The time I found they shrank the Sherrin

This is a tale about two footies. The first one dates back to the late 1970’s when I worked as a storeman at Dental Houses of Australia in Alfred Place, which was then, and still is, a small laneway off the top end of Collins Street; though braces and bites have been replaced by beds and bathrooms, as the old worksite became a boutique hotel in a revamped inner-city.

Dental supplies aren’t exactly the most exciting product line; an endless array of burs, mandrels and probes were just part of a greater dental milieu that always seemed to be on backorder due to shipping delays, and often made for dull and frustrating labour. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and more attractive positions were denied me then due to the old Furphy – lack of experience.

Doug, our delivery driver, was deaf (‘hearing impaired’ is an ambiguous description I doubt he’d have brooked). He was of a bull terrier-like build and spoke in the animated, hearing affected way that could be interpreted as effeminate, but he was far from it. He wore a toupee due to a youthful misadventure when acid was spilt on his scalp. Doug’s deafness was no impediment to his working ability either, and is only referenced here because he used to be employed by T.W. Sherrin, which often hired those who might have difficulty getting work elsewhere due to what was then deemed a handicap. When I expressed a desire to buy a footy, he was quick to reveal he still had friends working at the Sherrin factory and offered to be the middle man and procure a good one.

A week or so later he turned up at Alfred Place to collect his daily deliveries, and on the way dropped off a brand new gleaming red Sherrin proudly showing me a small black cross; a mark that indicated this one had been stitched by the very best – a VFL match quality ball.

It was a beauty. It immediately took up residence in the house I shared in Windsor. When we weren’t handpassing or short-kicking it along the passage (which also had a dog-leg to add a degree of difficulty) we’d take it down to a nearby park and run around like lunatics kicking booming drop punts and grass-cutting stab-passes, and taking exaggerated screamers in our attempt to substitute being on the big stage. Or we’d call, quickly sprint, mark, pass to a lead, and call again and so on, zigzagging with endless energy all around the oval, and only stopping when a kick went astray; raising a hand: “Sorry, mate”. Meanwhile, the Sandringham red rattler trundled back and forth via an adjacent cutting.

One day Democrat leader Don Chipp jogged by and asked if he could join us. He was from the old school, and had a preference for the drop kick. They were good exponents too, and the Sherrin lobbed obediently into the air, spinning it’s redness in perfect symmetry. As he farewelled and jogged off into the distance to keep the bastards honest I like to think he said to himself: “Nice footy.”

Then I went overseas for a couple of years, but returned to the same share-house above the chemist on the corner of Chapel and Vine. The Sherrin was still there like a faithful pet, wearing an extra scratch or two, and evoking an affection akin to love that probably resides in distant memories about the first footy ever owned; in my case a childhood birthday present found at the end of a meandering length of string mum laid out in our backyard.

That was a preferred gift to the previous year’s when bedridden with one of the mumps or measles that where part of a growing-up rite of passage then. I was still in pyjamas when dad asked what I wanted for my birthday. “A football,” I replied drowsily, but without hesitation. Dad laughed, “You’re too young for a football”. He bought a battery operated police car instead. Mothers knew best. But I digress, this isn’t meant to be a story about three footies.

From Windsor I moved to another shared house in North Balwyn. Not sure why; for a change probably. I was now doing degree studies, and this was a student house, but less familiar than the Chapel Street abode. I had a bungalow out the back and kept the Sherrin inside. Though, let me be clear: the relationship was purely sporting.

One day a housemate, Neil, borrowed the Sherrin while I was out. That was okay because we used to take it down to a local park and do our own version of running amok. Neil was a lanky six foot two and once played for St Kilda thirds, though was always a mad Collingwood supporter (if you’ll excuse the tautology). But from now on the Sherrin was out of sight in the house, mostly on the floor tucked under the kitchen table that leant against a wall. I suppose I didn’t want to appear possessive or selfish by returning it to my bungalow so allowed it to be communal.

I became preoccupied with studies and the never-ending succession of parties. Then suddenly, one day, I noticed the Sherrin wasn’t in its usual spot. I asked Neil if he knew its whereabouts. He didn’t, but said the last time he saw it another acquaintance had it – this other friend had a drug problem and an increasing reputation for unreliability. Enquires proved fruitless. I never saw the Sherrin again. I guess that’s what you get for deciding to live in a dry area

Fast forward a decade or so. The Geelong Footy Club was offering, with membership, a free Sherrin autographed by the then captain, Barry Stoneham. A great deal given a new footy was almost worth the cost of membership. It duly arrived in the mail. The first thing I noticed about it was the size. It was smaller, the ends pointier. I didn’t relish the prospect of kicking this ball bare-footed. And I could pick it up with one hand, something I always struggled to do with the previous Sherrin. Like an unfavoured child it didn’t quite evoke equal affection.

My curiosity was aroused, though. I rang the club. Is this a junior footy? The enquiry was passed down the line. No, they said, as far as they knew it was a full-size match ball. Was I just suffering a misconception? I tried phoning Sherrin, but found the Collingwood factory no longer existed. Eventually, after a series of calls, I discovered Spalding were the manufacturers and I spoke to a representative there who said, yes, at the direction of football administrators, the ball had been reshaped. The exact when and why-for’s were unclear, but it was in fairly recent years (possibly during the latter days of the VFL).

It struck as odd and a little worrisome that something as fundamental as the shape of the ball could be tinkered with and slip-by so unnoticed. Maybe it happened while I was overseas and was common knowledge, but no friend I spoke to knew of it. Surely coaches and players would’ve been aware because they’d be most affected? How would changing the shape of the ball affect its trajectory? Does goal kicking require more precision? Were tests done beforehand? Did this help explain why G. Ablett Snr was able to master the one­-handed mark, or why Koutta could pluck the pill off the ground at full pace as though it were a cricket ball?

Of course, a modified design didn’t stop us accepting this Sherrin and taking it down to a park or oval for a diminishingly robust version of kick-to-kick. I still have it in my possession, though Barry Stoneham’s moniker has virtually faded into the scuffed leather blush.

Years later I heard Kevin Bartlett asking listeners whether Sherrins were smaller, on SEN following a talk-back enquiry. If KB didn’t know about an alteration then it truly was clandestine.

So what, you may say? The shape has changed before. Initially, it was round then a rugby ball used until modified by T. W. Sherrin and introduced in 1880 to become the much-loved template. But in those days Aussie Rules was still establishing its identity.

To me it matters because it’s an issue about ownership. Who does the game belong to; who has the right to fiddle with heritage?

Nowadays, the AFL is changing the game at a pace that is compulsive bordering on obsessive with a concerning inability to foresee the consequences of what they propose. The main difference now is that we’re made more aware of the process, but the fans, the members, the major stakeholders still have no control. We can express our displeasure, but that’s about it.

Shrinking the Sherrin was just a precursor.

END

POSTSCRIPT: While writing this I sent an email to the AFL to confirm modification had indeed been made, but at time of posting had yet to receive an answer.