Almanac Footy: The Boy Who Couldn’t Stop Dreaming
“Football is the most important thing of the least important things in life.” Arrigo Sacchi, Italian football manager.
In my adolescence I dreamed longingly of being at the G to see a Geelong Grand Final. I dreamed of this more than I dreamed of Trish from The Clouds. More than I did of the Socceroos being at a World Cup or meeting John Peel. The very notion of it teased me, preyed on my thoughts and took advantage of my limerence.
With my local side West Perth I was threatened to go for them by my older brothers lest I eat dog food. With Geelong when you had to choose a then VFL team in WA it was more organic. The colours aesthetically pleased, there was the injustice of Neville Bruns being coward punched, there was Jacko! Even in the book/TV show ‘Pugwall’ that I devoured in primary school the titular Peter Unwin George Wall was not only a sick guitar player but a proud Cats supporter. He even took Jenny the lead singer of the Orange Organics to the G on a date. Us Gedlings also first settle in the region back in the day before their migration to WA for the gold rush. Good enough for me to claim some sort of connection.
I resisted the sirens call of the Eagles and then Dockers. If anything it made me double down on the Cats when we lost in 92 and 94 to become even more of a pariah at high school in Rockingham. A microcosm of perhaps being an outsider in the grand scheme of things in life. It was the Cats by pain of death.
There were some hard years after the 1989-95 Grand Final blunders but I still followed them blindly hoping for that one day. I finally saw them at the G in 2001 on an Easter Monday the day Jason Snell broke his leg and never played again. After a delayed uni stint and starting a career of sorts luckily I was living overseas for the SCG heartbreak in 2005 and general misery of the 2006 campaign. The Socceroos made a World Cup and more than made up for previous nightmares. John Peel left this earth but a close friend had taken a piss next to him in the toilets at the BBC’s Broadcasting House in London so that was good enough for me.
Then the long-awaited premiership(s) came for Geelong like a seismic blast. A sometimes visitor to Kardinia Park, but never able to afford to get to Melbourne for the big one, I celebrated in a now dear departed friend’s backyard for the 44 year drought breaker in 2007. I found a place to happily sob in private as older Cats fans Australia-wide decided that their pin number was no longer 1-9-6-3. I suffered through the 2009 classic at the old Hyde Park Hotel, missing Chappy’s goal because I was pacing around the car park unable to watch along with dear Brian. Brian was a local Cats fan who found supporting Geelong to be a never-ending extensional crisis. My last great day at a lost part of WA pub history before gentrification came calling.
2011 was a coronation of our greatness of sorts with Meatloaf as the off-key soundtrack. A time to appreciate it all with Perth Cats. Each premiership I drunk at levels that some would deem excessive even for someone on death row. We’d done it. I was content with this part of my existence…but I hadn’t been there. Been at the G when we did it. A boy kept dreaming.
As I seemed to hurtle through my 30s sucking the marrow out of life and a complete dilettante the Cats were always there or thereabouts. So much so they became the tallest of poppies in the footy world. We were expected to drop down but never really did. We rebuilt our list on the run with legends and new stars passing like ships in the night. For every Stevie J or Chappy leaving in came a new love in a Guthrie or Bews. The fact Harry Taylor came from the same town my parents lived had him instantly pegged as my favourite. I had no hesitation in telling Eagles fans there was no shame in Josh Kennedy being the second best player to ever come from Northampton. We got in Paddy Dangerfield, the superstar returning to his home region like Jesus on Palm Sunday. I had the cash together and booking ready to go if we got past the preliminary final in 2016 but Buddy and the Swans had other ideas.
If only finding the replacement for Brad Ottens or wondering if we could turn it around in September were the biggest stresses in life. Later in 2016 I came back from a holiday with adult measles which almost did me in and had to make changes. Then there was the redundancy at Christmas. 2017 was a bit of a blur. Still in recovery. Career worries. A lack of creativity in life. Everyone getting older. I was watching my parents, other family and friends get older feeling helpless to really do anything about it. The usual approaching 40 questions that everyone asks themselves. Second guessing your achievements in life. Was I always present when it mattered.
