Fergisms

Number 3 – The Curse of the Hammer

Curses are a common theme in both the horror genre and in everyday life. Quite often they are used as an excuse for failure to achieve a certain goal.  Let’s be honest the probable cure for most curses is to stop moaning and work a bit bloody harder. Perhaps 1980s metal gods Manowar summed it up succinctly when they sang:

The spell has been broken

The curse has been lifted

Blaaaaaack is the wiiiiind

On the heels of the gifted…

But I digress. Most often the stigma of the curse is utilised in sporting circumstances to explain the ongoing and systemic failure of that bunch of no hopers you happen to have thrown your weight and hard earned cash behind.

The American baseball team, the Chicago Cubs for example, have supposedly been subject to a curse which has precluded them from winning the World Series since 1908. The Australian men’s football team, the Socceroos, were said to be subjected to the curse of an angry Rhodesian witchdoctor in 1970, which supposedly saw them go to fall at the last qualification hurdle for no less than five World Cups (let’s conveniently ignore the fact they went on to make the 1974 World Cup finals despite the curse).

It may or may not surprise you to learn that I myself am subject to a quite disturbing and unusual curse, which I refer to as (thunderclap) THE CURSE OF THE HAMMER!

Too whit, I follow an English Premier League team called West Ham United, or the Hammers. They can be described somewhat cruelly as perennial underachievers. In over a hundred years of existence the Hammers have won precisely zero English top league titles. ZERO, nil, none, nada, not a sausage, bugger all. To paraphrase the oft quoted former Hammers star winger and manager, the cheepy cheery chirpy crafty canny Cockney crook, Harry (‘arry) Redknapp – ‘Even when we was good, we were still shit.’

‘arry was referring to the Hammers team of the late sixties and early seventies, which despite fielding the backbone of the side which helped England win the 1966 World Cup (Moore/Hurst/Peters – Google if you must), still managed to consistently struggle against relegation most seasons. It didn’t help that most of the team were raging boozehounds, but that is another story.

Too whit, to associate with the Hammers is to wilfully accept a life of happy go lucky failure. Now this is where it gets really spooky. Strap yourselves in. I have a disastrous record of watching my favourite football teams lose in major finals, and I fear I know exactly why this is so.

It started back in 1997 when I got myself a ticket to watch the Socceroos final World Cup Qualifier against Iran at the MCG. Long story short, Socceroos under crafty English master coach Terry Venables (another crafty Cockney crook incidentally), unbeaten in about 15 games, blitzing the field. Drew 1:1 in front of 100,000 men and 0 women in a cauldron in Iran. Just needed to win in Melbourne or draw 0:0 to win on away goals counting double.

As I take my seat behind the goals I notice a bloke in a West Ham shirt standing about 30 metres away and think nothing of it. The Roos, 2:0 up with 15 to go. Iran come back to tie it 2:2 and we lose on away goals. Out without even losing a single match. National tragedy. We had buried them in terms of chances created. They should have put up the white flag and surrendered at half time.

National Soccer League (NSL) Grand Final 2000. Perth Glory red hot favourites to beat the Wollongong Wolves. As I walk in to the stadium I see a bloke in a West Ham shirt and again think nothing of it. The game goes to form at first. Glory 3:0 up at half time and cruising. I turn to see the guy in the Hammers shirt give the hex sign. Final score 3:3. Glory lose on penalties of course.

2002 NSL Grand Final. Glory again massive favourites, hosting Sydney Olympic. Just prior to kick off I nervously scan the upper tier of the stands and… there he is, the bloke in the West Ham shirt! The truth begins to dawn. I jump around increasing agitation, muttering mythical imprecations the whole match, to no avail. We lose 1:0.

2006 FA Cup Final. Wembley Stadium. This time it’s me beloved Hammers themselves, shock finalists against the mighty Liverpool. Naturally the stadium is full of thousands of geezers in Hammers shirts, but the pressure is off. After all, the Hammers have been given no chance whatsoever of upsetting the mighty Scousers. Just relax, happy go lucky losers, and enjoy your day out.

So what happens? The Hammers play out of their skins of course. They bamboozle the favourites. They take an early 2:0 lead. Even when they are pulled back to 2:2 they still keep coming and take an improbable 3:2 lead, which they hang on to until the dying seconds. Incredibly, unbelievably, West Ham have won the Cup… or not. They manage to concede a ridiculous 45 metre goal in the last 10 seconds and of course, they go on to lose on penalties. 50,000 blokes in Hammers shirts, and hundreds of thousands more watching on television around the globe cry bitter tears into their beer.

2014 W-League Grand Final. The Perth Glory women’s team have a stellar season. They win the league by a massive amount of points. So much so it is a travesty they even have to turn up to play a Grand Final against the unworthy and undeserving Canberra women.

I get to the stadium nice and early. Just prior to kick off I look up and behind me into the grand stand only to be confronted by… a bloke in a Hammers shirt. NO! NO! NO! I scream. Not this time. How dare you be here, cursed Hammer.

To no avail. Glory play their worst game of the season and lose 3:1.

So on this form, you can imagine my nagging doubt on traversing all the way to Sydney to watch the Socceroos play the Asian Cup Final against South Korea. Oh I had been happy, buoyant, confident in the way the lads had performed under the invincible talisman of Ange Postecoglou. Ange, whose record in major finals as a player and coach was an unbeaten 6 wins from 6 finals played.

In Ange we trust.

So I join my friends in drunken pre-match revelry at one of the temporary bars set up outside the stadium. All is going to plan until I turn around and see him, the guy in the 1960s West Ham Toffs replica shirt with ‘Moore’ on the back. No, surely not again!

Forlornly I am swept along in the euphoric crowd toward the stadium. Ignorant fools! Oh do they not see the folly of their joy? Have they not seen the foreboding omen of doom! And there, right before my eyes, another one. Another geezer in a West Ham shirt. Oh cruel cruel fate.  Smiting the Socceroos and me again. Snatching defeat from the very jaws of victory.

To the game, foregone conclusion though it be. Sure enough, the Roos lead 1:0 into the dying embers until sure enough, a shock to everyone in the stadium bar me who is wise to the inevitable, the Koreans equalise with the last kick of the game.

But then a miracle occurs. The Socceroos retake the lead in extra time, and despite the most intense efforts of the dodgy ref, the rampant Koreans, and the blokes in West Ham shirts, the Socceroos win the Cup!

Ange is 7 from 7.

The curse is lifted. Cue Manowar again:

The spell has been broken, the curse has been lifted

Blaaaaack is the wiiiiiind, on the heels of the gifted.

Onward pounding into glory ride

Sign of the Hammer, be my guide

Final warning, all stand aside

Old men and young boys (and bastards in West Ham shirts) it’s my time

Sign of the Hammer, it’s my time.