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Ask any cricketer about a perfect climax to the summer and, rather than replying “You must consult the Oracle” and giving you Warnie’s mobile number, they’ll invariably tell you: last over, one wicket, one run to win. And it was here in this extraordinarily scripted blockbuster that the Piggers found themselves late in the autumnal Sunday light of season 2009/10.

How did the glorious season come to this?

Day 1 Action

The Piggers were primed, pumped and ready to roll. Grand final opponents the Lumley Spawn of North Shore were undefeated all season – except against the Piggers, and the pride of pork were damned if the Swine Hex was going to be broken now. All Grand Finals need a grave injury concern story so Stato Horley rocked up with a infected hand of ballooning proportions (not from a Red Bellied Black Snake as he would tell you, but from a much less venomous common palm tree) and Fabo competed for honours with a bowling foot strapped to the max after an ugly confrontation with Kyle Sandiland’s face. Much pre-match talk centred about bowling first to maintain the rage and Spawn skipper Bromley took the matter out of the Piggers’ hands by winning the flick and going in to bat.

A Truly Maaaaaaaarvellous Start

And a better start from the Piggers you will not likely see as Whits managed to snick their opener for a royal duck – a sensational start. Spawn 1/0 after 0.1 overs. Then Mickan as usual failed to trouble the Piggers, evidently saving energy for his jaw muscles in the field, and the Spawn had slipped to 2/13. C Grade run bully Weaver appeared and scratched around helplessly in the face of some premium pinging from Whits and Stato and it wasn’t too long before a couple more scalps saw the Spawn reeling on the verge of disaster at 4/49.

But skipper Bromley was firm in the face of the storm and, true to the form guide from earlier in the season when he rode some luck to score a creditable maiden ton against the Pigs, he tapped the same vein to hold the fort in the face of adversity (and other clichés). Weaver had finally begun to settle in and the resistance had slowly commenced. Fabo, the Pigs’ own Claytons Matthew Elliot, bowled a testing but unlucky spell – until right out of the blue (or midwicket) Stato threw down the sticks to see Weaver on his way to a reasonably debateable run out call – a big wicket to halt the fightback and the Spawn sinking at 5/64.

GOOOONNNNNNNNNE!!!!

The Great Spawn Comeback

But Fogg dug in creditably with his skipper and once again the match evened out as the Piggers began to search for the way back. It was of course the breakthrough man himself, Reduced Fat Buck, that pulled off a great LBW to dismiss Fogg to make it 6/109 and, with only the bowlers to come, the Pigs could sniff a sub-150 chase for the crown. But big Dougal Whalley was not having a bar of it, not in a game as big as this. The Haymaker warmed up the oven to tempt him and straight away he went for it – and straight away it was all over as it skied precipitously out to El Presidente…who grassed it, flat-bagging himself painfully and hilariously in the process. Turning point noted – and Whalley’s purposeful assault continued, sending maximums over Blackman’s undulating turf to the Spawn’s collective delight.

With Bromley nicking and plopping it around, the pair evened the keel and nosed themselves in front. And like Tiger’s pastime of punani, the well-oiled machine begins to unravel: Weedman all too casually drops a snick and heads begin to drop just that little bit. Bucky adds to the tension by going for a couple of boundaries and suddenly the toys are out of the pram Billy Buck-style, with the big unit howling white-eyed at the sky and his Piggers brethren. A quick half a glass of shut the hell up and he’s back amongst the living, but things are sliding. El Presidente growls out to “Remember Cammeray” to fire up the pork, the veteran invoking memories of their shameful surrender in the field in the previous season’s semi final, Peller mumbles discontentedly in the gully like a pungent baglady on the steps of Town Hall and Damo is chasing the little dogs with the little curly tails in his head.

