2007: The Year of the Ultimates

“And my style belies,
All the tales and the lies…
The last gunslinger in town”
-Gunslingers, You Am I

As the rains trickled down upon the sweaty crunch of bodies and limbs that fronted the stage when Tim Rogers, adorned in dashing purple dinner jacket, and You Am I hit the crowd into an exhaustive and ecstatic rock frenzy, I realized I stood among brothers and was united in appreciation for the grandest goddamn son-of-a-bitch this side of Hunter S. Thompson. It was as one the crowd cheered with joy and admiration for the three-in-the morning charm and downright ballsy rock of You Am I. It was here, in the throng, one shoe lost and feet flying chaotically at ear level, high in the hills surrounding Lorne, that I had an epiphany of sorts. It may have been the tunes, it may have been the moment, it may have been the steel-capped boot to the side of the head, it may have been the fact I hadn’t slept for three days. It is tough to tell. And it isn’t all that relevant either. In great clarity, the role of the gunslinger rose from the six-stringer of Rogers like a phoenix in the night. The pursuit of truth through unconventional manner, fact wrapped in tale, wild west aggression in the face of staid nothingness. It was pure Gonzo. Unpopularity walks through the night with the gunslinger but it keeps the company of respect and history.

Three hours later: The Bees come out to play. The sky is black and the surrounding hills reflect a fluorescent blue. Many bodies lay strewn, chilled to the bone. They played flat and their frontman had left his voice in the bottom of a bottle of Jack the night before. The crowd played similarly, my thoughts drifted. Drifted until The Bees wished a happy 2007 on the crowd, claiming it would be The Year of the Ultimates.

Hardly. Or so I thought at the time.

Wrapped up in the impending retirements of Warne, McGrath and JL, I could not help but fear the worst for 2007. News had already come down the line that Tony Grimaldi and Shane Webcke wouldn’t be fronting up next year, Ian Thorpe had given it all up, the chances are we have seen the end of Brett Favre and Naomi Robson will no longer read the hallowed editorials of Today Tonight, 2007 had a none-too-pleasant feel about it. League had lost some of its hardness. The preparations for Beijing would be full of fret, not anticipation. The Pack may wander onto Lambeau without the good ol’ boy in number four to send the rockets downfield like some Western Soviet missile launcher. Today Tonight would lack its punch.

And the Australian cricket team would line-up without two of the all-time greats and a nuggety champion revered for his heart and his grit.

It was Warne, The Pigeon and JL which hurt the most as about three hours remained of 2006, melancholy hovering over the immediate future like the steam of a Chinese restaurant. The Ultimates were leaving. What hope did we have? The Gods had deemed our time was up and we had no choice but to strap ourselves in and brace ourselves for the tornado.

As a mere human, I cannot find the words to do justice to the greatness of Shane Warne. It would take Hemmingway or Goethe. He was a wizard who transcended class, in all senses of the word, and defined a period of time like no cricketer since Bradman. Warne took his talent to the end-point, giving his all and letting go when the time was right. He walks away more than a champion, more than a hero. When he bowls his final ball in Test cricket, an irreplaceable icon of the game will move on like a dying Eskimo- proud, honourable, head held high, humble to the core.

Joining him will be Glenn McGrath, a fast bowler for any all-time team, a man who made consistency fashionable. Through guts, persistence and concentration, McGrath went from a kid in the country who purportedly couldn’t bowl to the echelons of great fast bowlers. The only paceman in his league that this country has seen is Dennis Lillee. History will remember him fondly like a boy remembers his first kiss. He was a role model with his patience, the personification of pressure. He was the perfect foil for the enigma that was and is Warne. And he will forever be linked with him. In career. In retirement. And that is no knock on The Pigeon. He was there throughout Australia’s greatness, not riding the coattails but firing from the front of the wagon.

And Justin Langer. He is the heart of the Australian cricket team, a new David Boon who excelled above the talents afforded him. The hole he leaves will not be easily filled, in terms of both runs and ticker. He was a fighter, a man who thrived on shots to the head and a burning desire to give his all for the green and gold. A few recent retirees can look at Justin Langer and see what a man who left it all on the paddock looks like.

I sat there full of The Fear. Fear of failure, mediocrity and defeat. Fear of Mitchell Johnson and Shaun Tait bowling for Australia. Ruing the fact that Justin Langer is set to be replaced by Phil Jacques, a man who seems as passionate as that dick in your tipping competition who actually tips against his own team. Loathing the fact that this country’s other great leg-spinner, Stuart MacGill, a man bestowed with the dual ill fortunes of poor timing and a poor temper, may not be selected because the chief selector holds a personal grudge.

How Andrew Hilditch is qualified to select a bush league third grade team is beyond me, let alone a national team. If he refuses to select Stuart MacGill next summer, Hilditch should swing from the balls at high noon for all Australia to see.

Fast forward three more hours: The clock has just ticked over midnight. The amphitheatre is bursting at the seams. I stand high on the hill, jacked to the eyeballs on cheap vodka, high volume music and $30 love. Signs down the Hume note that the only cure for fatigue was sleep but there would have been one or two revelers who would have argued the point with some voracity. Wolfmother had blown the collective mind and when they bought out You Am I to bring in 2007 and the two best damned bands in the country belted out Teenage Wasteland, the pop was supreme.

And at that moment I realized that 2007 would be okay. A year has to be okay if Tim Rogers is there to bring it in for you. 2007 mightn’t be the year of The Ultimates. But it looks like it may be The Year of The Gunslinger, a time for the void to be filled and the truth to be pursued. I had come full circle in six hours and I was pleased to start 2007 positively. Favre may play on. League never loses its hardness. Naomi Robson may dance.

The Year of The Gunslinger. For good or ill.

And onward we march.

© 2007 Nick Tedeschi