A story about a life lived loving RichmondCaroline Wilson
The Age
28 September 2017If ever there is a time to fall in love with a football story then that time is September. In my privileged and occasionally stressful role as this newspaper's chief football writer the narrative never fails to compel although the highlights tend to involve the drought-breakers, the upsets and the individual moments.
And not always the premierships. In 1999, my first finals series in this job, it was Fraser Brown's tackle that underlined the David v Goliath preliminary final result and in 2000 it was James Hird overcoming his nightmares from that previous year.
I don't think I've ever felt as happy for a president and CEO as I did for Frank Costa and Brian Cook in 2007 or as sad for a group of passionate supporters as the St Kilda fans of 2009. There was Mick Malthouse and Paul Licuria united by their tears after the siren in 2002 and another overcoming of demons past when Mark Williams grabbed his tie in 2004. And Heath Shaw's smother against Nick Riewoldt in front of goal in the 2010 replay.
I never thought any story would bring me to tears the way the Swans did in 2005 but then came the Bulldogs last year and – to be truthful – it was their preliminary final win at the Giants' Spotless Stadium and those last desperate 10 minutes that remains one of the best among two decades of highlights.
But never in 19 years in this job has there been that added element of, as the poet Bruce Dawe wrote in his stirring Life Cycle, "a lifetime's barracking" and "years swimming towards the daylight's roaring empyrean".
This is a story about a life lived loving Richmond despite the awkward challenges we face every week taking to task the clubs we have grown up adoring and secretly pray for still. Of the passion some might describe as hypocritical given the battles, the negative stories, the exposes and the years in the wilderness.
Because the job deals you into relationships of varying levels of intensity with every club it is without guile that I apologise for the purpose of this exercise to Adelaide – a mighty outfit with a proud history that has earned the right to premiership favouritism. The Crows' combination of empathy and ruthless professionalism makes them a template in international sport in dealing with tragedy and adversity, not to mention their single-minded approach to recruiting and list management that has also beaten the odds.
But to the Tigers. From where the club has come from, it is impossible for me to put into words how overcome with admiration I am with the efforts of Trent Cotchin and his side and Brendon Gale and his off-field team. Nor how happy it has made the Richmond people in my life. So without sounding unashamedly biased I will refer to an unprovoked opinion put forward by a senior AFL coach during Monday night's Brownlow count.
"This," he said of the Tigers' journey to the 2017 grand final, "is one for the good guys. For Brendon Gale and Peggy O'Neal and Damien Hardwick and Trent and Balmey for showing so much faith in each other and sticking by each other and putting up with all the crap they've had to put up with after working so hard. They deserve this."
This is a Richmond unrecognisable in almost every way from the great sides of the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s. The Tigers of old would not have tolerated Damien Hardwick after seven seasons of nothing better than an elimination final. As a young reporter covering the game, the Tigers were one of the few clubs that banned me from the dressing rooms even though my father was president. They certainly would not have accepted a woman on the board let alone at the helm.
The passage of time between the old and new Richmond was best demonstrated again by my father when he advised the club earlier this week to stuff the AFL, wear their proper jumper and pay the fine later. "What could the AFL realistically do," reasoned dad, had the team ignored head office once they ran onto the MCG. But the new Tigers, whatever they privately believe, choose their battles.
Under the old values Cotchin would have been stripped of the captaincy after 2015 and North Melbourne – whose champion Keith Greig's Brownlow was publicly and immediately criticised by Alan Schwab and my father in 1974 – would have been the subject of a merciless and potentially ill-conceived player raid as payback for trying to poach Dustin Martin.
Those mighty Tigers went from being ahead of their time, to of their time to – for far too long – behind the times. A victim of the ruthless methodology behind the Tigers' success. But having the good luck to have celebrated my last teenaged year in 1980, Richmond was the sporting gift of my youth. They were not only mighty but jaw-droppingly brilliant to watch, boasting a player-coach connection with Tom Hafey that perhaps can draw some comparisons with what Hardwick has achieved and flourished with in 2017.
And perhaps like clubs of all successful years they share the enduring connections, friendships and unforgettable characters just like the happy families described by Tolstoy.
The Tigers of old were far more than the urban myth of the Graeme Richmond trapdoor and the various caricatured portraits that have existed through the decades largely because the club's relative lack of success kept them alive with no new folklore to take their place.