The Return Of Whits

And suddenly, like a whiff of fresh camel toe, everything snaps back into focus as first Bromley finally snicks one that goes to hand, ending an impressively stout if not pretty resistance, and then a silver duck later another snick and the Piggers can breathe again with the end nigh at 8/169 – as seemingly always, led by more great bowling by the Whits which bags him 4/52. But there’s no prisoners being taken by Whalley and he cracks his maiden 50 for the season in the only game that counts.  But just as the 200 looms he skies to the Haymaker, ending a great dig deservedly appreciated and congratulated by the Pigs. Collins repeats the effort to Bucky in the gully and Stato, with a shining 4/41, has closed out the innings at 192 – the Piggers’ exultation mixed with palpable relief.

The Pigs Bat Off

So with a shake of the hoof and 17 overs remaining, openers El Presidente and the Haymaker stride out into the golden light to chase the trophy, expecting fire, brimstone and the smell of fish from the Spawn. But the opening bowlers misfire badly, leaking extras and giving the Piggers some appreciable breathing space.  The Haymaker settles in first with a few boundaries and just when it looks like he’s on top, suddenly tall trees Collins takes an outstanding what-the-hell blind leap (difficulty level +11) at mid off to snare one of the best speccys you’ll ever see and the Spawn rightly celebrate like drunken marines.

Captain Wookie takes his furry time getting to the crease and the LBW appeal-a-thon commences in earnest. But El Presidente continues his sum contribution of nothing to the game by getting plumbed and at 2/34 the door swings open with the Spawn nosing their way in front. Skeletor joins the skipper and is as nervous as he was at Schoolies (last year) and just as likely to score. But they survive a surprisingly subdued effort by their opponents in the afternoon shadows and the bails come off for stumps with the score 2/50 and the game looking finger licking good for a delicious ending.  While the Spawn circle up and get all Michael Vaughan about things, the Pink Pigs crack open some icy imported lemonades and wander over to cheer on the Black Pigs on Blackman Upper as they feast on the dismembered carnage that was Macquarie Uni, Sneak Leaney left stranded agonisingly short of an awesome Grand Final ton in their record Pigs total of 421. Could tomorrow better today’s champagne cricketing fare, punters?

Day 2 Action

The few empty seats in the Blackman Arena from yesterday are now filled to capacity and the queues for the toilets are already long as the Piggers pull up their respective chairs for a long day of cigger stealing, nailbiting and nosepicking.  Chewbacca is, to say the least, positively positivist, plainly stating 30-odd more runs and the Spawn would not be able to get back into the game and everyone would live happily ever after from there. Well if anyone can back their words with action (as he keeps telling us all year over and over and over) the Wookie can and so he gets right out there in the midday sun and shows everybody how to do it…straight to second slip. Tears of joy are practically streaming from the Spawn as they roar exultantly “That’s the game boys!” with the Pigs’ premier batsman gone.

Peller Cooks Up A Storm

But these overconfident Spawn words the chiselled, battle hardened Peter Eller slurps up greedily, deeply, like habanero chillies in a tabasco and sulphuric acid jus, wincing only slightly as they burn through his gut, loving it, embracing it – so after a few hours it can be triumphantly and explosively shat out*.  And so with jaw set and teeth gritted, the P-Train sets about winning a Grand Final with his bat…again (see Peller vs Gnomes 2005/06). But Skeletor busts into Peller’s reverie with his 276th LBW dismissal of the season, a new Pigs record. Suddenly, it’s 4/72 and there’s a whole lot more weight being pulled by the P-Train. Adam Ant comes out and languidly goes about the chase in that Bevan-esque way of his, mixing thoughts of cover drives with “should I put the Pigs up the front or the back of the wedding reception next week, hmm maybe the back…” and the partnership is looking ominous until he’s fired out LBW, 5/99. The Spawn can scent a whiff of victory in the air.

Fabo Brings The Sand

In the previous match up against the Spawn, Fabo proved to be the Pigs innings saviour with the bat with a pugnacious unbeaten 50 and he’s promoted above Weedman to introduce a bit of that trademark Fabo sand in the va…what, you can’t say that? Only Mordaunt? Ok, ok.  With some punchy slogs Peller is starting to build something special, like the aftermath of a curried baked bean tortilla, when ANOTHER sensational catch, this time at deep midwicket, is snared and the P-Train is terminated at Spawn junction, 6/113. The Spawn have fought tooth and nail to hang in by their fingernails in the contest and now they are reaping the rewards with cricket the real winner (and other clichés).

