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A sports lovers’ book club (& reading guide) for Melbourne

21/03/2015 By Dugald 1 Comment

McCarthy the Great is the brilliant young footballer from the bush determined to make good in the bright lights of the city.

The ruckmen face off over the centre circle and for a moment everything is frozen possibility: players, umpire, the ball suspended overhead, the softly clouded sky. Everything except the fans, a circus beyond the stillness. Then the ball swings down and cracks it all open.

Football is a story with no end. It is a bag of air and make-believe, and the dreams of all looking over the fence. Our code – Australian Rules football – reflects who we are, what we want to be, and how we’ve created our place in the world.

Melbourne, a bookish city, is considered the sporting capital of Australia, a country where the national gaze is often enough drawn outdoors. We are enticed by feats of the body: the toil of the fast bowler, Cathy Freeman’s stride, wood-cutting at the show, our muscular winter pursuits. Historian Graeme Davison, an Essendon man by birth, coined the “imaginary grandstand”; the bare oval as a crucible for national identity. We barrack, we belong.

Sport is a drama played also in the mind. It is an imagined game. It can be found in books, in words, in ideas. “It goes to my head like a drug,” wrote Barry Oakley in A Salute to the Great McCarthy, published in 1970 and still ringing true. “I see at once the essence of football, it is a performing art, the ball now coming again, lower and faster this time, a level bullet.”

If Melbourne has no book club devoted to one of its enduring talking points – sport – then this need change. So this proposal: for founding members for ‘A sports lovers’ book club (& reading guide) to Melbourne’.

The plan is to meet every six weeks to discuss a text based (sometimes loosely) on sport. Bookshops and library shelves are laden with such tomes: cricket, soccer, cycling, running, baseball, football. Need a prompt to read David Foster Wallace on tennis? See details below.

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My colours are yellow and black but please, dear sports fan, dear football lover, do not be dissuaded. It is my prejudice, my burden, but also my great joy when Dusty has the ball and his chest is open, and a low winter sky is filled with possibilities and all else in the world means nought. For that moment, I am lost in the game.

Contributors to this memorable collection of writings on Australian Rules Football range from Carlton’s greatest fan, Manning Clark, to football’s former enfant terrible, Brent Crosswell.

As with the crowd in the outer, the idea of this book club is to be open to all. Carlton people, even. The game once may have fractured along inner-city rivalries and feuds, or on suburban and country recruiting zones, but it also made us as whole. It is a shared language, easily understood by all who follow the ball’s oval-shape of chance.

Has anyone had the pleasure of reading Miriam Sved’s debut novel, Game Day, tracing the season of an imaginary AFL club in Melbourne? The club is short on success and stuck in memories of faded glory and I am sure she based her book on my club, Richmond. Others may have come across Paul D. Carter’s Vogel-winning debut novel, Eleven Seasons, about the hopes of a young man growing up in Hawthorn’s recruiting zone. And I’ve only ever heard good things said about Nathan Buckley’s autobiography, All I Can Be.

So, yes, a sports fans’ book club, with a leaning to the local game.
Expressions of interest from Footy Almanackers and all other readers of the game (and other sports) are called for. The inaugural gatherings will most likely take place on a Thursday night, probably upstairs at Young & Jacksons, for reasons of historical curiosity. It’s where the committee of the Victorian Football Association in the late 19th century would group and tabled their annual report. It is also rather central.

Some guys are good at school and telling jokes or they have the latest stuff. Others are cricket or basketball players: they can do things with the ball that make their classmates talk about them when they’re not around. His thing is football. He becomes the centre of whichever team he plays for: he becomes the advantage.

The proposed first text is not a book, but a play: David Williamson’s The Club. For many, it might be an opportunity for a re-visiting – a fresh look at a 1978 classic comedy (readily available in libraries), an easy introduction to the literature of sport.

Anyone who’s interested in being part of this regular sports talk-fest, please email me on the address below. Once we have numbers, a format and process can be agreed to.

For now, a last word on football goes to Richard Flanagan, writing on kick-to-kick in a Launceston school yard, in The Narrow Road to the Deep North:

“Kick it! he heard someone yell. Kick the fucker before the bell rings and it’s all over.

And in the deepest recesses of his being, Dorrigo Evans understood that all his life had been a journeying to this point when he had for a moment flown into the sun and would now be journeying away from it forever after. Nothing would ever be as real to him. Life never had such meaning again.”

The Club is about the hangers-on, the end of loyalty, the coming of professionalism, big business and massive transfer fees. It’s about each and every club in the League.

 

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Dugald 21/03/2015Filed Under: dugald, front

A last goodbye, for a Tiger

15/01/2015 By Dugald 15 Comments

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I caught a train north, through flat grasslands, stopping at Craigieburn and Donnybrook, passing a firewood yard at Wandong, on my way to a gothic bluestone church on a mercilessly hot summer’s morning. Headed for Kilmore, I wanted to find belonging on a heartless day, at the funeral of a woman I couldn’t know.

Her name was Carolyn Gaunt and in her life there was a story about football.

