I'll open this blog just by saying that anyone who talks about ladder positions after Round 1 of an AFL season is a freaky desperado.  End of story.
About half way through the last quarter of our game against the Blues, I reflected upon the great terror of being a Richmond fan. It's a self-inflicted terror, for every Richmond fan should know by now that a 40 point Tiger lead is about as safe as a Euro in the banks of Cyprus.  

We'd played well enough in the 2nd and 3rd quarters to work up a sufficient buffer for the inevitable tempo shift of the last quarter.  Dimma rightly
 observed post-match that legs get weary late in Round 1 matches, and we'd just spent an hour and a bit running ourselves off our feet in glorious style.  

The tempo was always going to change, and for better or worse we are a tempo side.  We break sides open in bursts, with the obvious downside being that bursts cannot be sustained for four quarters.  

We need scoreboard buffers - and we had one that proved to be just sufficient. This time.

Let us also not forget about mad Mick.  Malthouse has spent his coaching career seeking vengeance on Richmond for naming him in the back pocket week in week out for his entire playing career.  I've played back pocket a lot.  I know how he feels.  In the back pocket in a good side, there's plenty of time to think about things, plenty of time to get bitter.  

Back pocket players usually fancy themselves as overlooked champions.  I know I did.  Give them long enough to dwell on that, and back pocket players come to the conclusion that they should be playing in the centre, standing as Captain-Coach, running the Club Presidency and hosting the weekly chook raffle where they get to demonstrate their outstanding sense of humour.  As I say, I know I did.

Yes Mick.  He's a special character.  And a smart bloke.  In that last quarter, knowing that we are contested possession champions and almost out on our feet, he played the Blues one-on-one. Long kicks, swift possession, through the corridor.  This forced the game to stay open and the Tigers to try to keep running.  

Mick's smaller forwards (who'd been, let's be honest, standing still most of the night) started up.  We've been exposed like this before.  Does his research Mick. Watches replays of every last quarter we lost last season.  Mick's moustache twitches ever so slightly when he thinks he's got you.  At every TV crossover to the Blues box in that last quarter, there it was, twitching away, twitching away.  And he almost pulled it off. Almost. (Not his moustache you lads, the victory, the victory).

It is all history.  A win is a win, and I felt a weight lift as we finally got over the Round 1 blues.  Winning margins, ladder positions.  Who cares?  It was Round 1.  Ask around before that match and if every Tiger fan was offered a 1 point victory, every last one would have taken it.

And so we turn towards those most Christian of fellows, the Saints, freshly slapped by the hand of the Son of God.  Incidentally (and this is a very cheap shot), given their game was on the Gold Coast I'm amazed that the Saints were able to drag themselves away from the casinos and night clubs long enough to sneak a football match in.  

They looked hot and bothered in that last quarter. Just like us they were out on their feet.  To our advantage, we've had a couple more days to recover.  They'll be revved up though because they lost what they should have kept, and they'll be studying Mickey's moves.  And there'll be the Reiwoldt v Reiwoldt thing that always seems to get BT worked up.

I think we'll win comfortably.  Or terribly.  It won't matter how. Just that we fight.  Until the final siren's gone.

Eat them alive Tigers, eat them alive.