I tried a common WA past time of leaving my chosen career and working in Oil and Gas during 2017 which ended up with a cancelled project and another job loss before Christmas. Geelong again made a prelim and were a nonsense in the game losing easily to Adelaide. The same deer in the headlights first quarter as against the Swans. The same questions asked about the coach, the players and everything else on nuffie internet forums and Facebook comment sections. Same as it ever was. The Cats were a mere spectator by their standards in 2018 barely making the finals and going out at the first hurdle to a resurgent Melbourne. They did beat Ross Lyon and the Dockers by a record margin though. I was there in the hail and wind in Geelong with Dockers mates, enjoying the absurdity of it all. All of it really didn’t matter apart from one-upmanship. Footy was somehow turning in to this for me. A just-glad-to-be-there past time which kind of repulsed me. I tried studying in 2018 in some attempt to be a faux academic which didn’t seem to suit. Got a postgrad degree and an criminally evil robodebt notice out of all of it.
Towards Christmas in 2018 then came the beginning of a then partner’s succumbing to illness. A horrible illness out of nowhere that didn’t discriminate. The fact they would fight on but never be the same again and how the beautiful changed. Ridiculous thoughts at the worst of times tried telling me that it was somehow my fault. I just went ahead on autopilot. No time for real emotion or to feel aggrieved about the unfairness of it all or being a burden. I was proactive and friends and family found an extra level of care, I was sidestepped by some. I just knew that those who helped I hoped I could learn to do to others when it was their time. There were slips. There was self-medicating. I went out and gave off the facade of getting through but it was dead behind the eyes at times.
I trudged on through a fog even but just so tiring. I something thought I was out the other end but then you went back in. I just wished for relief. There were some good times, some clarity, some hope but they were brief and hard to cling to. The professionals I went and saw and you are supposed to go and see to get through the ‘stages’ just seemed to come across to be peddling Live, Laugh, Love kind of answers. To get through tough times in the past there was always a black humour to use as a tool, a way to discredit and almost mock problems. This seemed to be turning from black humour in to bitterness but I stood back from falling in to an abyss of such thoughts. Guthrie the rescue Bull Arab X went from a rescue dog to a kind of therapy dog. His zooms down on the banks of the Swan to remind myself of the simple things. His one open eye always seemingly watching me from the other couch on some solitary nights almost making sure I was okay.
All the while the world seemed to literally and figuratively be on fire. A toe cutting Government more interested in being pious throwing the have-nots against the wall. So much division everywhere.
With her battle continuing through 2019 and reaching its nadir the Cats surged again and made another prelim final. I was invested as much as I could muster. It just seemed to be like going through a procession but the façade continued. “How’s things?” “Yeah good!” At half time during the 2019 prelim final at the Guilderton Bowling Club I was primed to finally make that booking to the G with Geelong holding a decent lead. Richmond ran over us in the second half. Same as it ever was with Geelong.
2020 brought Covid and a truncated AFL season. We had it good in Perth, better than most of the world. My career was back on track and my future assured. A comfortable middle-class existence pushing me in to the level of a champagne socialist yet I still felt I was always late for something mentally. An album or book couldn’t quite nail the feeling. Neither could a trip or anything afforded to someone so lucky to be able to do so. Between trying to find definition and processing there was far more doom scrolling and blinking life away.
The Cats finally broke their prelim hoodoo in a shorted season and were in the Grand Final. It felt great I guess. We again took on Richmond and had them at half time but Dusty confirmed his legendary status as we were over run at the Gabba. I watched locked in to WA on a balmy October night, the sense of an opportunity lost. The best about the day being friends all being there to support the Cats. Feeling loved. The collective misery of what was going on in the world was helping me get to the other end of the battle of the past couple of years. To move on. I knew that everyone goes through things like this at some level and it was just my turn. Yet it didn’t seem that easy to come to that conclusion for a long time. In these couple of years of having everything shifted laterally both through Covid and trauma I wondered what could have been achieve if focusing on one thing in that time. A bizarre cerebral FOMO.