She was a Richmond supporter and had had cancer and I was told by her daughter, Alicia, that her coffin at the funeral would be carried through a crepe paper banner. Melbourne’s rituals of football life were to become a ritual upon death. I needed to be there. I wanted to be part of the crowd.

A cruel wind blew from up country, from a thirsty interior. It was thirty-two in the shade by nine. The air burned, searing with contempt.

Trout waited on the platform at Kilmore East. We met and he apologised for the colour of his wife’s car. The air-con in his yellow-and-black 1978 Holden Premier didn’t work, he said. We drove to St Patrick’s Catholic Church beside the gates of Assumption College – known for its fine footballers, some of whom I played against as a schoolboy – in a vibrant pink car.

On the way, Trout talked of Carolyn. “She always brought joy to everyone,” he said. “We were lucky to have her.”

Outside the church, on a gentle rise above Kilmore, labourers worked on rebuilding a road. Dust swirled in hot wind. Excavators grumbled. Inside, yellow roses rested on a coffin as men with rounded shoulders bent themselves respectfully into pews.

Most wore black, but there was also yellow: in the bouquets, and in ribbons and ties worn by many from Richmond’s cheer squad. They had come in carloads; as a family, a community, sharing in bereavement, saying last goodbyes.

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Carolyn Gaunt (nee Palmer) was a Malvern girl, a first child with two brothers, born on 10 March, 1953. She loved the outdoors and enjoyed her sports: swimming at Harold Holt pool, tennis at Kooyong, being anywhere on the netball court. Her schooling was at St Joseph’s Catholic primary and Kildara Convent Secondary College.

As a young woman she worked for the Department of Agriculture and on weekends followed her mother, Brenda, to the football. After games she found herself often at Punt Road Oval where, in 1970, as a seventeen-year-old, she first met under-19s player Graham Gaunt. Two years later, in round 20 against Fitzroy, he played his first senior game for Richmond.

gauntIn the weeks before the 1976 season – and Graham having returned to Richmond after a stint with Oakleigh in the VFA – he and Carolyn married, in a union that bore two children and a home life at Brighton. Long after his playing days, the two of them moved to a farm at Springfield where she tended to her rose garden and, among other activities, worked with special needs children.

“Her other love was her Tiger family,” said Stephen Dale, giving a eulogy. “Every weekend she went to Melbourne to see her boys play, and on Wednesday nights she was at banner making where often she wouldn’t get home until one in the morning.”

Her husband was to move to Melbourne in 1978 where he played 69 games and kicked 32 goals in five seasons, but Carolyn’s stripes never changed. Once a Tiger, always a Tiger. Her heart remained true.

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The parish priest, Father Grant O’Neill, talked of the question of death, and how the spirit of a person might become a story, an explanation, that could endure and be kept alive. He pondered: “There has to be more to life than football?” None under the vaulted ceiling offered a response. Most fanned themselves with a copy of the liturgy.

Vince Morton, a Richmond cheer squad stalwart, stood and said a prayer for many in attendance. “Lord, we ask you, on behalf of Carolyn’s family to watch over and keep safe her supportive friends and Tiger family.”

It wasn’t the time to ask for a premiership. Hearts were already heavy enough.

To the sounds of James Blunt’s ‘Goodbye my lover’, a montage of photographs of Carolyn’s life were screened – family portraits; wearing a Richmond blazer; standing in front of a 1973 Weg premiership poster; with Nick Daffy; holding up Richmond numberplates – and in the parched midday heat there wasn’t a dry eye in the church.

She looked a beautiful woman, loved by all who knew her.

And it’s true, by the front steps of St Patrick’s Church in Kilmore and under a fierce blue sky, in languorous heat and with the road workers’ heavy machinery for now stilled in respect, the Richmond Football Club’s theme song rang out and a crepe paper banner was raised.

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Between a bluestone arch and a waiting black hearse it was held aloft with august ceremony by her cheer squad friends. It meant so much for so many; this last walk of a Tiger, a last slow procession from the ground, the last rites of a fan.

A veil of black-and-yellow crepe paper, a passing – a deliverance – a home-grown memorialisation of death.

The priest in white robes swung his chained thurible under an unforgiving sun, blessing the scene with burning incense. Pall-bearers readied the coffin. A hot wind tugged at the banner.

And in a moment, in the tearing of paper, the crowd were as one and a death became life and life turned to death. And there was her epitaph, writ large, capitalised, in yellow, on a banner:

CAROLYN GAUNT – A TIGER FOREVER.

CHEERING ON THE TIGERS FROM HEAVEN.

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Carolyn Gaunt (10 March 1953 – 7 January 2014), was farewelled at a funeral service at St Patrick’s Catholic Church in Kilmore, on Tuesday 14 January 2014. Carolyn’s mother, Brenda Palmer, works at Coles in Malvern where Dugald Jellie often shops. He seeks out her check-out, wanting to talk all things Richmond.

Photographs courtesy Vince Morton.

