Even if Toledo deserves the title on the day it
will leave a sour taste in the mouths of some. Don’t be surprised
if this sways the judges.
The end of the year is upon us. A time to
reflect, a time to heal. But not before we deal with the immediate
future, the big hurrah: The Final Five at Trestles’ famed and
overrated cobblestones!
Try as they might, the WSL just don’t seem able to conjure any
anticipation for this, their grand showcase. Everything they do
seems flimsy, somehow. More chintzy high school prom than world
title showdown.
Has your phone been buzzing away with god-awful WSL
notifications too?
How bad is that content? How can it be so bad?
So busy. Such blandness. Such sanitised, homogenous pish.
Whatever happens next within that organisation, they need to
hire some professionals, ideally people who actually surf and care.
The quality of their media output is so lacklustre, so amateur,
that I almost never look at it. Which leaves me wondering: who is?
I mean, it’s part of my job to take an interest in this stuff, but
they offer nothing of substance, and nothing that doesn’t come with
a sheen of try-hard flimsiness.
What about those jerseys? Are they the most embarrassing
merchandise ever cooked up by an apparently professional sporting
organisation? You’d be forgiven for assuming that all creative work
had already been outsourced to a primitive chatbot. If not, it
should be.
And the practice session stream…what the actual fuck was that?
Aside from Erin Brooks, who seems quite lovely, it was an
abomination.
Clearly, the WSL still has a serious identity crisis. It doesn’t
know if it’s they, them or ze. It’s an ongoing problem for pro
surfing, but not more so than in the last couple of years. It’s not
serious or organised enough to be defined as a proper sport (and
the cap don’t really fit) but embracing the stoner Cali vibe just
makes it look like an idiot.
Regardless, we’ll watch the Finals in spite of them, and here’s
what to make of the men:
JACK
When my partner was pregnant she lost an entire load of washing.
She found it later. In the freezer, obviously.
Another morning she texted me in a panic from work. Had I seen
her phone? Had she left it in the van when I’d dropped her off? She
couldn’t find it anywhere!
Have you checked your hand? I asked.
Baby brain’s a real thing. For someone like Jack, who likes
(needs) to keep a tight leash on the mush between his ears, it
could be a killer.
As a man and a surfer, I’m a fan. This Tour is better for the
presence of Jack Robinson, his tube wizardry, and his latent
psychopathy.
Does any of that mean I think he can beat Ethan, Griff or Filipe
at Trestles? Not likely.
And he does need to have a word with whoever is advising him on
the non-endemic fashion alignments and his general social media
output, because it is crrriiiiiinnngggeee. “Reminiscing on my first
times in the ocean with the clean scent of #PoloBlue” he says in
one post, whilst wearing an unbuttoned white shirt, holding a
bottle of aftershave and looking constipated.
See you next year, Jack. Your washing’s in the freezer.
JOAO
Joao announced himself on Tour this year with great vengeance
and furious anger by hammering and slicing his way to world number
one in the early part of the season. Three semi-finals and a
victory in the first five events is no fluke.
There remains the sense that Chianca will be most at home in
meaty waves rather than dribbly cobblestone points, and taking the
title at Trestles from his position seems unlikely. But it won’t be
his last shot. Though a little skittish and elbowy at times,
Chianca attacks sections like they killed his pets.
I find Joao an intriguing character. The contrast between his
softly spoken interviews, where he professes gratitude and
humility, and his tear-your-face-off, paddle around, over, up and
in you approach in the water is truly fascinating. He comes from
the Brazilian school of surfing that enjoys blood in the water, it
doesn’t matter who it belongs to. If we had a whole Tour of guys
like this pro surfing would be a mainstream sport.
He said it best himself: cold blood, warm heart. (Though I’m not
totally buying the latter.)
Don’t be surprised if he wins his first match-up against
Robinson through sheer force of animal energy. If you believe in
more, bet on it. You’ll get 25/1 and more from most bookmakers.
ETHAN
If you’d asked me about Ewing’s chances a week ago I’d have told
you they were adjacent to zero. Not because he supposedly had a
broken back (medical marvel or misreported?) but because I just
don’t think he has the game to tackle Filipe in small to medium
waves.
However, to Antipodean delight, I’ve got a little inkling that
we might see Ewing make it all the way to a match-up with Filipe
after all.
Beyond the capacity for superhuman healing, Ewing has
otherworldly, picture-perfect style that make fifty-year-old men
weak at the knees. And, as has been well established throughout the
course of this season, the judges (and the surf industry, for that
matter) are largely men in their fifties and sixties. Ethan might
as well be a winsome blonde au pair.
He’d be a popular world champ, a victory for aesthetics and
eugenics. He can lay a surfboard on a rail like almost no-one else
in the world.
Unfortunately Filipe Toledo is almost no-one else.
GRIFFIN
Little Griff has won my heart this year. Underneath all the
self-help psychobabble there’s just a homeschooled simpleton
waiting to break free, eat crisp sandwiches and rub Nutella all
over his face.
Only the sourest of pusses (or Brazilian fans) could dislike
Griffin, smiling widely and nodding along to his little rap beats,
imagining he’s straight gangster. To be fair, men like him have
propped up the rap industry for years. Nothing quite says gangster
like homeschooling, golf carts, and second and third homes at the
beach.
Regardless, he’s here on merit. He has the game to beat Filipe,
and homefield advantage. More importantly, Toledo knows it.
And if he doesn’t? Well we can read all about it in pidgin
English on Instagram, via a photo of a crumpled diary piece covered
in snot and tears.
Ah, 2023.
FILIPE
For most, Filipe has been a lock for this world title all year.
Not just because he’s our reigning champ, but because no-one in the
world generates speed and explosiveness in small to medium waves
like he does.
I like the big hair he’s sporting this season. I like that he
looks like a grubby little taxi driver, with eyes that will almost
certainly rob you. But above all I like how fast he goes, how he
generates speed like he has jets.
And I especially admire his sickle-like turns. And yes, they are
as good as Ethan’s. Not quite as stylish, perhaps, but technically
perfect.
He’ll need to sound out the judges. Do they want carves and
flow? Or would they prefer some balls-out aerials? No matter for
Filipe, he can do it all. If he puts his laces through one early
it’s game over. If Griff or Ethan get a jump on him we’ll be in for
a match.
But even if Toledo deserves the title on the day (and because
he’s earned the number one spot this season) it will leave a sour
taste in the mouths of some. Don’t be surprised if this sentiment
bubbling below the surface sways the judges into some controversial
decisions.
Don’t be surprised if we have a world title marred by judging
controversy. Wouldn’t that be an appropriate reflection of the
season and the organisation?
Ironically, as a distraction from the gaudy production, it might
also be the best thing for them.
I’m off to place some bets.