So the Weedman slinks his funky way out to the middle – 3 wickets, 80 runs and the Spawn are deservedly on top, their tenacious and unrelenting grind pushing the Pigs’ resolve to the limit, and beyond. Do the Pigs want it as much as their opponents? Do they deserve it as much as their opponents? A quick wicket here and the Pigs would almost certainly be broken – the Spawn well deserved premiers 2009/10.  And so it is here at this moment at this time right now that Weedman chooses to make his mark, possibly his finest contribution since he decided to start bringing Bob Marley to poker**.

Weedman Smokes ‘Em

That whole confidence thing? The Weedman tears up the book, rolls a large one and turns the bass up to 11, playing his shots and leaving Fabo playing second fiddle as they turn the game on its head. Nothing too reckless, too brainless, just two committed Piggers so different in character and yet so much the same in their determination never to be beaten, a testament to being positive.
The Spawn begin to flag, maybe tiredness creeping in or maybe just not expecting the free-spirited exhibition unfolding. The pair uninhibitedly drag the target down to just 45 runs needed when Weedman has a pure sparkling psychedelic moment, leaving his body for some astral travelling and watching himself not play a shot to a ball cannoning catastrophically into his castle, much to the Spawn’s astonishment and absolute relief. They are back on top.
Nonetheless of course Ricky gets a heroic reception back on planet Earth but was the partnership just a last gasp from a dying swine? But Bucky has been off quietly to one side compartmentalising on his own before Alicia tells him to stop it or he’ll go blind. Realising this is not good in the context of the premiership, he goes out there brimful of whatever stuff it is that makes big units like him unstoppable on the footy field but strangely not at poker. He starts by cracking his first ball through point and everyone goes bananas – the feeling is good, we’re gonna get there. But RFB’s stay is cut all too short when he inside edges one on to the sticks and he trudges off, broken hearted. An unsettled quiet falls over the Pig Sty.

The Repeat Repeats

Stato Horley, he of infected hand and barely recognisable cap, goes out to join Fabo, seeking to repeat his wall-like efforts against the Spawn in the first round when he batted the Pigs to a one wicket victory. Two Pigs with history against the Spawn – what are the chances of a repeat?
The Pigs are 8/150, still a long way from victory but Stato is making Rahul Dravid look more exciting than Megan Fox smeared in vodka and dark chocolate and Fabo is grinning his sandy way around the park, chipping off the runs with steely glee. The Black Pigs arrive with trusty 7-tonne mascot Percy Pig – they’ve won by a million and, after roaring celebrations, are keen to pop a few frosty apple juices and settle down to cheer on the Pink Pigs and Paul Weaver.

It’s tense. Every single run is cheered by the pulsating crowd. The Spawn’s royal blue marquee goes tits up in a gust of wind, redolent of their shaky onfield resolve? Percy Pig looks on impassive and heavy, contemplating whatever impassively heavy mascots ponder.  Tea is taken and the combined Pigs rise as one to cheer off Fabo and Stato. Everyone is amazed at how relaxed he is – “Hey guys, this whole ‘Head down’ thing you keep yelling…well NO SHIT GENIUSES!”. The bbq (pork sausages of course) is seagulled mercilessly by all. No one can wait for the end, no one can sit still.

