Wombats ANNIHILATE Cake Beaters

Game Date: 14/08/2002

Well, like David Copperfield plugging Claudia Schiffer, there was something unbelievable and magic about tonight's volleyball. The venue was court 3, the opponent was the Cake Eaters and the agenda was carnage. From the moment the pre-game warmup commenced, it was clearly going to be a special night. Denied the use of the basketball ring for pre-game slammin', the 'Bats formed a loose circle and started laying down some moves. After the glorious victory of the previous week's bye, the Wombats were fired up, riding a tesosterone-laden wave of mammoth proportions. Despite the bitter Winter storm raging outside, the Bats were booting, fisting, heading and hammering the volleyball all over the centre. Like a game of squash played with an oversized squashball by a team of WWF wrestlers, the Wombats pounded the ball with clenched fists of fury, providing an awe-inspiring spectacle for the masses of slack-jawed spectators.

Then, at a lazy 8 mins past the hour, it was D-Day. The Cake Boyz started the game a player short, as one of their number stood crouched over his BMX in the rain, struggling with the combination on his bike chain. As such, having been unfairly penalised once before for being mere seconds late with a player, the Wombats knew that the first set was in the bag, and reigned in the rampant fury busting to escape, by starting out easy. Caressing serves over the net, and calmly paddling back returns, the 'Bats were a well oiled machine barely idling with smooth precision. Although conspicuous among the Cake Beaters was the hilarious visage of the Sherminator, subject of a solid gold trash barb in previous weeks, the Wombats kept their foot well away from the trashtalking pedal, choosing instead to simply lull the barely post-pubescent gaggle of twonks into a false sense of security.

The Sherminator was back.

Eventually, the Cake Tweakers were at "full" strength, their errant player having finally decided to rejoin the group. There was a brief moment of confusion and Jimmy Nutsack the umpire mistakenly called for the game to continue unabated. To the knowledgeable volleyball observer, it seemed that the very rules upon which this great game is based had been changed mid season. A cursory examination of the area was enough to confirm that Dirty Sanchez was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his constant companion, the rank odour of corruption, heavy on the air as in previous weeks. The Wombats were briefly stunned, startled. In this moment of confusion, they looked to their leader, their ruler, their almighty captain and his inspirational leadership, the one that would see them out of the mists of confusion and back onto the path of righteousness. Bayls felt all eyes upon him, caressing him, mentally undressing him and languidly probing tenderly as his hard flesh. "Erm nah, Damo's the captain" he offered, at which 6 pairs of gazing eyes descended on the Wombats figurehead. Damo offered nothing though, and so it was left to Rick, master volleyball technician, strategist, and playmaking architect of the Wombats outfit to step forward and right the encroaching wrong.

"Damo's Captain" reminded Bayls

"Nah bullshit!" bellowed the master, echoing the thoughts of the massed 'Bats, who were merely incapable of expressing their thoughts as eloquently as linguistic savant Rick. "That's fuckin' crap!" he continued, as if nailing the point home "we got penalised when we were late!". Bayls nodded dolefully, recalling the night he saved the world on the way to volleyball, only to suffer the wrath of his callous teammates as he arrived even before the echo of the umpire's whistle had stopped reverberating around the hallowed halls of Blackwood. Then, in the face of Rick's irrefutable logic, sanity prevailed and the Wombats were awarded the first set.

With the match now starting in earnest, the Wombats slowly turned up the aggro-o-meter. A heady mix of adrenaline coursed through the Wombats veins as they basked in their greatest lead of the season thus far. At around this time, like a pressure cooker on high heat, steam blasting from the safety valve, a high pitched screaming gradually rose to an eardrum bursting crescendo. The reason was soon evident, as Totti casually swaggered to the court, every female in proximity screaming in adoration for the Dirk Diggler of volleyball. It was the icing on the cake for the Wombats outfit. Like the ending of Grease, the gang was back together, the reassembly of the soul destroying juggernaut that was the Struggling Wombats of old, and like the mystery piece in some weird Tomb Raider-like puzzle, the virtual can of volleyballing whoop-ass was slowly peeling open.

What followed can only be described as carnage. The Wombats were like a screaming ramjet on full throttle, sucking in the very fabric of reality, tearing it to shreds, and depositing it back onto the Cake Eaters' heads. The classroom was Court 3, the lesson was humiliation, and the Wombats were the cane-toting headmasters. What began as a pristine new volleyball at the start of the match was nothing but a scorched remnant of fabric by the end. Scorched also, almost to a man, were the ringpieces of the Cake Beaters players. Every Wombats dig was a study of precision, each set a perfect parabolic arc - cannon fodder for the thumping spike to follow. The Wombats were like the cogs in a giant machine, seamlessly meshing on the court, covering the gaps, plugging the holes, doling out destruction on a mammoth scale.