By 2021 Covid still had us all reeling but Perth had the hosting rights to the Grand Final. It wasn’t the G but all things considered it would do. I finally got to see the Cats in a final, an unconvincing win over the GWS on the night Joel Selwood became the greatest Cat. We were in another prelim (our sixth in nine years) and this time it was the Dees. I stood on the wing at the usual spot at Perth Stadium. Hopeful..kind of. Early in the second half with Geelong again struggling I did a Lawrence Oates and decided to go for a walk and would be some time. By three quarter time I was in a small bar in Claisebrook, the phone buzzing with mocking messages such was Geelong’s poor performance. Another loss. Prelim final losses hung over Geelong like Mambo No 5 hangs over Lou Bega. Were we ever going to do it with this side?
Then it came to 2022. It as getting clearer again. In the wash up of what had happened and it seemed Geelong’s football department. It seemed I was back to what Prince sung about in Raspberry Beret when he sung he was busy doing something close to nothing but different to the day before.
This was finally the processing they talk about. Geelong made some changes, brought in some new blood including the mercurial young indigenous forward Tyson Stengle. Our big win over Essendon was a huge shot across the bow to the competition in Round 1. Yet early in the season we just seemed to be good but not good enough again. We lost to the Dockers in Geelong. We dropped our bundle against a piss poor Hawks side on Easter Monday. The loss to St Kilda a week later was listened to in and out of radio reception whilst driving with a friend between Meekatharra and Newman. I shook the hand of a Saints mate in Newman in congratulations. I thought this would be another season of nothing. Another season of being at a bar in East Perth with a vibrating phone.
Then the Cats didn’t lose again. Maybe swimming with a whale shark or hitting a golf ball across the tropic of Capricorn on that trip with friends changed something in the universe. A week later we beat Port on the day the most poisonous and damaging of federal governments this country had arguably seen was put out on its arse. I spent that night toasting possible but unlikely new political beginnings with my Dad and some friends with some ‘Kyrup Syrup’. Hope regenerated in more ways than one. We flat track bullied teams in Geelong and got the wins in Melbourne at the G and Docklands. Had we found a system that could take us that extra step? In Perth before the Eagles game the Cats CEO Steven Hocking gave a speech with the confidence and zeal of some politician who knew they would be winning an upcoming election in a landslide. He knew we were going to go VERY close this season and to jump on board. A light rekindled. Geelong mattered. Footy mattered. Pretending it didn’t was a lie to myself, the boy dreamed again. A balance.
Against Richmond at the G we slayed a the mental ghosts with a stirring comeback and late Jack Henry goal to get us home. Carlton thought they may have had our measure at the MCG to take top 4 but we sent them on their way and in to a hilarious tail spin for the rest of the season. The alleged experts started to talk us up. Analyzed us. Try to justify their awful analysis that had them on the footy media gravy train between their various personal and professional faux pas. Atkins was a beast in the middle for the Cats. The laconically brilliant Jeremy Cameron’s hamstring held together up front. Paddy was rested and primed for finals. Hawkins was a colossus in career best form even at his advanced age. All of this was complemented by a Geelong defence that was just so strong and interchangeable. The back six was reliable and now featuring the new golden boy, Sam De Koening or ‘SDK’ as we named him. He seemed to be as calm as a Hindu cow in the most fierce of blue ribbon games.
The Cats finished top easily. Something we had done in recent times but always ended in a prelim final loss. Not this time. It couldn’t be this time. The eternal Joel Selwood in his advanced years was still relentless as a leader, player and lifeblood for the club. He was still ‘Boy Wonder’ to me when he came in to the side in 2007 and stayed being a symbol of this golden age. When it mattered HE mattered.
I snapped before the finals and got a package tour to Melbourne for the Grand Final. It was an expensive risk but it is a time to be foolhardy after second guessing and sleepwalking through a lot. Time to back myself and the team. If we didn’t make it it was my own stupid fault. In the finals bye week I grabbed an old religious picture I had with Paddy’s face stuck over Jesus and put it in the front window of the house. Part sacrilege, part giving the curtain twitching neighbours something to complain about in the cliquey street whatsapp group. The stupid notion of pressure being a privilege when your team was the one to beat. Pressure is a privilege…PRESSURE IS A PRIVILEGE!
