Back in March, Port Adelaide lost to Essendon in a match I thought would be unbeatable as the worst 2025 had to offer.
The Power’s narrow win over North Melbourne on Saturday wasn’t quite as bad, primarily because this match at least had the benefit of a tight, thrilling finish and a Jason Horne-Francis-inspired biff that made it comfortably more watchable.
But the skill level from both sides was abysmal, the defending never better than okay and frequently disastrous, and the amount of butchering that went on in front of goal would put an abbatoir out of business.
This was a game, extraordinarily, that North Melbourne, amid yet another wretched start to the season in the most dismal era in club history, could and even should have won – but for the litany of skill errors, defensive calamities and set-shot disasters that infected the entire 23.
The Power got four points but should take no pleasure from it – and if their completely lacklustre rendition of the song in the rooms afterwards was any indication, that’s exactly how they see it too.
The moment that encapsulated the utter eyesore that was this match came late in the third quarter, at a crucial flashpoint in the contest.
North Melbourne had, out of nowhere, roared back into the contest with three goals in five minutes, and trailed by just six points in the dying stages of the term.
One had been a gift, courtesy of Jy Simpkin successfully getting under the skin of old teammate Horne-Francis, triggering a scrap from which the Power gave up not just a reversed free kick inside North’s 50, but then a 50m penalty as well to ensure a certain Kangaroos goal.
With tails up, not even a Port forward foray could dampen the Roos’ enthusiasm … until the moments after Finn O’Sullivan gave up a free kick for a tackle on Darcy Byrne-Jones that lingered too long, some 85 metres away from the Power goal.
Enter Luke McDonald, once the most maligned captain in the AFL, now the most maligned small defender in the AFL, to give up the year’s most comically inept 50m penalty to date, with a spectacularly sloppy return of the football to all but hand Byrne-Jones and Port the steadying goal on a silver platter.
The most comical part of the whole incident was that this wasn’t just a rushed accident as is normally the case with 50s like this; no, McDonald actually makes to throw it back underarm, realises it’s a dangerous move, comes a few steps closer, and tries to unleash a rugby league-style spiral pass that misses Byrne-Jones by a good metre and a half.
I’d say it confirmed McDonald picked the right sport, but as I’m sure Roos fans can attest to, it’s really just proof that he’d miss targets in that form of footy too.
But this calamity was just the zenith of a match filled with errors so numerous as to actually stop being comical.
Let’s begin with the kicking for goal from both sides – it’s an indictment on the defending on display at the Adelaide Oval that 27 goals were kicked, because there were lengthy stages where no one on the field could put one through the big sticks if they tried.
Mitch Georgiades, from ten metres out on a slight angle, decided to snap on the left-foot, barely made contact, and actually put the ball further away from the goals than where he’d started with it.
Literally fifteen seconds later, Sam Powell-Pepper, receiving a free kick in the goalsquare for a push in the back which caused him to miss a goal he should have nailed even if he’d had seventeen actual kangaroos hanging off him, went back, and coolly kicked it straight into the man on the mark.
I’d put the moment this all stopped being funny as happening ten seconds later: because from the ball-up that resulted from Powell-Pepper’s meltdown, the Roos’ defending was inept enough to allow Horne-Francis, perhaps the most dangerous forward 50 stoppage player in the competition, free space to receive a handball and snap through the goal anyway.
I’m not sure who should have been more embarrassed by it all: Port for so spectacularly cocking up two certain goals, or North for getting two utter let-offs and not being able to survive them for half a minute.
But wait – there’s more!
Nick Larkey, statistically the most accurate goalkicker in football history, he of the 254 goals and 90 behinds heading into Saturday, made Jason Dunstall’s confidence in him look thoroughly misplaced when he shanked a relatively straightforward set shot in the first quarter to barely score.
Then, 30 metres out and again on a minimal angle in the second term, with Dunstall adamant he couldn’t possibly miss two such golden chances in a single half, he’d actually one-up himself: skewing the ball horribly off the outside of the boot, the footy wobbled like a drunken teenager coming out of Revs at 2am on a Sunday morning to miss the lot.
Those two shanks, plus another simple miss in the final quarter just when the match was at its critical juncture, look all the more painful when the final margin is nine points. As for North Melbourne’s eventual expected scores win, it’s pretty much all down to their nominal sharpshooter’s uncharacteristic profligacy.