Dugald 15/01/2015Filed Under: dugald, front

Show us your colours (a long summer read)

10/12/2014 By Dugald 7 Comments

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Balwyn Tiger: a young Tony Wilson (one of this city’s best football storytellers) in his playing days on the lower oval at Balwyn Park, on the high side of the Whitehorse Road tram tracks.

Our bats are still out and the summer game may never be the same again, and for now we’ve almost forgotten what a football looks like.

Tiger Tiger Burning Bright has thank-yous to make, and seasons’ well-wishes, but firstly, a request. We want childhood photos of you (or your sister or brother, or son or daughter, or old school friend or love interest) wearing footy colours. No matter if they’re not yellow-and-black, but it sort of helps. It makes the heart skip a beat. It makes us smile.

And please, send in a little back story. A few lines about when and where, and maybe also why.

The photograph above – for instance – is of a young Tony Wilson, in his junior playing days with the Balwyn Tigers. He looks angelic; all mouth guard and arms akimbo and anointed in a paste of winter mud. Does anyone remember mud at football? Lakeside Oval, anyone?

Tony Wilson is part of my current All Australian footballer-writer centreline: Boyle-Murphy-Wilson. Timothy Boyle played for Hawthorn, Bob Murphy is now captain of the Bulldogs, and Tony Wilson was drafted to Hawthorn (where his father Ray played in the 1971 premiership). My former Australian history teacher, Brent Crosswell, the old ‘Tiger’ from Tasmania who I caught up with recently in Hobart, still has his place at centre-half-forward.

I first knew of Tony Wilson in Year 12 at school, playing kick-to-kick on the cinnamon earth of central Australia. He was two years younger, we were on a winter school holiday bus trip from Darwin to Alice Springs and everywhere we stopped – Kakadu, Katherine Gorge, the Devil’s Marbles, Tennant Creek, the Olgas, Uluru – the footy came out and a gang of boys split in two and all the unwritten rules of kick-to-kick came into play.

The tall blokes went for the marks.

Then there was this whipstick kid – a tall and skinny, all glasses and furrowed brow, with a mop of white hair – and he marked EVERYTHING! He was in Year 10 and wore a quizzical expression and he didn’t look like a footballer, but he played like one. He had the gift. He made it look easy, effortless. He drifted into the ball and jumped and took it with clean hands at the highest point of his leap with a carefree grin on his face.

Tony-bloody-Wilson, there was nothing we could do to stop him.

Many years later – after he entered the public realm through winning the second series of the ABC’s Race Around the World, and hosting the 3RRR Breakfasters, and through his writings – I watched him again play football. Visiting a friend in Melbourne who was good friends with Tony’s sister, we caught the No. 96 tram from Fitzroy to St Kilda on a Sunday.

The Sacred Heart Mission’s Community Cup was on at the Junction Oval and the day was immediately memorable for seeing a man on the ground before the game walking a billy goat.

Tony Wilson was in the twilight of his playing days. He lined up at full-forward for the 3RRR and PBS Megahertz – his body broken, his eyesight unreliable – and in clear winter dusk light his aura still burned bright. He could still play, he could still take those marks; he still looked a footballer.

If anyone knows Bob Murphy, please get him to send in a childhood photo of him somewhere in the dairy country of Gippsland, in his football jumper. Like Tony Wilson, his might also be yellow-and-black.

And please send in your own footy jumper childhood photos for our album collection. We need a name and a place and a year and any explanatory notes. We’ll share them with others before the 2015 season. Email me at  dugaldjellie@gmail.com or via @dugaldjellie

Tasmania, 1978: Tiger Tiger Burning Bright as a barefooted 7-year-old boy at King William Saddle on the Tasmanian central plateau on a camping family holiday (pictured here with older sister No. 2, Clara, who still shows no interest in football).

Tasmania, 1978: Tiger Tiger Burning Bright as a barefooted 7-year-old boy at King William Saddle on the Tasmanian central plateau on a camping family holiday (pictured here with older sister No. 2, Clara, who still shows no interest in football).

Captain material: a young Cam Logan (date and age not provided) who one day would grow up to be the caption of the 1st XVIII at Xavier College.

Captain material: a young Cam Logan (date and age not provided) who one day would grow up to be the caption of the 1st XVIII at Xavier College.

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Belated thank you to all who supported Tiger Tiger Burning Bright during our inaugural fundraising drive. In no particular order, we thank Sonya King, Steve Macchi, Alison from Chifley, Jason Mariniello, Brendan Terry, Sue C, Clare Monagle, Cheryl Critchley, Dan Gilchrist, Andrea Hensley, Steve Lambert, Aaron Smith, Anthony Yeates, Neil Wedd, David Crowe, Michael Nichols, Sean Lockwood, Geoff Matheson, Brett Moorcroft, Eileen Monagle, Caroline Mallett, Richard Miles, Donnie Davidson, David Hoyle, Ben McAuliffe, Paul “Tommo” Thompson and Malcolm McKinnon for buying one of the limited-edition ‘tiger’ tees or hoodies.

If I’ve left out anyone – I think I have – please let me know.  If anyone wants to send me a photo of them in their ‘tiger’ gear, again, we’ll publish it next year.

