-time kings of mucking up and staying out late and wooden spoons aplenty.

But never forget they pulverised us every game from about Robert Harvey’s 16th birthday until we started turning the tables last year. The Other Riewoldt, Montana, Ball, Goddard, Dal Santo tormented us. Bloody Milne kicked 7 against us in that game where Jack could have won it after the siren, then there was Gehrig who regularly made our backs look like idiots. Koschitzke who occasionally bumped into one of our players instead of his own and put them in hospital. And kicked five from 10 touches one day.

In 2010 there was a game where no Tiger kicked a goal except Jack (6) and Andrew Collins (remember him?) – of course the Saints were on their way to 2 grand finals. How quickly they have fallen, to the point where neutrals are clapping Lenny Hayes now. Clapping him as though he never tore their midfield apart, ruining the careers of blokes who were only getting games as run-with players. Let us not forget those years of pain.

Some miscellaneous Sainters to boo:

• Grant Thomas and Rod Butterss – classic unlikeable blowhard/snake oil merchant combo
• Jim O’Dea – almost killed Johnny Greening.
• Barry Breen – won’t stop talking about what is objectively the worst kick in history

I have a standing bet with a St Kilda fan – two longnecks per game. I felt like I was knocking at his door with my elbows twice a year for well over a decade. Yes, I got to drink one of them but that is not the point.

My earliest memory of a wooden spoon is South Melbourne in 1975, but after that the boys from Moorabbin seemed to have a mortgage on it. We have to enjoy this return to the good old days of Sainters spoons. We have to add to their misery on Sunday evening. I will be stitting by the radio with my tea and toast, cheering for their demise, and booing Lenny Hayes’ every touch.