“Excuse me, Sir? Do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Paddy Dangerfield?”
First up in the finals was the qualifying final against a young and cocky Collingwood. A true test of faith. I headed to a friend’s near me in Bassendean I personally dubbed ‘The Echo Chamber’ as it was a Geelong stronghold. No dissenting voices. The Hawk named ‘Flash’ was allowed but his opinions were measured, on point, not to antagonise. Above all else respectful. The meat and gravy roles were as always a god send, the dark ales I counted and sipped as not to binge in the stress of it all but they still went straight to my head. If it wasn’t to be a finals win then it would most definitely be gout.
The Pies led early and pushed all the way. The pressure was immense. 2009 Grand Final walking about the Hydey car park levels of pressure. I thought about poor Brian. I found different places to stand and sit hoping it generates some Feng Shui to get Geelong over the line. Some of us watched on the outside TV, some inside but all end up together in the final quarter. We come out on top, the epic game sealed with a Max Holmes goal line punt. There was hugs, there was emotion, there’s the debilitating euphoria of it all. This more than any alcohol consumed had me hardly remembering the following Dockers win. We were in another prelim final.
Friends told me over a beer that it was nothing. It’s the prelim we always cough up. The Brisbane Lions did us a huge favour taking out Richmond and Melbourne, two sides that had brushed us aside on their way to their own glory in recent years. When we faced the Lions they were spent and we walked in to the Grand Final. A superb way to overcome the curse. Watching it on an end of season footy trip in Guilderton with another Cat we rode every ebb and flow of the game even though we had it in the bag early in the game. We had to make sure. We were in. I was on my way to the G to see the Cats.
Grand Final week seemed to go terribly quickly. The Cats beanie hardly came off in September and especially this week. It was like a security blanket for the brain going through all the possibilities of what could happen. Saint Paddy still blessed all those who passed him on the street from the window. On the flight over on the Thursday came the first wave of emotions I was going to be there and I’m at the end of something bleak.
On the Friday it was time for the more ceremonial parts of Grand Final week, both official and unofficial. Officially the traditional parade was back on. A first since 2019 like so many other things with the game being back in Melbourne. The part including the Yarra cruise was bizarre and awkward at best. One to say you there for like Angry Anderson’s Batmobile at Waverley in 1991 or Jim Richards calling the crowd a bunch of arseholes at Bathurst around the same era.
Experimental AFL river art performance.
Throngs walked around to Yarra Park next to the G where the parade ended and the stage was set up. I walked past the teens and their chaperones lining up for Billy Eilish at the Rod Laver Arena and was personally chuffed that camping out for gigs was still a thing. I walked past the bizarre new Michael Gudinski statue and statues of tennis champs that was like something from a cheap Netflix dark ages mini series.
There were people everywhere in some rare footy jumpers that would fetch four or five figures on Ebay. Pure woollen kit porn. Joel Selwood seemed determined in his speech on the stage. Luke Parker kind of happy to be there. Was I just thinking this? Is it 2008 arrogance that cost us a flag? What is this confidence and thinking we are the side to beat! Pressure is a privilege! I broke my unwritten rule of never buying anything new before a game thinking it’s a curse and got the Footy Record. We are going to win this. There is no hiding anymore with anything.
After the parade was the Footy Almanac Grand Final Lunch where JTH was already holding court on stage. A tremendous afternoon of wine, laughs and pontificating as always. I was placed next to Keith Richards. This is Keef the retired law partner and wine buff with the OAM, not the other Keef who used to hang out at a South London train station with some blues LPs. The former a true gent. The latter I have never met, well not yet anyway. Seated near me were people that lit up when they hear my parents live in Northampton. They asked what was in the water there that produces so many great players. ‘Lead’ is the only true answer I could give.
