Almanac Footy: The agony and the ecstasy of Collingwood Grand Final experiences

 

 

 

2023

I’m standing at a bus stop on Warrandyte Road, waiting for the 7:43 bus into town.  Despite the early hour, the temperature is already nudging 25 degrees, so I’m decked out in a t-shirt, shorts and, believe it or not, a pair of sandals.  This is Boxing Day attire.  As I wait for that bus, I wonder if I’ve ever worn sandals to the footy before.  Today they are forecasting it to be the hottest Granny since ’87, way back when Tucky wore the short sleeves.

I managed to score a Standing Room ticket via the Grand Final ballot, but unfortunately not with the crew with whom I usually attend the footy.  They missed out.  While I am grateful to be going, I am a tad worried about how some of my hearing issues will play out in this section of the ground.  I suffer from hearing loss, tinnitus and hyperacusis which can impact my balance if I stand for long periods.  I’m nervous about this.

The bus gracefully arrives on time and we’re off and away.  As the bus rolls down Warrandyte Road, I’m thinking about the big day ahead, but also replaying the past in mind.  I’m careful not to use my phone too much as I don’t want to use up the battery.  It’s going to be a long, long day.  Despite my nerves and my health concerns, I am tingling with excitement.  I try not to entertain the thought of victory – I don’t want to set myself up for a fall – but I can’t help thinking of the Daicos connection.  Peter Daicos, my idol, tasted the ultimate success some 33 years ago, and now his two sons get the chance to do the same.  The possibility of witnessing this today is almost too good to be true.

 

1990

Paul Salmon gets the Bombers off to a flyer.  He is playing deep in the goal square, reminiscent of when he destroyed the Pies at Windy Hill in early ’84.  He looks unstoppable.  We are in real trouble here.

There is a boundary throw-in near our half-forward line, just in front of my seat.  Third man up, Craig Starcevich punches the ball forward.  He then follows up at ground level and whacks the ball forward again, a mighty effort that allows Daicos to gather the ball close to the right boundary with his left hand, with Peter Cransberg hot in pursuit.  Daicos then veers right and executes the straightest of drop punts which splits the sticks like a bullet.  We are on the board.

 

2023

As it’s a Saturday morning, there’s hardly any traffic on the road and so that rumbling bus powers onto the Eastern Freeway in no time, before hanging a left onto Hoddle Street and then a right onto Victoria Parade.  This is where I get off.  It’s a coincidence, but this is where Dad and I used to park in the early 80s before commencing our pilgrimage by foot to the ‘G’.  I’m thinking about Dad as I stride down the footpath towards those big light towers that are visible from many miles away.

 

 2018

Dad passed away unexpectedly in 2015.  The Pies have come from nowhere to make the 2018 Granny and I feel that to win this Grand Final would be in some strange way a tribute to him.  I am highly emotional.  The Pies race to a five-goal lead and I am ecstatic, standing on my seat, pumping my fists in the air, adrenalin surging through my body.  Is this really happening?

 

 2023

I head straight to Gate 6 and line up with my fellow Standing Roomers.  I’m near the front of the queue, and as soon as the gates open at 9:30, I race to M22, claiming my position at the very front of that section, sandwiched nicely between the half-forward flank and the wing, in the Shane Warne Stand.  A wonderful position.  My next worry concerns what will happen if I need to go to the dunny, or if I need to grab a bite to eat.  Will I lose my spot?  What is the protocol here?  But I quickly bond with some fellow supporters who assure me that they will protect my position.  The whole section of M22 is Collingwood.  I love this.  We are talking about the game.  McStay is a big out given that we only kicked eight goals in the Prelim and nine goals in the Qualifying Final.  You can never underestimate the importance of a key forward.  Structure is everything.

 

2003 

I’m sitting on the top deck of the Southern.  Rocca has been suspended for the Big One due to a silly indiscretion in the Prelim.  But hope springs eternal – we have beaten the Lions as recently as three weeks ago in an epic Qualifying Final encounter.

