The AFL Players Association has leapt to its feet over the state of the playing surface at Ethiad saying that, well, players can’t keep their feet.

Long bemoaned, this year the surface at the Dockland’s stadium seems to be as unstable as the North Korean government. The biggest concern though is the players are being ignored. There is a major disconnect between what players are experiencing and what the AFL are claiming as acceptable. To address this incongruity, the call is for a new set of criteria to be used that more accurately reflects the satisfaction of players.

The AFL and stadium honchos are falling back on the reasonably hollow ‘choice of footwear’ argument, but its not as if players are in six-inch stilettos and the sheer number of individuals slipping and sliding means this argument has as much chance of standing up to interrogation as Shaun Higgins has of standing upright on the Ethiad turf.

Undermining their ‘everything is fine’ argument a little, the AFL are also trying to use their weighty influence to ensure that in the lead up to the season there are no concerts or dance parties held at the stadium. That’s a start – anything that reduces the amount that the surface looks like a patchwork quilt can only be a good thing

The ground is up for another heavy weekend of ball-chasing action. While Friday night see Essendon try to wring some positives out of their season against St Kilda, the Bledisloe cup rolls into town on Saturday night. The Rugby boys are thumbing their noses at the talk of the surface, claiming they will play anywhere. The sound bite of the week goes to Wallabies coach Robbie Deans who stated, “We’d play on asphalt if we had to”. Sure there is a little cross-code bravado here but it is more likely need rather than cajones driving the bravado . The Rugby showpiece in the south has sold 50,000 tickets and the MCG’s dance card is already full. It’s Ethiad or bust.

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The tour is like all of the Olympic’s athletic events rolled into one. Thickly muscled dashers have to hang tough in the mountains, the domestiques and the lead-out men struggle manfully as role-players, fluffers tasked with protecting General Classification contenders and sprinters alike. More than in any other race, the competitors – or at least the great majority of them – just seem genuinely happy to make it to the finish line.

But above all others it is the marathoners who are exalted and this year Alberto Contador is bathed in golden glory after holding off Andy Schleck, the third time the Spaniard has had the yellow on his back in Paris.

So, the Tour is over, or maybe it was already over before the final stage begun. Not because the margin was insurmountable rather the final day is homage to the status quo rather than dash to the death. No one attacks on the run to Paris, unless you’re a sprinter of course, then you’re allowed to race, but only once you get to the cobblestones. Makes perfect sense…

For the uninitiated the Tour can be a chaotic beast –a puzzling milieu of races-within-races, convention, tradition and rules-that-are-not-quite-rules – but none are as bizzaro as the final stage being one in which those competing for the GC don’t attack. At the end of 19 days of racing and 3,500km, we were left to see Contador and Schleck, separated by only 39 seconds, feign competition for the cameras, laugh good naturedly then drink more champagne. Surely the public want a climax not a forgone conclusion?

That said Contador was a deserved winner. It doesn’t matter that some see the victory as slightly stained by his failure to win a stage, the tour is about consistency over the distance and the skinny Spaniard’s metronomic legs were the best.

Best name of the tour: Canadian Ryder Hesjedal, so perfect you’d think it was an adopted nom de guerre.

Best crowd moment: What other sport has the crowd the Tour does? The unbridled pandemonium, screaming, snarling, flag waving, running beside and jumping in front of the riders is something to behold. Never was this more acute than on the climb up the Col du Tourmalet. It was frightening even on the TV.

¡Viva España! A Spaniard has worn the yellow in Paris the last five years in a row, combine that with victory in the World Cup and maybe sporting success is enough to stave off the Broke Country Blues, at least for a while.

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