Tom Papley’s parents were the star speakers at the lunch. “What you see is what you get with Tom, he’s an unrelenting little shit” was the honest description from his father. Citrus Bob Utber got behind the mike as per usual and informed the uninitiated in his usual not that it matters way is that Paddy Dangerfield is his grandson. He does indeed get around. Everyone on stage had muscle memory and hadn’t missed a beat post lockdown with getting their luncheon speech groove back. Like a retired heavyweight champ shadow boxing on a talk show.
Citrus Bob’s comment about no matter what happens it is just great that people are all back in Melbourne talking football hits a chord with everyone. I can only imagine what the lockdowns would have done to this city. To anywhere that wasn’t Perth. We kicked on after the lunch, we always did. Live music, some more confident discussion about why we’ll win, some more wine.
Grand Final Day was in glorious sunshine. After breakfast I walked, a lot. Solivtur Ambulando to use a wanky Latin term. If I stopped I feared I may stop breathing. The echo chamber and others were flying in from WA that morning. I was set to meet JTH for one or two before the game but he was delayed. This I didn’t mind as I wasn’t quite ready for a bar and talk of the game. I feared rather than being a joyful pre-game drinker I’d a be a quiet, tense drinker. Think less “hammered at the wedding on a loved one”, more “I’d better have another pint before I get my leg amputated as there’s no anesthetic on this Victorian era whaling ship.”
I went and saw ‘Chloe’ at Young and Jacksons and got a photo for Mum. Mum always told me to see Chloe for her each time I went to Melbourne. A hackneyed touristy thing to do but our family doesn’t have that many traditions. I sat at a window near Chloe with a beer and look out over the fans crossing over the road and on to the G in the 4HD sunshine. The colours, the expectations of every single person heading along. I tried to take it in. I got a text from Mum thanking me for the photo. Chloe got me up the favourite son rankings. I welled up, again thinking of her and Dad trying to understand the struggles of the past years and not being able to offer more than love and dedication. Her Dockers should get there one day.
The walk to the G was was more an apprehensive shuffle than confident strut, but as I walked to games of enormous significance in the past it tended to be the defeats you remembered opposed to the victories. You are risking the worst of days to have the best of days when it comes to Grand Finals. The walk over the William Barak Bridge with everyone decked out had me question my own sanity that it was happening. That foolish little teenage wish. The boy dreaming. It felt like the last unrealistic final act in a terrible TV movie about footy that is directed by someone who has never been to a match, but is perfectly happy to be associated with a flop film where the game was won by a player who was taught to kick by a ghost.
Robbie Williams’ backing dancers were warming up in their sequenced lame’ outfits in the cricket nets. I walked a lap around outside of the G, a quick hello to the departed Warnie and Betty Cuthbert up on their pedestals. I did a quick purchase of an Isaac Smith badge. I’d loved Izzy ever since he sprayed that shot against Geelong in 2016. I felt that act pus him up to Cats legend status even before he played for us. The stress over hoping my ticket scanned felt like trying to get from East to West Berlin hidden in the back of a Trabant. Suffocating. Nauseating. I got through. I was in. Pressure is a privilege!
Izzy…
The seats were high but very decent near the MCC members heading towards the Punt Road end where the Cats supporters were. In the row in front of me were a bunch of Dockers loving ‘eshays’ who booked their packages when Freo knocked off Melbourne in May. The folly of youth but boys having a great time. To my left were Eagles fans that most certainly did NOT want to talk about Tim Kelly. To my right were an older couple who tutted at the Welcome to Country, tutted at tribute to Uncle Jack on the big screen and generally seemed just put off by the entire occasion. Annoyed by merely existing. Behind me were an entire bay of Cats fans. I know I would interact with them more than anyone over the next few hours. A few nods to people I didn’t even know.
Robbie Williams did what it said on the tin, he was entertaining. I came to accept long ago that someone like the Cosmic Psychos or Dave Warner were never going to play this gig so may as well accept who they get in and enjoy the spectacle. The teams entered the arena, the closing of the eyes listening to the song to be in the here and the now. The G looked an absolute treat in the bright afternoon sun. Like the way the Wembley Stadium pitch in the sun almost leapt out of the television on FA Cup Nights as a kid. Pink Floyd’s Time counted us down to the opening siren. This was it.