The Cakerz meanwhile were like a squad of unarmed Vietnamese children walking in front of a minigun - a minigun with 7 barrels named Damo, Bayls, PJ, Kel, Craigie, Totti and Rick. It was a furious volleyball firefight. Blood was on the floors, on the walls - the back court was littered with smoking limbs that had been torn from bodies by the comets being fired from PJ's dual plasma cannons. Entrails dangled on the net, where some foolhardy Cake Chad had tried to blast a spike past Kel, resplendent in her lucky red volleyball pants, now tainted with the crimson blood of her vanquished foes. Testicles, purple and swollen, bulged from 6 newly sterile scrotums where Craigie had split atoms with his chirped pulse, 860 Gigawatt particle accelerating size 6 boot. Women swooned, fainted, and slid off chairs as Totti promenaded around the court without even raising a sweat, flicking back a return here, and stroking a serve there. Rick meanwhile confounded and confused the hapless Cake Boyz with his flawless application of strategy, gesturing slightly to send a player back, or motioning subtly to bring a player out of the zone to cover the mid-court switchback apex. Damo, Captain of the team, was leading by example, uncorking the explosive powderkeg of destructive aggression he normally reserves for working hours. Cocking back his massive left arm, like the hammer of his Smith and Wesson "Widowmaker", and pointing it at the skulls of the fearful Cakekids, he was judge, jury and executioner. Summarily condemning the Cake Boyz season to death, he unloaded a cataclysmic barrage from the breach, demolishing roof tiles, splintering the wooden doors, and exploding the charming cream-coloured bricks of the arena's sacred walls. On an otherwise appallingly depressing night for the Cake Beaters, it was some minuscule iota of compensation that Damo didn't cause them any actual bodily harm by landing any spikes anywhere near the court. Bayls meanwhile, simply looked on with quiet satisfaction, calmly enjoying the moment in his typically placid, meek, and magnanimous way.

The Cake Eaters would learn to fear Cragie

Through sets 2, 3 and 4 the wanton destruction continued unabated. The tide had clearly turned for the Wombats unit, and they were hammering home the advantage. It was only deep into the 4th set, the court awash with blood, scorched and disemboweled Cake Lickers in crippled disarray on the opposite side of the court, that the Wombats throttled back the boundless aggression that had thus far ruled the encounter. This coincided with the arrival of the comically attired Prattie from the lesser-known B grade outfit "The Salvies", after which normal play became impossible.

At the conclusion of the encounter, it was a crushing defeat for the Cake Lappers and a decisive victory for the Wombats. Having spent the season thus far bobbling in the toilet pan of volleyball mediocrity, dodging pellets of ridicule and being hosed by constant streams of self-doubt, the Wombats are finally clawing their way to the rim. Could this be the return of the all conquering 'Bats? Could this be the catalyst for the re-emergence of the darling team of the A-grade volleyball circuit? Could intrepid team captain Damo have returned from the wilderness in time to steer his team away from the iceberg of last place that was looming large on the horizon? With this question on everyone's lips, Wombats Team Captain Damo offered this at the post-match Press Conference:

"Yeah, nah, we've been a bit out of form these last few weeks, ay, but I knew the boys would bounce back. Nah it was a credit to the lads that we done it this week and y'know we showed that we're a quality side. Yeah, we've had a tough draw so far 'n' that, and yeah, the boys done good tonight. Yeah, the season's just gettin' started, and we been struggling a bit so far, and.. heh heh, "struggling", it's our name 'n' all - Struggling Wombats, ay! Yeah, so, nah, we're happy to take the 4 points and we're looking forward to next week. The boys done good tonight."

As for the Cake Eaters, the misery of their season can only be compounded by the fact that they're the only team so pissweak that they've been steamrolled by the Wombats.

And as a fitting epitath to what is universally recognised as the most impressive and awe inspiring display of volleyballing perfection, as the Wombats filed from the arena, the public address system announced that from this day forward August 15th shall be known as Wombats Day. Hearing the news, Team Captain Damo wept the sweet tears of victory, and overcome by the moment, his body occasionally wracked with an emotional sob, standing among the slain body parts of the inept Cake Beaters, droned the following inspirational monologue.

This day shall be call'd the feast of The Wombats.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of The Wombats.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Wombats' Day:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Wombat's Day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Damo the Captain, PJ and Kel,
Totti and Craigie, Rick and Bayls,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd,
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Wombats Day shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in Adelaide now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Wombat's Day.