We still have three XL ‘tiger’ hoodies for sale ($65). Email me if you’d like to purchase one.

hoodie

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On 5 September, on the eve of the Elimination Final against Port Adelaide, I received an email from Matthew Frost, in England. It read, in part:

“I very much look forward to the TTBB emails, particularly the last 9 weeks [if others would like to be on our anonymous email list please contact me]. I think you capture it all wonderfully and the power of words moves hearts and minds.
My father is 80 in October and recently had a fall and broke his hip at home which was tough for him to take after getting cancer a couple of years before, and I was worried he wouldn’t be up for the rehab fight again.

I spoke to him this morning, first day back out of hospital, pins and plates in the hip and he spoke of all the media about our tigers and it has inspired him to push on with the hip rehab and then get his plastic knee replaced again!

He’s a tough old tiger and hasn’t seen them play like this for over 20 years (probably 30 but who’s counting). Mum remembers his face at the front door for many years returning from the ‘G’ after yet another loss.

I have been a bit emotional about all this (dad and the tiger effort) but the tigers are pulling us all through. 

Your emails have helped get through the rollercoaster and inspired people for bigger fights. Dad told me that Dimma probably won’t need to say much before the game on Sunday as they will be ready to run through walls by the first bounce. He loves the tigers and knows about having to fight tooth and claw. He got a bit emotional in his voice telling me this although he would blame a dodgy phone connection to the UK. 

Anyway Dugald, you are what it means to be a tiger and please yell a bit extra for all of us who can’t be there on Sunday but we’ll be there in spirit wherever we are.

 Please send me your postal address as I want to send you a cheque to cover some costs for you so you can keep doing what you do so bloody well. I don’t want a Tiger t-shirt as my fashion sense is bad enough as it is 🙂
All the very best,
Matt Frost

Stories like these need be shared. What our team and our game means to Matt and his father it means to us also. In football there is memory, familiarity, friendships, family, a continuum, a looking glass on who we are – a belonging. Our crowd is made up of so many but essentially when time comes to barrack, when our colours need be worn, all of us are one.

At times we dissent, but when Dusty gathered the ball against Carlton and Adelaide and Sydney and turned and kicked and goaled, our voices were united. Show me a Richmond fan who didn’t rejoice in the moment? Show me a Richmond fan whose spirits didn’t sing?

We are all Matt’s father. We all understand these bonds that Matt writes about; the emotions, the way the game makes us feel. It is from the heart. It is honest and true, and it needs to be acknowledged.

Incidentally, I never gave Matt my address. His words were enough.

Travelling tiger: TTBB had a post-season catch up with Paul 'Tommo' Thompson, a great supporter of ours, visiting from Kenya. Our debriefing involved a few pots at the Terminus Hotel (on the wrong (Abbotsford) side of Victoria Street, unfortunately) which ended with the unanimous opinion our beloved Tigers next year will be top-four material.

Travelling tiger: TTBB had a post-season catch up with Paul ‘Tommo’ Thompson, a great supporter of ours, visiting from Kenya. Our debriefing involved a few pots at the Terminus Hotel (on the wrong (Abbotsford) side of Victoria Street, unfortunately) which ended with the unanimous opinion our beloved Tigers next year will be top-four material.

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The best off-season news has been Trent Cotchin re-signing, and for such a lengthy contract. One name on a dotted-line and it instils much confidence among us supporters. In this age of free agency and worthless contracts, it makes us pleased Cotch has committed to our cause. How must old Footscray supporters be feeling now, after a post-season of tumult when their captain wants out and their coach is sacked? Gutted, is one word. Heart-broken are two more.

Most pleasing in the Cotch announcement were his thoughts on Richmond players who might be looking elsewhere. “The reality is, they need to be comfortable in their own shoes”, he said. “We would hope we’re creating an environment where everyone’s happy, and feel that they’re getting the best out of themselves.

“If we’re doing that to the best of our ability, they have no reason to be looking elsewhere.”

Gee I hope the Richmond players read TTBB, I hope they understand our appreciation and our love. Their happiness is our happiness.

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Christmas well-wishes to all Tiger Tiger Burning Bright readers and all who’ve supported this project. These are people who’ve shared our blog, told others about it, posted comments, contributed stories, offered tickets to the football, and even sent us criticisms. All correspondence is always welcome.