Disasters weren’t just confined to in front of goal, though; both the Roos and Power coughed up goals galore with unfathomable errors, none worse than Luke Davies-Uniacke turning into, then out of, then back into trouble in defensive 50, get swarmed by back, teal and white jumpers, cough up the footy and let Port walk in a steadier.
It wasn’t the first nor last time Davies-Uniacke would do similar on Saturday evening: nominally North’s best midfielder, there are games in which he has a Scott Pendlebury-like ability to have the play seemingly slow down around him.
But this wasn’t one of those games, repeatedly caught in too many minds, get himself swamped and the footy removed from his and his team’s clutches.
Discipline was a consistent thorn in both coaches’ sides; Luke Parker, otherwise magnificent in his 300th game, had an early brain explosion when he took umbrage to Zak Butters’ existence and gave up a silly free kick, Horne-Francis had THAT moment when Simpkin lit his fuse, while Paul Curtis was the beneficiary of repeat Port efforts to shut his yapper – and milked them for all they were worth.
Tactically, too, there were major blunders: Alastair Clarkson’s call to attempt a forward tag on Connor Rozee without Darcy Tucker was either a horrible miscalculation of his player’s abilities, or one of the worst tag jobs I’ve ever seen.
Not only did Tucker have a negative influence on the match, registering zero disposals before finally being put out his misery and subbed midway through the third quarter; but Rozee, Port’s lethal weapon in their successful last fortnight, roamed as he pleased, even sneaking forward for a 50m goal late in the first quarter under nonexistent pressure, from Tucker or anyone else.
Right up to the last minutes, the errors continued: with four minutes to go and Port’s lead sitting at nine, Caleb Daniel, the Roos’ designated kicker, muffed two forward forays – a 20 metre missed pass to Davies-Uniacke and then, moments later, a smothered handball – that somehow the Power conspired to cough the footy back up to North within seconds both times.
Fittingly, it was this play that led to Larkey’s final miss: a 40-metre kick from directly in front, to drawn the margin to under a goal, that normally you’d back him to nail with his eyes shut.
In the box, Clarkson had his head in his hands. It’s a wonder he could bear to watch at all.
It was all over by the point of the last blooper, but it was fitting North’s final chance was ended not by Port desperation, nor a twist of fate, but by Simpkin missing a teammate running inside 50 with a chipped pass that carried too far.
There was good amidst the rubble, to be sure: Georgiades continued his outstanding form with a tremendous marking display in attack, and when he backed in his set-shot kicking over his left-foot snaps was capable of dobbing a goal from anywhere.
Zak Butters’ toughness was unparalleled and his silky touch a critical component of many a Power clearance; Powell-Pepper, aside from THAT miss from the goalsquare, led hard up the ground, marked strongly overhead, tackled to hurt and played the role of link man between midfield and forward lines to a tee.
Ollie Wines stepped up with a crucial last-quarter contested mark; Rozee was polished as always; Esava Ratugolea did a sterling job to keep Larkey to a solitary goal, even if he should by rights have ended with four.
For North, Parker fought manfully all day and showed he remains an elite AFL footballer when he can bring his best, combining toughness for the hard ball with underrated skills when distributing; Harry Sheezel was supremely creative in the second half after a dodgy first.
Paul Curtis is in All-Australian form as a wide-roaming small forward who goes as far as the opposition goal line to help out is team and is just the right level of prick to be loveable in a weak team; George Wardlaw should frankly be this side’s captain, and don’t let his brutal attack on the ball and incredible courage detract you from his brilliant skills.
No footy game is without its good qualities; but this match was such a comedy of errors that at some point it switched genres into farce.
It’s not quite accurate to say that North lost it rather than Port won it; rather, I’d say the Power held out their hands with the four points wide open for the Kangaroos to take, but in moving forward to take it stepped on a rake, slipped on a banana peel and toppled backwards off a cliff, in the process getting fingertips to the four points and forcing Port to dive to stop them tumbling to the ground and smashing into a million pieces.
This was putrid. But if we learned anything out of Saturday at the Adelaide Oval, it’s that bad footy can sometimes be just as entertaining as the good stuff.
