Beef and potato extraction; Sydney Kings vs Wollongong Hawks - Entertainment Centre - 09/02/05

Ethan Switch - Thursday, 10 February, 2005 - Print Version

Scorching metal is only a tip away as it watches searing beef singe the tongue. The pain is intense, the back of the throat numb. The tongue now smells of blast skin. Room to move is spent casually getting into a hustle with a row of guys. Their tickets say row M, their drunk mates behind insist on row K. Wayward steps back out of the seats nearly collect a chin. A row is taken across the aisle and below the K. Beef in the crowd is large tonight, their numbers looking rather well.

The Hawks of Wollongong are already on the board and the peter of the game is already starting to affect a nose bleed for entertainment. Kings show no pep. No hustle either, Skip. Their disposition and imposition clearly outside taking a long straw up the left. Ben Knight's Knightrider punctuation again plays with an explicit mention of the show, forcing its connection. Surprisingly, the Kings manage to do a deal with the Hawks that sees the hosts end the first quarter on 24 to the visitor's 13.

Solidly set, the CJ Bruton cheer squad manage to blow hard and loud. Screams not loud enough as the Lion takes to running around looking for the smallest kid in the stands. She's a winner of a backboard. A ping pong ball from the AirGanix blimp later on sparks an elbow in a few faces. Eyebrows in talcum powder.

Second quarter sees more of the hurt and pain of watching this game. There is no flow, no rhythm and no fun. Much in the way of starting and stopping. The plays are luke warm. Darnell Mee from the Hawks pops before a walk to slam dunk from a lip inside. That's about the best of it as Wollongong increase their shots, though not from the outside. The crowd is starting to freeze over, the air conditioning going guns to out human icicles. Kings still making the lead with 50 to 44.

Channel Seven pimp Dancing with the Stars at the half-time. Holly Brisley and Mark Hodge are tonight's dancing couple. Brisley is wearing a top that sparkles well across the harbour and starts to make with the glare. Foot work is fleeting, their grace is apparent. For entertainment value they are good wholesome fun. That is until Brisley starts to gun down Hodge in a blaze of mock tommy gun fire. And off they go, sure to keep the audience wanting more. A voting line flashes in an instant and nobody is aware.

Garishly hot colours run from one void to another. Lining up from a dance theatre school or somesuch, they pike out into compass points. The Robbie Williams backing track of Let Me Entertain You starts. And from there it drops. Enthusiasm and energy is either gone or has left a note on the kitchen table, "Make your own dinner. You can boil your own damn egg." Weak, soft, it's all things limp as carrying a note or even a line falls magnificently short. Sharing a mike is hard, neither of the eight singers looking to bear that responsibility. Dancing wise, the kids hold their own. Part two of their two part performance fights a lot better than the first against the fact that there are no singers on the display. It does go on.

Back into the game, the third quarter sees the reward of a massive return to strength from all sides. Referees manage to spread the personal fouls for the Hawks across the board, Kings are given only a token few to hold up the team's end. Tripping over a foot and making a spectacular miss at a slam dunk, Jason Smith. Schematics suggest that the Kings are looking to make it interesting, the Hawks instruct a big effort to keep the Kings crowd on edge. Nipping Hawks take the led midway and hold on at 72; 73 for the homeside.

Two women behind start ranting and raving. Their discourse and diatribe falls into the passive aggressive category. Their argument is weak and fallow while the sheer annoyance factor skyrockets past the stratosphere. At hand is their vision, or supposed lack thereof. Standing for too long, in a deliberate fashion and with a lot to linger, is the trigger. A happenstance of crazy that foams across the sides of their mouths and doesn't stop until feet are moving en masse.

With factional splits of three, the Harlequin cheerleaders battle it out in mini squads along the court. Again, those that hold down the western spot are champion in holding out, longer is their strut. Still in their half-time outfits, girls and a guy from the group climb up and down, their movements not taken into the debate.

Last quarter, money time; time to ready the car. Roughing it up, continuance of the foul allocation remains a mystery. Those with plenty to give, such as Mark Sanford and David Barlow are clear from any real strapping action. CJ Bruton and Rolan Roberts, with nary any effort from either side, walk, a six count for each pushing them off.

Lights die on the Kings' end basket eight minutes from cashing in the cheques. Scrambling some time after, the Harlequins ease the crowd back from unrest, though not all are worth saving. Strangling the air, the incremental points shaves hairs from the ears. From a pass in, Sanford loses his hold to turnover possession with a few seconds of play. Not even attempts at fouls can reign in the Hawks. A last ditch effort back in the hands of Sanford fails to connect a three that would surely bring home the Kings. As such, down and out on 93 with 95 for Wollongong.