Again, in no particular order – and there are many people I know I’ve forgotten – we thank Andy Fuller, Stephen Reade, Skippygirl in the forward pocket, James Taylor, Caz, Tommo in Kenya, Malcolm M (in Fitzroy), Cheryl C, Tiger Moz, Alison (Neil) from Chifley, Trout (from Woodend, of course), Yogi, Rod Miller, the “Twitter guy” at RFC, Sean Ross, Fran Doughton, Craig at Footy Maths Institute, John (Mr Holy Boot), Jimmy the Dragon, Zoe Lawson, Richard Byrne (and all other Sydney-based TTBB readers), Paul McNamara, Peter McDonald, Darren Crick (& the Canberra crew), Paul Allen (& his son Jack), Donnie D & the family (including Richo the dog), all “the Jellies”, Davey Hay (whose heart beats true), Brook Kilpatrick (& Boris), Tone Greenberg, Greg Baum, John Harms, Will Brodie, Michael Reif, Greg Watt, “Rosy” (whoever ‘she’ may be), Ian Lewis, Tiger in Adelaide, Kate McDonald (and all other ‘fans-of-the-week’), Lyndsay Wall, Chris Romeril, Ged Zochling, Troy Hancox, “Stainless”, Eric Thompson, Joe Crawford, Bill Birch, Rory Gibson, Kelda Murray, Anh Nguyen, Yeatsey, Brendan O’Reilly, Eileen Monagle, Konrad M, Tamara Doheney, Matt Corbet, Bill Barbagiannis, Dr Clare Monologue, Jason @ Richmond Painting, Verran Fehlberg, Richard Vaughan, Sean Nestor, Cassandra Hall (and her sis), Doug Miles, Greg Watt, Phil Jupp, Corinna Slade, Natalia (my favourite Colombian), Justin Sanson, Brett Moorcroft, Julian Collins, Damien Faithfull, Jenny Grogan (and her wayward son), Tara Pincott (bless her), Luke Goldsworthy, Matt Frost, Russell Holmes, Ken Bowes, Sarah Black, Gavin Smith, Martin Mayhew, the Bulldog Tragician (aka Kerrie Soraghan), Andrew Gigacz, Sue C, David Hoyle, Jonathan Green, Tony Wilson, Rhett Bartlett, Welton Marsland, Weedo, Leanne Henderson, Mel (and her sisters), David Ward, Pete Steinfort, Craig Winslow and all the Twitter tigers I’ve forgotten (like Lou and Katie, Edstar, Shelly Connors, JD, Trav, Rod, Sharon, Yellow & Black, Joannemcfaul, Paul Ager, and others, and others, and others).

If you have any clout at the Richmond Football Club tell ’em they ought to have TTBB back on their website in 2015. They should make this arrangement official. They should embrace us. Make it work for them. Share the love. Make it mutually beneficial.

Tell them our little project has vice-regal approval. It’s true, the Governor General has read TTBB and he’s sent an official-like letter to voice his appreciation.

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Most public thanks for this season of all things TTBB go to my main collaborator, Chris Rees, and his family in Hobart. I couldn’t count the hours of voluntary work he’s put into the site, and his Virtual Duffle Coat has become an object of beauty and growing cultural significance. If the club could bestow Tiger knighthoods I believe he should have one. Or maybe a (living) sainthood?
Saint Chris, our patron saint of Richmond.

And, of course, there’s Mrs Tiger Tiger Burning Bright. None of my contributions are possible without her. She’s the best. It is a winter treat to watch the football with her. When I get a new duffle coat I’m putting her number on the back: No. 1.

I’m sure Dusty would understand.

Tiger tiger burning (forever) bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

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Marcus Rees about to go off to school in his home-made-by-dad Tigers guernsey for Wear Your Colours day, 2006.

Dugald 10/12/2014Filed Under: dugald

Like father and son (or mother and daughter, or…)

19/09/2014 By Dugald 17 Comments

kinder

Four followers: our little Crow, with a little Swan, a little Cat and a little Blue Boy.

This morning I dropped our eldest boy at kindergarten wearing an Adelaide Crows football top. It wasn’t meant to be like this. They’re having a football-dress-up last day and we had discussed teams and what he might like to wear. I had said I would make him a little Richmond jumper with a black top, some yellow fabric, and pins, needle and thread.

In the sewing, I had hoped he might come to understand.

We visited an op shop, looking for a black top and found instead a Carlton guernsey. It was the right size. He wanted it. I was in an ethical bind.

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Jake , Noah and JD at open training
Noah with the old man
JD, Noah and Mick at the Elimination Final in Adelaide
Michael and another Tiger babe, the beautiful Matilda.

I told him it was too expensive. I told him the colours wouldn’t suit his complexion. I negotiated as best I could. I said we’d visit another op shop looking for a black top, and if none were to be had we’d return for the Carlton outfit.

Never has a grown man been in such dire need of a size 4 black top.

We didn’t find a black top, but chanced instead on an Adelaide Crows Auskick garment. It cost two dollars, which I thought was probably two dollars too much. Now he wanted this top. This was to be his team for the footy dress-up day. There was no persuading him otherwise.

So our boy, for this day at least, went to kindergarten as a little crow. I told him all about the coach being sacked, and what a surprise it was, but he didn’t seem to mind. He liked the colours. And sometimes, at his age, that is all that matters.

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Three generations of tigers
Adrian (& daughter, in Adelaide)
Adrian (& family on the road at Bordertown)

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Two weeks ago, when Richmond played Port Adelaide, I had a piece published in the op-ed pages of the Sunday Age on this vexed topic. For TTBB readers, here is a full copy of what I wrote:

“When children are born in Victoria they are wrapped in club-colours, laid in beribboned cots, having already begun a lifetime’s barracking.”

