unleash.
The next person who mentions basketball background ought to be fouled out, but I’ve always thought he had the temperament of a champion cricket batsman – the concentration, the soft eyes, the ability to find gaps, the sly sledges under his breath.
His entire footy career has been the equivalent of accumulating ones and twos. We always think of cricketers in terms of their style.
As kids we imitate their bowling actions and batting ticks. We don’t really do that with footballers. But Pendlebury has his own distinct style, one that’s almost impossible to emulate but which is tattooed on the brain of anyone who’s watched him – the left to right sway as he computes and assesses, the two steps back to buy time and space, the Babe Ruth point to where he intends to kick.
His game, if not his physique and personality, has always reminded me of Sam Mitchell and Greg Williams, both of whom made an inherently chaotic and crowded game look slow, solvable and almost easy.
Someone once said that passing the ball to the imperious Juventus midfielder Andrea Pirlo was like holding it in a safe. With those three, and with Pendlebury in particular, there was always a sense of safety, of surety, of a ball under lock and key.
After an exhilarating few seasons, this has been a year, and indeed a week, to forget for Collingwood. Time waits for no one and Pendlebury occasionally exhibits signs of decline – he goes to ground more easily, and he’s caught from behind more often.
But he’s played some outstanding football. He’s one of the few to get hold of Patrick Cripps and he had an extraordinary opening quarter against Adelaide.
He’s still fully present, still directing play, still seeing the football field as a maze to be negotiated, and still giving every impression that he could keep doing this for ever.