My memories of the 1967 game are hazy but immortalised by Royce Hart's mark and Fred Swift's smart play-on after his last-quarter save in between Geelong's goalposts. But I will never forget sitting in our back garden as the following day came to a close as Bull Richardson, accompanied by Swift, serenaded my brother and I to the Mickey Mouse Club song.
My enduring memories of 1969 – when it was so much tougher to win from fourth – include Michael Green's dominance in the ruck three games in a row, the dazzling centre line of Bourke, Barrot and Clay, and the understated but brutal leadership shown by Roger Dean.
But, in truth, for a wide-eyed nine-year-old lost in love with a long list headed by Kevin Sheedy, Dick Clay and Barry Richardson, the No.1 highlight was the carnival atmosphere at the subsequent Pleasant Sunday Morning and holding the premiership cup with Billy Barrot. And being led into the committee room and seeing the tiger's head and skin draped across the board table.
As an adolescent in the early '70s that adoration was transferred to Ian Stewart, Merv Keane, Kevin Morris and always Sheedy, although my sister and I were always transfixed by Neil Balme. But by then making grand finals seemed like a habit and just reward for all those nights sitting alone or with a seconded school friend in deserted carparks on Saturday nights waiting for dad to come out of the after-match.
Losing them was an aberration and the Sunday celebrations at our house blended surrealism with the joy of victory more than any teenaged football lover could hope for, particularly with the larger-than-life rogues' gallery that adorned led by Whale Roberts, Robbie McGhie and later the exuberant Peter Welsh, whose growl punctuated the 1980 party. Richmond's last premiership was my last dressed in club colours; their last grand final my first as a football writer. The Tigers were leading early in the third quarter when my sports editor sent me down into the bowels of the old northern stand to seek the name of the streaker and grab some quotes. Job done, I returned to the press box and Carlton were in front and there ended the era of "Eat 'em Alive".
Later, amidst the the anger and disappointment that accompanied the loss, I recall my father scowling in the deserted rooms as he kicked black and yellow balloons. It is an indication of how Richmond was then that coach Francis Bourke, who had taken the club to a grand final in his rookie season, offered his resignation that night.
That was rejected, but Francis was sacked at the end of the following year. That brave and versatile champion continues to place the club well ahead of its various missteps and no one will be happier than him if Saturday turns out well.
Matters at Richmond went pear-shaped after that and by 1990 when Brendon Gale arrived from Tasmania as a strapping centre half-forward Neville Crowe was leading the tin rattle to save the club. I took my first-born – a newborn baby – to the Save Our Skins game against Carlton at Windy Hill but could not have known that she would be a 27-year-old Tiger tragic by the time they reached another grand final.
I still remember the badge Crowe wore, which read "I was there when we were down". I'm sorry he won't be there on Saturday. And though it won't be the same for him without Graeme Richmond at his side, I'm glad my 83-year-old father will. As will Maureen Hafey, Graeme's widow Jan and her children and my mother who unfurled the last Tigers premiership flag.
If Richmond became a victim of their own success, the mistakes that followed 1982 surely stopped being the fault of that administration at some point. The Tiger struggles of the 1990s and well into the new millennium cannot be squared back to the John Pitura trade, the Collingwood war, the relentless succession of coach sackings and the on-field acts of aggression echoed by the ongoing power struggle with head office.
And the achievements of 2017 are firmly underlined not by a reborn Richmond but a new Richmond altogether. A club whose administration has been patient with and unflinchingly supportive of a coach and team as unrecognisable from the past as the game plan and reflected by the new football society. A club with a woman president and a group of players who, like the coach, have stood up in front of each other over the past 10 months and admitted to their teammates their private fears and frailties. Embracing sporting imperfection is not something that happened in the past.
And for the older Tiger followers who are daring for the first time in a long time to believe – like the Swans of 2005, the Cats of 2007 and the Dogs last year – they have undergone a new and unexpected crash course into that effortless joy of winning. And in doing so taking the lead from Cotchin, Martin, Rance and Riewoldt, who seem to be having fun despite the hard work in the hope they might finally replace the heroes from that other era.
Come Saturday the story will tell itself and the writer be impartial. But just for now, for this supporter born in 1960 and whose childhood Sunday nights were punctuated by Walt Disney and Frontierland, Fantasyland and Adventureland; the truth is that all over again there is no more happy place than Tigerland.
http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/caroline-wilson-a-story-about-a-life-lived-loving-richmond-20170927-gyq770.html