Fitzroy-born poet, Bruce Dawe, seasoned at a time when inner-suburban grounds were like churches, in the opening line of Life Cycle begins the narrative arc of the football follower. Our fate, for many, comes pegged already to a ladder. We’re born into allegiance. Our ancestry has a song. Barracking is our birthright.

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John (@theHolyBoot) & Freezer (& John’s dad photo bombing the pic)
John & his two little Tigers
Nathan John (& his dad, celebrating Footscray’s VFL preliminary final win)
Ashleigh Dugan (& family, on a GF day)

It’s a peculiar Melbourne inheritance, steeped in a city divided long ago among twelve clubs, each representing a suburb, a recruiting zone, a mentality, a sense of belonging. Love is blind, but for all born on the flats of Collingwood, it could also only be black and white.

Seven weeks ago, I took our eldest child, a four-year-old boy, to his first game of football and faced a philosophical dilemma. What is it to raise a child? As a father, I want to impart values of trust, respect and fairness. But is it reasonable to also give them a team? Should they know how to spell Riewoldt? Is it ethical to make them barrack for Richmond?

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Faouzi Daghistani (& his centre half forward line, & Dylan)
Brian (& a contested posession & his two girls at the MCG)
David and Gigi

Our first game together was Port Adelaide versus my team, the Tigers. On a Sunday, I dressed our son in yellow and black and we caught a train – crossing the Yarra, rounding the broken clock on the silo, the blistered paint on the ‘Rosella’ sign – and it felt a Melbourne rite of passage. His bag was packed with snacks and colouring pencils. Mine was filled with hope and pride.

“I want to see them kick goals and I want your team to win,” he had said, over breakfast. “Dad, do you want your team to win?”

But at the game, I had no clear answers for his inquiries; I couldn’t resolve whether it’s enough for him to simply follow his father’s choices. This social responsibility could determine a lifetime of happiness. Resilience is a current catchcry in child-raising, but with my team back then in twelfth spot on the ladder and with uncertain prospects, it seemed hardly fair to crush his spirit before it’s yet fully formed.

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Gemini Tiger (& daughter)
Darren Crick (& his two Tiger boys)
Cheryl & Jess (at Punt Road)
Cheryl (& Bec & Jess pre-game at Adelaide Oval)

“Carn, they cry, Carn,” wrote Dawe in his revered verse about Melbourne’s dual fealties of family and football. “Parents playfully tussle with them for possession of a rusk: Ah, he’s a little Tiger! (And they are…)”

At the game, I was flooded with sentimentality. The day’s activity linked generations. I thought of my father, and our afternoons long ago together at the football, and our easy conversations about the game, and how our lives slowly part. He goes for the Bombers. He allowed me to choose my own team. Is this the guide to follow?

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Sean Lockwood and his Tiger cubs
Sir James & Angus
The Hay boys (of the MFC & Glen Iris Gladiators clan)

At the game, at Etihad Stadium and sitting above Port Adelaide’s cheer squad, our boy mimicked opposition chants. “Power! Power! Power!” Richmond supporters looked bemused. “Go Port Adelaide!” I didn’t have the heart to instruct him otherwise.

“Why do they need grass on the ground and not mud,” he asks, his mind pliable and for now maybe swayed by the children’s television cartoon, Peppa Pig. My team, unexpectedly, were in front and playing well and here was an opportunity for subtle persuasion. I plant the idea of Richmond. “Dad, do you know I barrack for all the teams,” he retorts. “When are the Swans playing against the Cats?”

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Satch Skippygrirl (& daughter)
Grace & Simon
Kelda Murray (& her brood of Tigers)
Richard Brown (& son)

This Sunday afternoon – father’s day – my team again play Port Adelaide and for now I again tiptoe about the subject. I follow my father’s lead. An old friend (two of his three sons are Tigers, the eldest switched to Fremantle in defiance,) is picking me up and together we’re driving to Adelaide. For eight hours we’ll probably talk about life and families and football. For eight hours driving back into the night I hope only to talk of football.

I know I cannot prescribe a team for our eldest son, but I’m not sure he has much choice. My father allowed me free will, but my father didn’t write a blog about the meaning of football (collaborating with a graphic designer football-dad in Hobart, and a researcher football-dad based in the Netherlands), and my father did not hand-stitch clothes and banners in his team’s colours to wear to the game. That is, my father was relatively normal.

I am open-minded about these things. It is his life to live. Our little boy can choose his own team – so long as it isn’t Carlton, or Essendon (my fondness for them having waned these past two years). As with all football followers, I live with hope. Richmond will win on father’s day and our son, he’ll make a perfectly considered decision to be a little Tiger.

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Kirsty McConnell’s daughter (& her uncle, on Elimination Final day)
Hell Bell (& her son, and dad)
Jack Soward (& dad, both across from Tassie)
Jim Alexander (& sons)

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Of course Richmond didn’t win on that Sunday and there is no assurance our boy will be a little Tiger, and I cannot force the issue.

What I do know is that one of the most enjoyable pieces I’ve read on TTBB this year was written by Chris Rees about taking his son, Marcus, to the game in Sydney. It was a weekend away – sitting in the cheer squad, Marcus on the ground and helping raise the banner – those two may remember for the rest of their lives.