Just before the opening bounce, I see Jason Cloke, Tristen Walker and Ben Kinnear head into our forward 50.   Suddenly, the loss of Rocca is magnified tenfold.  We could be in trouble here.

 

2023 

The Lions look a million dollars on paper, can score heavily and have towelled us up a few times this year.  But there is something about this Collingwood team.  They just know how to win.  The last 16 months or so have been an incredible ride.  It all started with that remarkable eleven-game winning streak last year.  This was from a side that was widely tipped to finish in the bottom four.  What transpired in 2022 was remarkable: 11 wins by 11 points or less, and ultimately coming within a point of a Grand Final birth.

There’s a lot of talk with my new friends about past Grand Finals.  They are hard core, this mob.  One bloke was here in 1970.  He’s still dirty about it, too.  Most of the folk here have stood in Standing Room for Grand Finals previously.  I have done so twice: firstly in 2002 and then again for the 2010 draw.

 

2010

After Héritier Lumumba goals in the second term to put us 22 points up, I look over at the frail old man who is standing next to me and my mate Jase.  He is 85 years old, with a walking frame to keep him upright.  He looks as though he’s been visited by angels.  Pure elation.  We’ve been instructed to keep an eye on him by his granddaughter who popped down from her seat on the top level before the game.  This old man had earlier recounted to us how he has attended every Collingwood Grand Final since 1935.  We are inspired by him.  We feel his joy.  Will this be us in 50 years’ time?

 

2023

My balance issues start to flare up, but I’m able to sit on a step that is behind me.  The lady behind me who has driven in from Morwell is only too happy to allow me to do so.  She is decked out in all the official black and white gear.  In contrast, aside from my membership cap, I don’t have any Collingwood apparel.  The only thing I could find in my clothes drawer that morning was an old t-shirt with a black and white picture of George Harrison and Bob Dylan strumming their guitars in the woods.

The crowd is building.  It’s amazing how quickly the hours go by.  I get back up to my feet.  There’s one huge benefit of being in Standing Room today: we are shielded from the hot, blazing sun.  Maybe this isn’t too bad.  Today’s weather is in complete contrast to that cold, wet and windy day back in 2002.

 

 2002

Josh Fraser puts us in front in the last quarter and at the very next centre bounce, Buckley emerges from the stoppage and streams forward.  For the first time of the day it occurs to me that we could actually win this.  I am in disbelief.  A few years ago, we were the laughingstock of the league.  Another goal in these wet and wild conditions and we could well be home.

I am there with Jase, my brother-in-law Ted, my brother Chris, and my old man.  I am very glad to have my father there.  In 1990 he wasn’t able to get a ticket.  Dad and I had attended almost every Pies game together throughout the 80s.  We didn’t only venture to Victoria Park, but also travelled deep into enemy territory, to places such as Windy Hill, Princes Park, the Junction Oval, Moorabbin, and the Western Oval.  We even made the odd trip out to Kardinia Park.  We always stood in the outer, the only exception being when the Pies played at VFL Park or the MCG, where we were afforded the luxury of seating.  It would be special to watch the Pies win a flag alongside the old man.

 

2023

The guys next to me have driven down from Sydney for the Big Dance.  In fact, they have driven down for every final.  They are originally Victorians who moved interstate many decades back.  Despite being in heathen territory, their passion for the black and white remains undiminished.  These are the kind of people you want to watch a Grand Final with.  For the 2003 and 2011 play-offs, I was only able to attend the Grand Finals via corporate tickets that I obtained through well-connected friends.  I’ll never forget the bloke sitting next to me in 2003 telling me it was the first game of footy he had ever been to.  There’s nothing worse than sitting with the corporates for the Big One.

