Tiger faithful warm to the fight
The Fan John Harms | May 2, 2007
The Age
Richmond v West Coast
WHEN I am old and weary, and my spirit is flagging, take me to the MCG and sit me with the Richmond cheer squad. Let it be a sunny afternoon against the premiers, with the Tigers chasing their first win of the season. Let me feel the hope. Let me sit with the yellow and black and feel their excitement. Let me feel their affection for the game and for their boys. Let me live the game like they live it. Let me feel as ripped off as they do and shake my fist at the injustice of it. Let their passion wash over me. Let them make me feel alive again.
Sitting with the Richmond cheer squad, Punt Road end, MCG
For that's exactly what I did on Saturday. As Richo did a pre-match fitness test, I took my seat right behind the goals at the Punt Road end (of course). The cheer squad started to fill the seats around me: young kids in their Tiger-skin T-shirts with badges and caps; teeny-boppers with too much make-up ready to catch the eye of Darren Gaspar, their very own Peter McKenna; a heavily tattooed man ("Mum" and "Dad") in a sleeveless denim Harley jacket and a lemon bandana; a woman in the same bumblebee tights she's been wearing since 1979; two girls in glitter-shiny bowler hats; a scarfed woman studying university notes (some sort of physics); a toothless man in claret leather shoes and black tracksuit pants from whom dust rose when he sat down (I think I may have found the next world gurning champion). All thinking it could be the Tigers' day.
When the players came through the banner and Richo was there, striding innocently, as if it were his first game, the faithful were relieved. He ran towards us. He gave a half-nod-smirk to the cheer squad, then joined the drill sprinting backwards until he fell over a cone.
As they warmed up, so did the cheer squad:
Wagga Wagga Wagga
And the Rich-mond clap-clap-clap started.
Whiskers on your togger togger
We are the boys of the MCG
What do we do?
Eat 'em alive.
It stopped for yet another reprise of the Anzac Day ceremony and didn't start again for a while. The silence that followed the Eagles' opening goal (after 15 seconds) was nearly as chilling as the Last Post.
But the Tiges worked their way into the game. They were rock-solid across half-back and once they broke, they moved the ball efficiently. Joel Bowden directed things, dispatching long projectiles wide to the pacy runners, who kicked deep into the forward line — very quickly.
Jay Schulz took a couple of strong and courageous marks but couldn't convert. The cheer squad was frustrated. Richard Tambling took a shot that started off target ("Oh no") but then drew back ("Oh yes"). And then another.
We could all sense the premiers were under pressure. In fact, for a few minutes, just holding on. The Tiges streamed forward again. With loose men everywhere, a certain goal was imminent until Chris Judd guessed right, put his paw up, and intercepted a handball. "Judd almighty," one Tiger yelled.
Yet again, the Tiges streamed forward. Richo had peeled off and was 60 metres in the clear flapping his arms but they couldn't get the ball to him. Another chance gone begging. And a few dodgy umpiring decisions. "We should be five goals up," said a woman eating lolly snakes from a lunch box.
Finally, Richo marked 20 metres out and, troubled by the prospect of a set shot, played on. The wideness of his eyes suggested he was quite surprised to find two Eagles defenders in front of him, but he instinctively handballed to Tambling, who nailed another one. The faithful went wild. You could feel hope turning to real belief.
Which is when the injustice started. An obvious free kick to Richmond would be missed, but the tiggy-touchwood decision just seconds later would fall the Eagles' way. The fans were beyond frustration. This injustice was extrapolated to all injustice and the fans carried the burden of the world. The chance to post a memorable victory was disappearing.
The Eagles got on top. The Tiger Army (the grog squad up the back who have appropriated, somewhat incongruously, the Barmy Army's material) started chanting, "There's only one Scotty Turner" and called for the return of David Honybun. Clearly, in grave times they turn to absurdity.
But it wasn't over. The players never gave in. Taking risks in the last quarter, they piled on goal after goal. Faces lit up. Kids looked up at their mothers: "Can we do it?"
When another sailed through and they were within a goal, I thought the young man with cerebral palsy was going to rise from his wheelchair. At that moment, I was from Tigerland. I was thrilled by the players' performance.
The Eagles steadied. The Tiges weren't quite good enough to take their chances. But the ball didn't bounce their way. And the umpiring was terrible.
As I headed towards Jolimont station in the tide of disappointment yet pride, I was certain of one thing: I felt better than when I had arrived.
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