Footy gods showed us they remain in charge
I'M SITTING in my study. I have no idea what to write.
I am surrounded by Geelong stuff. The Geelong FC pennant I've had since the 1960s hangs from my bookcase, not far from my copy of Road To Kardinia and just up from Cats on the Prowl. My Gary Ablett figurine rests on the window sill.
Last year's WEG poster (now framed); that glorious WEG poster, which means so much, is propped up against the couch. A poster of this year's Geelong squad is blue-tacked to the wall, under the dart board which the Handicapper gave me for my birthday (an inspired decision).
Ian and Bruce Nankervis, Larry Donohue and Gary Malarkey watch over me from the noticeboard. They are the only four Scanlens cards pinned up there. My pens and pencils sit in a GFC stubby holder (circa 1984) with the words of the Geelong song on it. The newest item, which I won in a Loose Men Charities raffle, is a GFC shield illuminated by the thin neon tube that borders it. It's like a votive light that sits atop my filing cabinet. I turn it on when taking strong drink, and pretend I'm in Ireland.
I'm sitting here trying to make sense of what happened to us on Saturday afternoon. It was supposed to be such a memorable day. I went with the Handicapper. These days, she is a genuine Geelong supporter. Theo, our 11-month-old, watched the first half at home with Tash, our wonderful babysitter.
We had excellent seats, ground level in the Olympic Stand. Immediately behind us were about 200 Hawks supporters. During the anthem, one of the Hawks fans yelled out: "Do it for Crawf." Another responded: "No. Do it for me."
The Hawks fans had me puzzled. They were so confident. They looked at each other with that we're-gunna-win-this look. That I-believe-it-do-you-believe-it look. Like they were all members of some secret society (one that ran the world). By the time Jarryd Roughead kicked the Hawks' third goal, they were calling for the engraver.
I was a little concerned, but not really worried. I was quietly confident about the result. I thought it would be tight early, until the Cats surged, and that would be it.
All week, I had thought this was such an important game, not just because it was a premiership and the chance to cap off a superb season, but because it offered the Geelong Football Club, and especially us supporters, the best opportunity for nearly 50 years to rid ourselves of that debilitating notion that things happen to us. That we just had to wait around until the gods chose us.
If ever there was a chance to assert our free will, to make something happen ourselves, this was it.
I believed in the boys. Throughout the second quarter, I was convinced we were dominating, mainly because we were. The Hawks looked tired. Static. "We're gone," the Hawthorn bloke behind us said, and a few minutes later exploded his blow-up supporters' clapper in disgust.
Brad Ottens won the knocks. The midfielders won the clearances. But we lacked the crispness we'd known all season and our kicking for goal was deplorable. But I still believed. We'd pile on six and that would be it.
Tash brought Theo along at half-time, dressed in his Cats T-shirt and mini-Dunlop Volleys. Inside the ground, he was fascinated with the people, and the noise. It would be our first family premiership.
Again, Geelong looked strong. And then it happened. It was like routine in-grown toenail surgery had gone wrong and the PA was calling Code Blue. Goal after goal to Hawthorn. Their fans were delirious. It was so loud, I thought I was at Wembley.
Brad Sewell, down early, had said: "Come on boys." And worked his way into the game. He was magnificent; never beaten.
At three-quarter-time, I was still confident. The Handicapper wasn't. "They could lose," she observed Sybillishly.
"We'll be right," I assured her. "They're exhausted. We'll finish over the top of them."
I was reasonably confident until Buddy kicked that goal. And then the Cats wilted. Sam Mitchell's goal finished us. We were defeated.
The Hawks sang and embraced and looked into each other's told-you-so eyes.
It was awful.
I have been thinking about it since, thrashing it out with others. The grand final wasn't just another game of footy; a disappointing end to a stellar year. If you accept the premise that reputations are made in grand finals, then grand finals are more than that. Especially this one. This was enormously significant and if we shy away from that, we will suffer all the more. Now is the time for total honesty, total commitment and loyal support.
I don't speak for anyone other than myself. I ask: how do you teach young men to imagine expectation as something other than a burden? How do you teach them to crave the contest until the very end?
But still I wonder. Still I find myself contemplating my old understanding: that Hawthorn people have their place in the universe, and we have ours. And that there are footy gods after all.
I was so close to being convinced otherwise.