 

2011

I’m sitting with the CUB corporates as Tommy Hawkins gets a hold of us in the second half.  Ironically, the injury to Podsiadly has opened up the forward line for the Cats, meaning long and direct to the Hawkins is the way, the truth, and the life.  We are witnessing the emergence of a champion.  He is marking everything in sight.  The Cats run all over us in the final term, and an intoxicated bloke sitting behind me leans over and condescendingly hugs me.  ‘I’m a Carlton supporter,’ he says triumphantly.  I’d not seen nor spoken to this person for the entire day and now he reveals himself.

Despite the devastating loss and the humiliation of being manhandled by a complete stranger, I make a point of staying for the presentations.  I do this for every Grand Final loss.  Respect and humility.  ‘Keep it together.  Be a good loser,’ I tell myself.

I recall a game on the Queen’s Birthday in 1987 when Ablett got hold of us late and propelled the Cats to victory.  I couldn’t hack it.  About halfway through the last quarter, I asked the old man if we could leave.  He stared at me with disdain, his cold blues eyes more or less calling me a coward.  Always respect your opponent.  Always stay to the end.

 

2018

When the siren sounds, I break the code.  The phrase ‘don’t look back’ enters my brain.  I turn and hastily depart.  If I turn around, I will turn into a pillar of salt.  I flee that ground in the blinking of an eye.  In particular, the heartbreak of 1981 comes flooding back.  Black and White Déjà vu.

 

1981

I am eight years old, watching at a cousin’s house in Bulleen, as the Pies surrender a 21-point lead and completely fall apart in the last quarter.  This is after the miseries of 1977, 1979 and 1980.  I was perhaps too young to understand the magnitude of the first few of these Grand Final losses.  But now I fully get it.  My older cousins are Carlton and Fitzroy supporters, and they watch with glee as the Pies choke again.  ‘Are you crying?’ they ask me with a perverse satisfaction.

 

2023

The game is a series of visions.  We race to a two-goal lead.  They peg us back.  Mason Cox is crucified and told to play on.  Bailey kicks a remarkable goal.  But we seem to end each quarter with a bang.  De Goey kicks a mighty one on the bell.  The second quarter is scary.  The Lions kick five of the first six.  It’s slipping away.  Memories of our second quarter capitulation in 2003 come to the fore.  This Brisbane team has genuine firepower.  And with Murphy gone, once again we are undersized down back.

But this team, geez.  Bobby is playing the game of his life.  Crisp kicks two crucial long-range goals.  For every easy goal we miss, we seem to be able to nail the long bombs to make up for it.  I remark to the Sydneysider next to me that I am bloody relieved to be in front at the half-time break – given where it looked like things were heading ten minutes ago.  He agrees.

The second half transpires as perhaps the most frustrating, nerve-tingling hour of my life.  We are clearly the better team now, but just can’t open up that two to three goal lead that will break the Lions.  Howe is colossal down back.  Markov is penalised because he steps back at the precise moment the umpire calls ‘stand’.  Pendles calmly slots our only goal of the term to wrest back the lead.

Everything is a blur from here.  We can’t put them away.  Some crucial free kicks go against us.  I am making noises, weird noises, guttural sounds are emanating from the depths of my soul.  When Charlie puts them back in front, we are completely deflated.  It feels like the football gods have spoken.  The cruel joke continues.

What we witness at the next centre bounce is perhaps the greatest moment in our club’s history.  Daicos – Pendlebury – Daicos – De Goey – goal.  In particular, the left-handed handball from Daicos to De Goey in mid-air is astonishing.  The handball of the century.  It’s almost as if the team is making a statement regarding the agonies of the past.  In ten seconds, the demons of the past have been exorcised.  How could I have doubted them, given what they’ve achieved over the past 16 months?  The 50-metre penalty paid to Sidebottom is a relief.  It buys us time, possession and territory.  I remark to the Sydneysiders that Sidey needs to find a target and run down the clock.  When he goes back and roosts it from 55, I am amazed.  We have a clear view of the Sherrin as it sails and sails and sails, right through the big white sticks.  Where and how did he find that extra ten metres?  A magical premiership is within reach.