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Chris and Marcus 2007 v Dons
Chris and Marcus 2014 v Swans

 

It is only an idea, but I like it: of having lifelong memories with either of our two boys, together at the football, if that is what they want. But I know right now, this is never going to happen if he turns out to be a little Crow.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

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Generous Tigers: Paul Allen and his son, Jack, who offered the tickets
I used when I took our son to his first game of AFL football (big Tiger hugs)
Sibling rivalry: At Arden Street on Thursday, unkempt and along
to barrack for my big sis and both of us wearing our colours (GO ROO BOYS!!!!)

 

 

Dugald 19/09/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

On visiting Adelaide, & the long drive home

10/09/2014 By Dugald 11 Comments

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Roadside goodwill: a sign parked outside Tailem Bend Hotel

On the way, the highway was garlanded in our colours. At Ararat, Horsham, Nhill – and at towns in-between – all the balloons, streamers and goodwill were yellow and black. At Stawell, an electronic traffic sign blinked “GO TIGER FANS”. By a grain silo on the flatlands west of Dimboola, a Richmond scarf draped by a large board with a spray-painted message: “Eat ‘em Alive.”

We were driving over – two, three, four, five to a car – some hiring mini-buses, others in coaches, approaching on three highways, with scarves hanging from windows or placed on parcel shelfs – acknowledging our identity – changing clocks at the border, headed toward a shared dream and the setting sun.

We were Richmond. We were arriving. We were joining as one.

There was unspoken camaraderie in this sense of purpose and belonging. On the road we were strangers to each other, but in two simple colours all was understood. It didn’t matter what car we drove, where we were coming from, all of us were Richmond. All of us were on this journey. All of us believed.

We mapped our passion in a distance travelled. We talked about the game, about all the possibilities. We shared conversations wherever we stopped. We wore our colours. We arrived at Bordertown to be greeted by a sign that made us smile: “Port Power road kill next 260km”.

Everybody wanted to be part of our journey, part of our fairy tale.

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Scoreboard porn: not great reading, but a fine looking piece of stadium history.
Travelling Tiger: JD, who had flown in from Europe to see the Tigers play
Footy family: my companions for the day (thanks for the spare ticket!), Adrian with his daughter Alexandra, 11, and son Lucas, 6.
Tiger glitter: Adrian’s hat for the day

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Omen # 15: the thought of these two driving to Adelaide

The stadium was beautiful: light and open and airy like the Mediterranean climate we found ourselves in. All had walked there, as a tribal gathering. The roofs on the stands looked as delicate as eggshells. A row of Port Jackson figs behind the grassed hill area added to the day’s festive air. It was like a carnival. I’ve never known the start of a football game to feel anything like it.

Here was a crowd about half the size of that in attendance at last year’s elimination final, but making almost twice the noise. The atmosphere was more exuberant, more expressive. There was greater fervour and passion in the voices and dress and mannerisms of both supporters. We had travelled so far. They have a deep taproot of pride.

“It’s been like a pilgrimage to be here,” said Adrian, who I sat beside, with two of his three young children. “I spoke to one of my Tiger mates before and told him he’d be tearing up if he was here.”

Adding to a sense of delirium was the weather. It was unfamiliar. Adelaide weather: hot and dry, with a wind that bunted from our backs. Many on the hill behind drank beer, but otherwise the day had not a drop of moisture. It was parching weather.

We opted to kick against the wind and into the sun, and it didn’t feel a good omen. One, two, three, four goals down and we slunk into our seats, rendered mute, realising the calamity. We had come all this way. We had hung our hopes on a dream. The ending we had willed for ourselves was not going to be.

At quarter time I texted two words to my partner, watching at home in Melbourne with others on the television: “Feeling sick”. Eight hours of driving had all been undone in 10 minutes of football.

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Grin and bear it: 'Richo's' first visit to Spotless Stadium, on the knee of Hanora

Omen # 6: how much can Richo bear?

From Friday morning, I sent out a series of tweets I hoped would be good Richmond omens for Sunday’s game. It was my way of trying to quell my anxiety, tension, excitement. Each of us has our own superstitions about football. I wanted all the luck to be on our side.

On Friday, riding my bicycle through Richmond, dropping-off a TTBB fundraising t-shirt to Sue in the city, I received a one-sentence email from Bill Barbagiannis that made my day. “Just want to let you know that your website is brilliant and it means everything to us Richmond supporters.”

Thank you, Bill, for sharing the love. Thank you.

 

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Omen # 13: me, my Snowy Rovers FC socks & the best fence in Melbourne (in Richmond)

We stopped at Tailem Bend Hotel for a steak and chips on the way over and met a builder, Darren, who’s just driven down from Alice Springs. A compelling game of football – the third quarter of North Melbourne versus Essendon – was on the television. Darren told us he works mostly on public infrastructure projects in remote indigenous communities.

“I fell in love with the indigenous people,” he says. “The culture is totally different. It’s all about family and sharing what you have with your community. It’s a different way of thinking.”