The Bladders Tighten

Play resumes. Bromley continues to bowl himself without success. There’s a lack of variety, not even a pie chucking spinner to mix things up. The field is not right – there’s no pressure and singles abound. The umpires have a quiet word with a particular Spawner about constant chatter – his day is done. The partnership continues, the scoreboard ticks over. Somewhere a Pig farts catastrophically. No one laughs, no one breathes.  The runs tick down. Fabo is putting the Pigs upper order to shame. Stato opens his shoulders, mistimes a straight hit off the cue end of the bat and the precious red leather plops hideously straight back towards bowler Bromley…who drops it. No one at the ground can believe it. El Presidente empathises with his pain – he thinks he lost the game yesterday dropping Whalley. Stato, who’s been waiting all his life to do this ‘cos he’s special like that, tells Bromley he thinks he’s just dropped the premiership. Somewhere, on a cricket field far, far away, Hershelle Gibbs starts crying.

The End Of All Things

The run chase reaches the teens, then single figures and finally, impossibly it seems, scores are tied. The Spawn are out on their feet – it’s been a heavyweight title fight all the way, body blow for body blow, a struggle titanic. In the Piggers Sty no one can breathe, no one dares move, a strangely comforting warm yellow liquid is running down chairs. It is impossibly unbearable to watch yet it is unbearably impossible to turn away.

Stato looks up from his guard to see Fogg charging in, every fibre of his being burning to smash the winning run. The world stops. Inconceivably, impossibly, he nicks it and walks, the Spawn going into paroxysms of delight, the minor premiers know a tie is enough for a win.
Unrivalled chaos in the Pigs camp, as Stato trudges off to an exceptional standing ovation, the 42 run partnership already a part of Pig lore. Matty Whitaker, as in the first game against the Spawn, has to exactly repeat his effort and defy the best their bowlers can give to win the game. “I just knew this would happen,” he mumbles as he strides out to the middle. One run, one wicket and, as the Pigs have taken their time ticking off the runs, there’s only an over and a half left to decide who will raise the premiership as champions. He swipes his way through four improbable deliveries, surviving a vein-popping shout for caught behind borne of pure desperation from the Spawn. Whits lives.

Justin John Fabo is on strike for the final over, the 354th bowled by Bromley. Regardless of the result it has been Justin’s finest hour, his finest display of turning back the furious and relentless storm and after several years wandering in the cricketing wilderness he has realised that his true home is with his porcine brethren. It is time, there can be only one.

First ball, no run. The Pig Sty is set to burst. Rolling sweat. Mouths dry. Pants wet.

Fabo slaps the second ball over point and is running, running, arms raised to the spinning heavens, roaring with delight, running, running the greatest golden glorious run ever, running straight into the delirious Pig hordes charging onto the field, and is piled upon in the greatest swarming, writhing stacks-on the sporting world has seen. The Pigs and their supporters bay apoplectically at the sky with ecstasy and relief. It is the greatest win. It is the greatest feeling.

A delirious tunnel forms and the mighty victorious Pigs are roared from the field, premiers 2009/10. If ever there was an example of the greatest test in a grand final, this was it. North Shore had fought for their lives, throwing everything they could at the Pigs and could hold their heads nobly – beaten but not defeated. It takes two teams to make an unforgettable grand final and North Shore will be a part of that history.  For the victors, that magnificent Pigs ethos had pulled them through. The support from the WAGS, the Black Pigs, Brown Pigs and assorted gallery of piglets, family, mates, and of course Percy Pig himself, was that extra special X-factor that kept the Piggers from slipping into the abyss. You are all part of this special win too – thank you, we loves youse all.

Stellarbrations

The Great Northern’s kegs took a fierce bollocking that evening as the Piggers commenced their celebrations long and loud into the night. The Boat Race, it should be noted, was comprehensively won by the Pink Pigs, handing the Black Pigs their only defeat of the weekend. It is from this point of course that brain damage begins to cloud the memories and a beer-soaked curtain falls on the celebrating beasts, but there was one thing no one in the Pigs could forget:

The greatest of wins for the greatest of mates – it does not get any better than this. See you all on the cricketing field of dreams next time.

* Interestingly this recipe was later attempted on Celebrity MasterChef by Simon Katich with some spectacular and ultimately tragic results.
** Matty “Buckets” Jackson disagrees on this point. A lot. And again. Once more.