Country football has its own unique version of the three-quarter-time huddle where the senses of the assembled club supporters are treated to a melange of sights, smells and sounds. My memories of this Saturday afternoon country football ritual in the Ovens and Murray League are vivid.
Bulldogs supporters quickly make their way out onto Martin Park from their boundary-side seats and standing positions on the banks around the ground, many glancing at the Stiff and Gannon scoreboard to check how close the game has become.
The loyal followers gather around the tiring players, busy trainers and concerned committeemen for the ritual three-quarter-time huddle before the last stanza of football. It is after 4pm and the sun has lowered to an annoying angle in the late afternoon sky. There is a sudden chill in the air as spectators react by tightening their scarves and raising the collars on their coats.
Inside the three-quarter-time huddle
(source: author)
Youngsters try to get a better view of their home-town heroes by squeezing between the adults assembled in a ring surrounding the players and their attendants. Some boys and a few girls punt their brown leather footballs kick-to-kick style out on the oval, oblivious to the events unfolding on both wings. An old black labrador wanders nonchelantly past the Bulldogs huddle while an inquisitive little white terrier joins the company.
Players rest, either lying on their sides or sitting on the turf, with arms crossed over their raised knees. Grass and mud stains cover the footballers’ knees and socks-down legs. Juicy sliced oranges are welcomed by the thirsty players, then the peels are discarded on the grass nearby. Many in the throng have their dentures out, or front teeth missing, giving their faces a hollow, gaunt look. Sweat beads on the foreheads of the players as trainers dressed in white overalls weave their way around the cluster offering towels to wipe away the liquid pearls of toil. Pieces of chewy are handed out generously.
A few footballers relax and puff on cigarettes thinking about what went wrong that quarter and what lies ahead in the game. Encouraging words are whispered to the geurnseyed men by trainers as they massage skin-warming linament into their calves, shoulders and arms. Two fresh-faced men, cloaked in team dressing gowns with hands in pockets, nervously jog on the spot in their clean boots, anxiously awaiting a call. Those gathered can smell perspiration, mud and the scent of fresh grass mixed with the sweet citrus revivers as wafts of oily linament fill their nostrils.
Then the coach (also captain as it often was) stands and faces his men in a stooped and determined pose. The three-quarter-time pep-up is about to begin. There is jostling among the spectators now for a clearer view and a better chance to hear what is being said. Some stand on tiptoes, while a few lucky youngsters sit high on the shoulders of their fathers. A committeeman circles the resting players and urges supporters to step back and “give the players some room.”
Breaking the subdued mood the coach explodes, “We bloody well let ’em back in. Didn’t we? At half time I said this game’s not over, they’ll come back. Didn’t I?” Trainers nod, committeemen silently agree. Several players look down avoiding the coach’s glare, others stare straight into his eyes.
All of them listening now.“Look at the score,” the coach points towards the scoreboard on the far side of the park. “Three points up and we should be six or seven goals in front. Shouldn’t we ? Bloody mucking around … lairising, cost us that quarter. Blokes who should know better. Come on “Paint” … lift!, Col … Tony … Ray, you all got plenty of kicks that quarter but wasted them,” he gestures with a quick swipe of the arm. “Stick to that bloody little number 23 Hawkie, don’t give him an inch. What did I say at half-time?”
The coach pauses and looks questioningly around the circle of Bulldogs facing him. “I said … kick it long to Westy and don’t muck around with short passes.” He turns to face the Bulldog wearing number 5 and continues, “Look at Gilly.” The coach pauses again, “Plays his guts out every week. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?” the coach repeats. Begging now, he pleads to his players, “Give him some support for heaven’s sake.”
The huddled spectators listen closely. Some take a quick glance over to the visiting team’s camp to test the air of confidence over there. They are met with silent returned enquiries.
Stooped lower and with hands on his knees, the coach continues in a slower, more deliberate voice, “We’ve got the wind … but it won’t do it all for us … will it? Remember what happened against the Rovers last week. Everyone’s gotta give us 100 and ten percent until the finish.”
Raising his voice he exclaims, “Shit, knock a few over. Don’t muck around. Let ’em know we mean bloody business, right from the bounce.” Then in a tactical tone he declares to his men, “Chooka’s ‘goin onto Waldron, Desy’s on Murphy, Barnie’s coming on in the pocket. So kick it in long and straight up the guts.”
The coach looks from player to player and enquires, “Are you with me?” Men in the huddle start to join in the chorus, “Come on Bulldogs”, “We can do it”, “Come on fellas”, “Big last quarter Bulldogs.”
The coach’s temples are lit red by bulging blood vessels, saliva is spitting from his mouth as he finishes, “I want everyone to have a real hard go this last quarter and we will get the job done.” Thumping his fist into his palm he implores, “Fight, bloody well fight … tackle, run hard, back up … don’t give in. When you get tired … dig deep and help your team mates out. Are you with me?” Players stand and respond, “Yes!” and “Come on Bulldogs!”
As the siren blasts a signal for the end of three-quarter-time, he makes his final appeal, “Let’s GO!” before leading his men away for battle. Simultaneously, the huddle explodes in an outcry of urging shouts and fire. Bulldogs players break away purposefully to take up their positions, energised by their coach’s words. Supporters move hurriedly off the ground, ducking under the white racetrack-style wooden boundary fence to reclaim their vantage points. The siren loudly sounds, the ball is thumped into the turf and the last quarter gets under way.
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About Peter Clark
is a lifelong Geelong supporter. Hailing from the Riverina, he is now entrenched on the NSW South Coast. His passion for footy was ignited by attending Ovens and Murray League matches in the 1960's with his father. After years of watching, playing and coaching, now it is time for some serious writing about his favourite subjects… footy, especially country footy, and cricket.
Lovely reflections Peter. As a former coach who spent 5 years delivering rants in bush footy WA and the Premier League in Hobart, there is that element of theatre that you have to live up to. Strangely I only remember the bad ones, same applies to when I played with bad games. This is one of the funniest speeches from a game in London that refers to “a chick in the Olympics”! Cheers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lwq5cMFPkK8
An unexpected, but inspirational reference to “a chick in the Olympics”. Thanks Ian.