Almanac Footy Memoir: Beloved Barass and how the Blues won the 1970 Grand Final.

 

 

 

By ANDREW “DOUGIE” FRASER

It’s possible for one footy match to re-unite you with loved ones long gone, to strengthen bonds with loved ones just budding into adulthood, and to connect, viscerally, with heroes met only fleetingly.

Carlton-Collingwood on Sunday will be such a match for me, with as much happening in the memory as on the MCG.

I’ll be there, coming down from Canberra with The Bride (Melbourne girl, lifelong Blue) and daughters Nos 2 and 3 (favourite sometime boundary umpire and current favourite Under-16 footballer). Texts will be exchanged throughout with son, 32, a Blueboy now resident in Swan City. Notes will be exchanged later with Daughter No. 1, not the keenest footy follower, which is almost excusable, given she’s got twin four-year-old boys and a partner with a predilection for rugby.

I’ll be there with Dad as well, no doubt repeating his enjoinders to me as a 1960s junior to “get in there” to any Blue I perceive to be not taking the perennial good example of my favourite, Ed Curnow.

Dad died in 1970, several months before that grand final.

Born in 1908, he was a lifelong Blues fan, at least as far as I knew, and couldn’t have been happier when one A. Jesaulenko left our local club, Eastlake, for Princes Park. At that stage, Dad was club patron (having defeated another Blue, R.G. Menzies, by a vote, according to family legend, for the position) and I was an awkward ruckman in the sub-atom Bs (Under 7s).

Dad, an ex-serviceman (Second AIF, New Guinea) was probably thinking of a future without him in it when he suggested, firmly, that I should get No. 31 on my Carlton jumper and not the 25 that was universally seen around Canberra from 1967 on.

The captain-coach, Dad instructed, was a good style of a bloke and worthy of a young man’s earnest observation. So, when Dad passed away with me just turned nine, Ronald Dale Barassi, not that he knew it, filled quite a chunk of the void.

I’ve met Barass only a handful of times, all of them magnificent. He was incisive, intense and gracious, just as I’d imagined, and he even laughed out loud when, at a Canberra sportsman’s night in the early 2000s, I presented him with a “theory” of the 1970 Grand Final that he had to admit he’d not previously considered.

You know the facts. Blues down by 44 points at half-time, miraculously back within three points inside a quarter of an hour, and ultimately successful by 10 points.

Here’s the theory. I never lost faith. Mum made out that she hadn’t either, but headed to the kitchen almost in tears, she would later relay, so much did she want Carlton to win for the only son who’d just lost his Dad. While there, she made a chocolate milkshake, a rare treat normally reserved for some occasion or other and not seen at times of near despair like half-time with the Pies so far ahead. It cheered me up no end, and, as Mum told anyone who’d listen for the next 42 of her 91 years, had been the critical element in that most wonderful of comebacks. Not Ted Hopkins coming on and kicking four. Not Wallsy being BOG. Not Big Nick directing and bustling and upsetting. Not Jezza reaching for the clouds and kicking bouncing left-foot sealers. No, it was the chocolate milkshake. Barass loved the yarn and signed a pic of himself playing that had pride of place on Mum’s bookshelf for many years.

I caught up with Barass some years later, when my son played in the international Barassi Youth Tournament in Canberra, organised by my dear mates Alan “Chopper” Reid and the late Rob “Blouse” Nisbet. Barass was in a particularly playful mood on this occasion, regaling us with many yarns of days past and opponents various, but making particular fun of me for wearing an EJ Whitten Legends match shirt (even though I pleaded I’d earned it by playing in the curtain-raiser for the over-35 Masters Allies against Combined Victoria on Princes Park). Ron was riotously, rollickingly unprintable about EJ.

He was also exceedingly kind, and had been well primed by my mates, when some years later again the Barassi tournament rolled into New Zealand.

My phone rang quite late in the Canberra evening, number unknown.

“Dougie” came the unmistakeable supercoach’s voice. “It’s Barass here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I just want to tell you that ‘Blouse’ is the greatest footballer I’ve ever seen.”

It was later in the evening there, but not too late for the gracious RDB to make a moment I hope I’ll never forget.

We’ve all learned that Barass is having some issues with forgetting these days, no longer able to identify each of those 17 grand finals for 10 premierships, all achieved across only 25 years – that unmatchable record.

While deeds and days may fade, I hope he never loses touch with how much he is loved and how much his example continues to shine. Getting the best out of what you’ve been given. Getting the best out of others. Giving football the prominence it deserves as a test of character and determination, more than a mere a contest of skills and strategies.

On Sunday, I’ll be remembering Barass, and all he’s shown me. I’ll be thinking also of the generations above and below, some hoarse beside me, others not taking up a seat these days but very present nonetheless.

And with a bit of luck, I won’t need a chocolate milkshake at halftime.