The Cats settled instantly. The engorged man brute Tom Hawkins missed one early but then rag-dolled the journeyman ruckman Hickey to snap two quick goals to get us on our way. Swans replied through Haywood but it was a mere blip for the Cats. Blicavs snapped thanks to grunt work from Paddy. From the restart Paddy’s work again resulted in a ball eventually bouncing for Izzy to goal. Izzy had another two minutes later when he shook off a meek Swans tackle and finished. The handballs in the lead up from Selwood and Duncan sublime.
Izzy then spun out of a contest and snapped to Brad Close to mark and goal. The long sleeve wearing Close was now rivaling Dave Graney as my favourite ever Mt Gambier born human being. Every goal I was standing and turning around to the Geelong throng arms aloft. The Nanna behind me dabbed at her eyes, every player kicking a goal one of ‘her boys’. 35 points up at quarter time. I locked eyes on a few people behind me. A raising of the eyebrows and puffing of cheeks like we had just heard how much Elon Musk paid for Twitter. The Cats were on.
The Cats continued to rebound from the back and smash the Swans. Kolo, so often used as a stick to beat the rest of the team with by some fans ever present at the back. Zach Guthrie, the stick figured younger brother of Cam also stoic and finally delivering. Tyson Stengle, a redemption story the ages, marked and goaled. Hawkins was held and went back to kick his third. The defence showed no remorse repelling all bar two times the Sydney attack. Stengle marked again on a tight angle but slotted it like a 200 game veteran. What a find. The Swans tried to press and we now started to look we may wilt a little. Isaac Heeney finally showed up and kicked a goal, the star Swan having a shocking afternoon. The Cats led by 6 goals but all of a sudden, we needed the siren and got it.
I broke my unwritten rule of not drinking at a live game like the hypocrite I am. Downstairs at the bar at half time I was approached by Scott the Pastoralist. He told me he was in the row behind me and the son-in-law of the Nanna who loves her boys. Little did I notice Scott’s heavily pregnant wife next to her when I spun around to celebrate each goal with my pupils going around in different orbits such was my delight. My chat with Scott the Pastoralist was weird and other worldly. Like he knew all about me. We talked the time he went to the mansion owned by Lewis Roberts-Thompson’s parents in Mosman, our jobs, our families, and what will happen in the third quarter. He echoed Citrus Bob from the day before talking about how great it was to have this day back at the G and we were blessed to see our team in it.”A couple of early goals and we’ve got em but shit we needed that siren” said Scott the Pastoralist in his country twang not stamped out by a Church of England Grammar Boarding School stint. Cats fans walked past who we locked eyes with. A lot of eyes wild with delight. They wanted to chirp. They couldn’t just yet. We were so close.
Bonding with Scott the Pastoralist means I missed the first minute of the third quarter which means I missed a goal. Mitch Duncan, a West Australian and one of the last of the 2011 team ran down a hapless Swan and put the free kick through. An older Swans fan muttered ‘they got one’ to whoever was listening as he came down the stairs. Four minutes in Scott the Pastoralist’s prophecy was coming true when an errant defensive kick from the Swans was picked off by Close who snapped truly again. One more and we had it I told myself. One more and I could relax. It wasn’t long before I could. Paddy’s raging bull persona won another contest with the ball finding Izzy after a string of selfless handballs. Izzy kicked his third. Cam Guthrie got one, Stengle got a third and a fourth with the latter a snap from the boundary right underneath my position. Delirium. 72 points at three quarter time. The Cats fans in the 100,000+ all seemed to exhale together.
I decided I needed another drink, a chardonnay if they had it. Lining up for the bar are other Cats fans we jabbered excitedly and non-sensibly like it’s the chill out room of a rave at 3am. We showed each other pictures of our dogs named after Cats champs. Guthrie of course with someone showing me Chappy (version 3.0 apparently). There was no white wine left. Red will do. When I got back up to the seats the older couple have gone finally accepting they were having a miserable time at such a one-sided contest and modern respectful pre game ceremonies honouring our first nations people.
