Patrick Dangerfield hit last week’s preliminary final like a typhoon. Early in the game, as distress signals flared up all over the field, he’d shown enough to suggest that he was sharp and engaged – a slips catch that ended in a Shannon Neale goal and a smother on Jack Ginnivan, just when Hawthorn had all the momentum.
But with a couple of minutes to go in the first half, he adopted an interventional approach. When play resumed, he was thrown into the middle and Hawthorn copped the full brunt. Any shred of malice or anger he possesses was directed at a bobbling ball. He’d see the footy, stick his bum out, put his head down and steamroll anyone in his path. I’ve never seen a footballer better at scrambling on his hands and knees, and at generating power and momentum from that position. I’ve never seen anyone better at rummaging and absconding with a ball, at bringing a dead footy to life when it seemed certain to be heading for a ball up.