Or is it?  There’s no denying that this Lions side is a great, great side and they just keep coming.  When Daniher reduces the margin to 4 points, I rip out my phone from my pocket and check the time remaining on the AFL app.  I don’t like doing this, but I have to know.  90 seconds.  Heaps of time.  What follows is the longest 90 seconds of my life.  I am shaking.  Anything can happen.  One mistake will cost a premiership.  But football gods, oh football gods, you are with us.  You are finally with us.  The siren sounds and the feelings of joy, relief and ecstasy that follow are tinged with another unexpected feeling: shock.  So much so, that the tears that I thought would flow freely are not forthcoming.  We have won a close Grand Final.  We don’t win close Grand Finals.  But we have.  I embrace my new magpie family in M22.  I somehow find the composure to facetime my wife and daughters who are watching at home.  We can’t hear each other, but who needs ears at such a time.  The facial expressions say it all.

I farewell my fellow troopers in M22 Standing Room and rush down to the fence to be as close to the presentations as possible.  Moore hands the cup to Moore.  1981 can get stuffed.  This is football heaven.  The hugging of strangers.  The longest lap of honour.  The weather still warm.  Still in shorts and t-shirt.  I have stood for close to ten hours to endure this moment.  This magnificent team.  Maybe not the best team on paper, but they just know how to win.  This premiership was forged in the fires of 2022.

Before my phone battery runs out, I manage to text my brother-in-law Ted who confirms that he will meet me outside Gate 6 in an hour or so.

When the last of the players have departed the arena, I finally turn around and walk back up the aisle.  And who do I see? Mike Brady, the great songmaker, sitting all alone at the back of M22, resplendent in a fluorescent shirt – the same one he was wearing when he graced the stage earlier on in the day to sing ‘Up There Cazaly’.  I want to tell him how much I love his music, but I notice he has a phone to his ear and is engaged in a conversation. ‘Mike Brady!’ I say with enthusiasm.  He looks up, smiles and high-fives me with his free hand as I walk past.

Alas, when I arrive at Gate 6, Ted is there waiting.  We embrace and then head over to the AIA Centre to enjoy the celebrations, but deep down I just can’t wait to get home to watch the replay, with a glass of scotch and a packet of crisps.

 

2010

In the lead-up to the 2010 decider, I am as crook as dog with nerves and have to take virtually the whole week off with sick leave.  I have a new boss and I think he is a bit perplexed by it all.  It’s a rare glimpse into my psyche for my work colleagues.  And then what do the Pies do? They draw the game and so I have go through it all again for another week.  I am a nervous wreck.   Two weeks of Grand Finals.  Two weeks of sick leave.

But this time the Pies get the job done, and what’s more Jase, Ted and I have managed to get seats in the Ponsford Stand to savour the moment.  My old man is there as well, with his best mate Mario in the Chemist Warehouse box.  After the presentations, I shoot him a text and we meet just outside of Gate 6 amongst a sea of black and white patrons.  We do something that we’ve never done before.  We hug.

 

1990

To break the Colliwobbles is a wondrous thing.  It is surely the most famous drought in Australian sport – not by the measurement of years, but by the measurement of agonies.  I have grown up with the Colliwobbles.  They are a part of me.

That night after all the celebrating, I pop the tape into the VCR at about 2am to watch the match again (I had instructed mum to record the game).  After reliving all the game highlights, I fast forward to the final siren…and then I see something quite staggering that I didn’t quite notice from my position in the stands: when the final siren sounded, the Essendon skipper Tim Watson made a point of seeking out Tony Shaw and embracing him.  Not a meaningless, robotic hug, but a genuine, compassionate hug.  Now Watson would have been hurting like hell, so for him to take the time to do that was a gracious, humble gesture that I will never forget, possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen on a footy field.

 

To read more from Damian Balassone click HERE.

 

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