Jeremy Cameron finally got a goal and Brandon Parfitt the sub kicked a goal, his joy and bewilderment matching every Cats fan in that moment: “When did he come on?!!?!?!” ” I dunno! Who cares!” Then SDK somehow wandered up front like whispering death to kick his first ever Geelong goal. Buddy Franklin was given ironic cheers when he got a possession such was his lack of impact. Cats fans never forgot or forgave 2008 and all those classics with the Hawks. All eyes were now on Selwood as we all thought that was going to probably be it for the champion. To try and savoir his last moments. So many ‘fridge magnet’ moments I had seen on this day but we just wanted that one more. A Selwood goal. Towards the end a neat little flick saw Selwood find the ball and he threw it on the edge of his boot. Somehow it flew through and there was a frenzied, hysterical tinge rare at footy games. Every Cats fan on their feet roaring like bears. Selwood cried, his mother and wife in the stands cried, many fans in the stands did. Like Ling’s goal in 2011 an amazing moment to go out on.
A moment etched in time. Cameron kicked one more, his celebration of cracking a can missed as I’m picked up from behind by Scott the Pastoralist in celebration. Some of the eshays high five, their bets have come in. Maybe the trip wasn’t a waste.
At the final siren there were no truly wild celebrations. Just joy. Pure joy. Grins like Cheshire cats. Satisfied minds one and all. The win had been realised long before the final siren so we had time to take it in. I noticed the little things around the ground. The Swans fans who hung around (most to be fair) in the bay next to us, the stage being set up, the special guests hanging around waiting for their moment. A friend pointed out later that Nathan Buckley was playing kick to kick with his son while waiting to hand out the Norm Smith Medal.
With a predictable quip, Buckley gave the Norm to Izzy. I’d like to think my purchase of the badge helped this in some mysteries of the cosmos kind of way. Paddy was stiff not to win it. The players, one and all a story within themselves got their medals. There were the old stagers finally with a flag. Stanley, Tuohy, Blix…Paddy! The Guthrie brothers. Mouse Bews doing what his old man couldn’t and winning a flag with Geelong. Jack Henry who grew up literally next to Kardinia Park. Chucky Rohan whose clutch mark and goal against the Pies was probably the moment of the finals and told those who said he was a finals choker to walk back in to the sea. Tom Stewart and Tom Atkins, boys picked up from the local Geelong league..South Barwon and St Joeys boys through and through.
Finally, Selwood was up on the dais geeing up the crowd. His speech affirming. Giving away his boots to the Auskicker an example of the character of this departing legend. Him and Chris Scott lifted the cup, a gleaming light that you could see from the very back row of the G like a holy grail. It was the first time I’d seen glitter cannons in person since Ange Postecoglou and his Socceroos won the Asian Cup in 2015. The lap of honour was a more random stroll in front of all the Cats fans at the Punt Road Rd end directly under where I stood, toasting with the red. No one wanted to leave. The players families came on to the field to celebrate. I thought of those not on this earth now from when last time we won it all. Pamela from the Perth Cats, Paul Couch, Frank Costa, Tom Hawkins’ mum Jenny. I thought of those who would have been apoplectic with happiness in that moment. I even hoped the teenager and her nan from the Google advert were having a great day watching it together and they were only actors.
I seem to get down from the top level of the G to the thorougfare outside the entrances in Olympic record time. The wait for the WEG posters outside seemed too long but everyone in the line would take it. Some Perth Cats walked past. Names were yelled out. Embraces were had. Promises were made to meet up at such and such a bar. Promises that were never going to be met. The rendezvous point for myself and others was the The Windsor opposite Parliament House. The steps of which I’d seen more than enough times on the news during the pandemic when occupied by protesting cookers. I seemed to glide there in a strut only a premiership winning fan could do. A strut that would look problematic at a Bunnings or walking the dog down the park.
