Almanac Footy: 1000 x Buddy and Old Dog saw it all

 

 

 

 

The fences are already buckling, brimming with kids, the length of the oval. Another chest mark, Buddy comes in to kick his 1000th. The dam breaks before the ball’s left his boot. Its simply time. There’s this manic, almost beautiful implosion of red and white barnstorming towards him, As green just disappears.

 

It reminds me of fire consuming paper, for some reason.

 

But the numbers keep coming. Every gate onto the oval is being opened, more and more red and white pouring out, wave after wave, happy, laughing, in love with life and Buddy Franklin.

 

Soon, somehow, there are more people on the turf than in the stands. Everybody content, smiling. In the middle of the chaos, we can just see the great man, not huddled and angry, not dead-faced, but fist pumped, yelling to the world, a smile like you’ve never seen. Embracing the throng, the madness!

 

He loves it. He should love it. It validates our love it. This is right. His war cries alone make him worthy. Let alone all the years of sweat and pain and public opinion ping pong, the sacrifice it takes to match such exquisite genetics.

 

My wife is in the corporate booth with us, guest of my great, great mate, Andy and his amazing wife Senta, all of us laughing, drinking, having a ball. This is Elena’s first time out, in four years, without our baby girl. A Venezuelan, she supports my love of the game, without it ever seizing her. Out on the oval, people are everywhere! Her soft hands caress my face from behind, she hugs me.

 

‘MI Amore, I get it!’

 

Latinos understand passion. Right now, she’s so happy.

 

The game itself becomes this weird, secondary thing, way below, having started with flamethrower entries, a big screen telling us what to think, fireworks, American bullshit. Rock music after every goal that continues until the ball is literally in play again. Drowning out every cheer, belittling every cheer squad chant, every reason to barrack.

 

Sit back and consume, that’s an order. It’s a show, Sydney. A new team, building beautifully, with work ethic, a ripper spread of hard-working no-names, and Luke Parker, who has gone up to the next level, versus a spent mob, still riddled with names, talent, but reeking of faded imagination.

 

When Buddy got his first goal, we cheered. Jack Henry was doing well on him, despite Sydney’s dominance. Then there was a free, then another goal, balancing him on 999, everybody screaming ‘Kick it to Buddy!” at throw ins, to people having a shot from ten out, to Geelong players, to ground attendants returning the ball to the oval.

 

It was fun. Every goal, Buddy challenged the gods with his celebrations. The worst poker player ever. But that’s why I like him so much. There’s always that grin, lurking.

 

A few of the Swans players were silly enough to listen to us. They bombed it long. It says everything about Buddy’s force of will that he can have done so well over almost two decades without being able to take an overhead. In the air, easy-peasy, the defenders were all over him.

 

Yet his pace, his strength, his drive, there he was, one goal short of mythology.

 

A new Swans kid got the pill on the wing, with an open forward half of the oval, Buddy running back towards goal, 60 from him. The Swans were well up, he had chip options everywhere, but went the torp, trying to land it on the empty goalside of Franklin.

 

Torps are a forgotten art, the kick sprayed hopelessly out of bounds. I stood and applauded him. He had a go for Lance, he got it.

 

Then, a Swan charging from 70m, lowered his eyes; Buddy’s opponent was caught between defending goal lines and greatness. Lance took a chesty.

 

 

 

 

Then, history.

 

Buddy, you made my wife happy, me happy, everybody happy. The way those numbers just kept pouring out to you. What a deadly moment! You ripper.

 

History books will record the moment, but not the joy you brought a nation. How lucky were we to be there and feel it.

 

 

 

 

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