On Jonathan Brown

I’ve been head-butted a couple of times in my life.  I try to forget the first; never will forget the second.  The footy-nut in me wanted the bump that rose up to last forever, my own little perpetual trophy of a deliriously happy day, the ultimate that any footy fan can have.  Alas, a few days into the only type of premiership hang-over worth having, it was gone.

It happened in 2001, on the day the Brisbane Lions won their first flag.  The game and ceremonies were over and the team was making its way around the ground, premiership cup in their hands.  I’d day-dreamed about this moment often enough, now I wanted the reality.  I made my way down to the boundary: nothing was going to stop me from having that big silver cup – Our Big Silver Cup – up close and in my team’s hands.

The mass of players, team officials and assorted media closed in towards me just as Beau McDonald hoisted the cup above his head.  Alastair Lynch, Craig McRae and Leppa were next to him, all beaming smiles, slapping and hugging each other and us fans, sharing the unbridled joy around.  And then came Jonathan Brown: Brownie, JB, Hi-Fi, or, as Martin Pike liked to call him with that throaty-voiced, wicked, twinkle-eyed grin of his, the Brown Dog.

Brownie pulled up right in front of me.  I caught his eye, grinned and leant out to him, arms outstretched.  He cast a quick glance at the Fitzroy jersey I wore, acknowledged it with a big smile and leaned in to embrace me.  As we wrapped our arms around each other, whack, our heads collided.  We both pulled back with a pained laugh.  He moved off to the next press – or clash – of flesh.  Me?  I was in heaven: I’d just been head-butted by Brownie!

Three years later I caught up with Jonathan Brown for an interview for a book I was writing on Fitzroy.  As an ice-breaker I recounted the story to him, knowing he wouldn’t remember the incident.

“Shit, sorry!” he says when I finished.

“No, no, you don’t have to apologise, that’s not what this is about.  I loved it.”

He looked at me quizzically for a few seconds, weighing up what sort of nutty, obsessive fan I was.  Then he relaxed.  We got on with the interview.

That apology illuminates something fundamental about Brownie – he genuinely cares about us supporters and fans.  It explains why he isn’t simply an admired or respected member of the Lions team but our hero, the one player we know every other team wishes they could have in their side.  He’s approachable, likeable and straightforward, fitting that great Australian tradition of the hero who appears to be an ordinary bloke, one of us.  Or that’s where he’s come from, and his extraordinary feats haven’t changed him really. Or haven’t changed the essential him. You don’t get airs and graces from someone who loves watching the gee-gees, trains dishlickers (he even called one `hound he owned, Slabavic) and whose favourite moments include spending time back in his home town of Warrnambool surrounded by family and mates.

Warrnambool and surrounds are a vital part of the Jonathan Brown story.  Back in the sixties, seventies and eighties the area was zoned to Fitzroy, which is how Brian Brown, his dad, came to play with the Roys in ’76.  While he never starred, he did enough at the Roys – he played 52 games and fell in love with team mate Noel Mugavin’s sister- to ensure he had a big strapping son who could eventually be recruited to Brisbane under the father-son rule.  So, Fitzroy can take some of the credit for Brownie’s existence on the planet.  And it might explain why he’s always been so passionate about the Roys side of the Brisbane Lions story.

He loves talking about his Roys heritage, of how proud he feels of playing in the colours and jersey (at least when the Heritage Round was around) that his old man (his term) wore.  That passion explains why every ex-Fitzroy supporter of the Lions feels a deep connection with, even love for, Brownie.  There have been, and are, several on-field links of one sort or another between Fitzroy and Brisbane (Luke Power, Travis Johnstone and Troy Selwood from the 2010 list alone) but he’s become the big one, our living, breathing Roys relic and icon.  Hallelujah, praise the Roy!

To me there’s always been an air of yesterday hangingabout Brownie. The best of yesterday. There’s a sense that Brownie comes from where we come from. Forged in a warm past. It’s partly about his haircut – other than the occasional summer Number One, the style hasn’t altered since he debuted in 2000.  That same, short-back-and-sides, don’-worry-’bout-the-gel-mate, cut.  It says something, of a bloke who knows what he likes, and he likes it straightforward, uncluttered, who couldn’t care less about what’s groovy or fashionable.

There’s another element to that old-fashioned look.  Not having experienced fifties and sixties footy, I can only draw on images, written, moving or otherwise, for my impressions of the football and footballers of that era.  Brownie not only looks but seems like a footballer from back then, exuding certainty, presence and sheer physicality.  There’s little – on the surface at least – to suggest embodiment of the modern day athlete-footballer.  I’m convinced he would have had a ball playing back then, revelling in the aggressive – not to be mistaken for thuggish – play of the time and loving the freedom that would have come with just the one umpire and a lack of camera angles or administrators paranoid about the slightest whiff of (supposed) violence out on the ground.

Of course there’s never been anything ordinary about Brownie’s efforts on the football field.  Visit Youtube and watch the video for the 2002 Mark of the Year; make sure you watch it to the end.  Pure, fearless, courage – one of the sweetest examples of football bravery you’ll ever see.

But there’s another dimension to this pack-busting bravado of his: often enough after he crashes back to earth he simply gets up, dusts himself off and gets on with the game.  Nick Riewoldt is just as courageous but when he lands with a similar thump, you see every bit of his pain, see those stars circling his wobbly head.  Brownie may be in pain but there’s no way he’s going to let the opposition know that.

Brownie is a bloke whose courage and toughness have lifted him from the ranks. He is a leader; a democratic leader whose authority is unchallenged. He’s like the best of the ANZACs. Which is why Geoff Dyer has painted him the way he has.

Yep, tough bugger, that Brownie. Wouldn’t want to butt heads with him now, would you?

 

Adam Muyt’s essay from the foreword of The Footy Almanac 2010. Buy a copy.

The original portrait of Jonathan Brown is by celebrated artist Geoff Dyer who won the Archibald Prize in 2003. It is available for purchase. Enquiries [email protected]