Like a $2 Shop Pied Piper I was imploring everyone to come to the Windsor. I needed, in my wide eyed hyper happiness, to celebrate with EVERYONE. A socialist social celebration. I spoke with my old man. He was congratulatory but wanted a closer game. Can’t have them all Mutley. Spoke to mates all together watching the game. They’re exhilarated for me but also 3 hours in to a drinks package. A few chirpy posts to WhatsApp Groups. I was fighting a losing battle for it to settle in. How is Good is Footy! It was the post game mantra. I yelled that at different interim moments up Batman Ave and on to Flinders to cheers from the blue and the white.
The Echo Chamber (and JTH) post game.
I found the echo chamber at The Windsor. There’s hugs, there’s tears, there’s of course beer. A friend’s son and mate haven’t been to bed in two days due to lack of accommodation. They seemed to have seen it had been worth it. JTH was in another part of the big circle bar but a high five was achieved. It all just seemed so too good to be true. After this JTH and I trained it over to the All Nations, on the way discussing of Frank Zappa and the modern context of the controversial (to say the least) track ‘Bobby Brown goes Down’.
At the All Nations there are many of the Almanac Cats. Mr P Flynn, Dips et al. We were all smugger than 1001 Scott Morrissons. WA Cat and Almanacker Adam Fox joined us. We discussed the game, the easiness of it, all with a did that just happen zeal. The replay came on the TV. The beer then the wine flowed. It was important to eat. The front bar was full of Cats fans all embracing, all in various states of ecstasy. Some wondering how long they could play chicken with the V-Line timetable and the final train back to Geelong. We oohed and aahed over the replay, the best of Robbie Williams piping through on the speakers. I didn’t mind.The next day was spent reflecting. That was after a quick trip to the markets to get replacement sunglasses lost somewhere the day before. It was up to Fitzroy to some old favourites to meet up with other favourites.
Could we not look more smug.
Like something from the Cosmic Psychos song ‘Pub’ there was the Workers Club, the Labor in Vain, the Standard. Not getting to the John Curtin Hotel one more time will haunt me for some time yet. I went through all the reports and the pictures on the phone. Paddy’s picture where he holds and looks at the cup like a first born son had me in bits. The odd too emotional social media posts after a couple of strong pints topping up from the night before were posted. I had had enough of thinking being emotional was a burden. At the Standard I caught up with the erstwhile Rudi Edsall, writer of a blog that went through all the emotions of the Cats season. When I got there there’s a spare copy of the Herald Sun on the bar. I had never been happier to see that divisive rag. We went through the articles, the pictures, the various stories. Glorious.
Back in Perth after all of this was a feeling of gratitude. Of finally getting there, of achieving a boyish dream. Of getting through everything of the past few years learning and understanding at the same time. Just to get some kind of lesson and experience from it for others let alone myself. It was time to suck the marrow out of life again and revel in family, friends, footy, music, passion. The now, the future but also those fridge magnet moments in life.
In recent times of clarity of think of lyrics like from Joni Mitchell’s ‘Black Crow’:
“In search of love and music, my whole life has been illumination, corruption, and diving, diving, diving. Diving down to pick up on every shiny thing.”
It feels like that again. The past will stay with me but hopefully help with the future. The Cats are premiers. I was finally there. What’s next.
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Wow Dennis. What a story. What a journey.
This year’s premiership was one of the great days of my existence and not because the Cats won (which was HUGE) but because what the Cats’ victory brought about – a gathering across several days of great mates, family, and general good cheer.
Footy might be the most important thing of the least important things but the joy it can bring is just magnificent. And important.
Double wow Dennis. Good on you, I say. Good on you.
But I’m now quivering at the thought that there are “street Whatsapp groups”
I’ve finally had the chance to read this unencumbered by anything.
Superb.
Wonderful observations. Raw honesty. Great connection to footy – and life.
Thanks Dennis. This will feature on The Cats Almanac 2022.
And, as for 2023, please return to the Tropic of Capricorn.
That Dennis pushes it about. Geelong felt his karma and responded. What a superb build .swans and port Adelaide felt the fury .
Magnificent piece Dennis. You took me on a journey…and I am happy for your joy.
And I like your Sacchi quote at the top. When he was criticised by the media for never having played the game, he responded: ‘I never realised that to become a jockey you needed to be a horse first.’