Our conversation was about Hermannsburg in western Aranda country, and the work of the Lutheran church in central Australia, and games of football in Alice Springs, and the raw athleticism of some of the bush players Darren has seen.

We arrived in Adelaide at about 10.04pm, and found ourselves in Hindley Street, among Saturday night revellers, looking for my travelling companion’s friend who had for us a spare key. We spotted Jake King and Dusty’s dad in the crowd. We found a pub. Dale Weightman was there, among the Richmond throng. Our song was sung with boozy gusto.

A tall bloke sidled over and struck up footy talk. He’d arrived in Adelaide early that evening, coming by public transport. He had caught a train into Melbourne, then the 8.36 train to Bendigo, where he swapped transport again. “Fucking bus to Adelaide,” he said. “Never thought it would end.”

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Omen # 2: do they have trams in Adelaide?

On the way over, passing sheep country, crops of canola shimmering yellow in the sun (a sign!) and grain silos strung along the railway line in a land that turned sparser as the shadows lengthened, Yeatsey told stories about his family trips to Adelaide. They went every Christmas to visit relatives, and stayed in a van at the West Beach Caravan Park.

Both Yeatsey’s parents were born in Adelaide. His father, Ron, who I knew well before his untimely death, was transferred to Melbourne in the mid 1960s, to take up a job as chief accountant at Rosella Foods in Richmond. “He didn’t have a team when he arrived, but back then if you worked in Richmond you barracked for Richmond. End of story.”

A half-century later, and on a whim and a dream, Yeatsey last week decided to drive to Adelaide on Saturday afternoon, then home again straight after the game. He had a spare lift going. The two of us could measure our love of football and Richmond by the lengths we would travel. We believed in fairy tales.

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Thanks you to all who bought our inaugural TTBB fundraising t-shirts and hoodies. Both Chris and I are very appreciative of the support. We’ve still got five XL hoodies ($65) remaining unsold. Please contact me (email address at bottom of this blog post) if you’d like to purchase one.

And if you’d like your name added to TTBB’s email list (to alert whenever blog posts are published), please contact me also. All emails are sent out as a BCC, so email addresses are not shared with others. That is, it is a confidential mail out.

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dusty jumper pic

Omen #7 – Dusty

Eight hours of contemplation, of mulling over disappointments, awaited us on the long drive home. Yeatsey and I met after the game and filled up the petrol tank, heading for the Adelaide hills. A road sign read: Melbourne 735km. “Next traffic light’s Horsham.”

At our first driver swap at a petrol station at Bordertown I bumped into David Ward and Mandy and Ken Woodward, and others from the cheer squad, queuing up for coffees and takeaway food. Hugs and commiserations were shared. It was good to see them – familiar faces on the road, also returning to Melbourne that night – to let them know of my appreciation for their banner.

Did you see it? It was beautiful. Large and billowing in the hot Adelaide air, with gothic script of fairy tales on one side and a simple ‘Dare to dream’ on the other. Spine tingling stuff. Well done. Many Richmond people are proud of your efforts.

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Steel road: grain silos at dusk by the tracks at historic Serviceton, near the border of South Australia and Victoria.
Homeward Tiger: Yeatsey, in Adelaide and readying for the long drive home
There’s no place like home.

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Omen # 3: TTBB was mentioned on-air during the broadcast of THIS game!!!!

A ribbon of red tail lights lit up the Western Highway on Sunday night. Us Richmond people were going home. We were leaving alone, but also together. All of us were sharing an experience; of loss, and travel, and what it means to be Richmond. We were saddened, but still proud of what we had done, and the efforts we’d made to be there.

We had been part of something. We had flooded Adelaide in yellow and black. We had contributed to the greatest interstate exodus of Richmond supporters from Melbourne our club has ever known. We may well have been part of the greatest influx of foreign supporters Adelaide has ever known.

For the two hours of the football we were not given the opportunity to show how we can celebrate, how we can support our boys. That was a shame. But either side of the game, for the most part, we showed how deep our passion could be. We showed we were just as committed to the cause of our team as the home crowd were committed to their cause.

cotchy & me

Omen #18: this bloke (the one on the right, can play a bit)

On the long drive home there was quiet solidarity wherever we stopped; at all-night service stations, rest stops, the 24 hour McDonald’s in Horsham. In a convoy of cars, all going east, occupants just a little crestfallen and hollow, there were countless conversations about causes for the day’s great undoing and list management, and anything to keep us alert on the road.

Each of us was alone, but we were not alone.

At 2.04am, leaving a petrol station near Ballarat, after our last driver swap, I sent a last tweet: A full moon driving night. In our colours. Our hearts heavy with burden. Home soon. #gotiges.

And so a season ends.

Tiger tiger burning (forever) bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

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Don’t bin it: On returning home at 3.42am on Monday the cheerful yellow of this bin greeted me; a surprise gift over the weekend from Anh, a Vietnamese American who appreciates my love for the Tigers (she found it in an op-shop for $2!).

Dugald 10/09/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

Some notes, for Sunday (for “our boys”)

03/09/2014 By Dugald 6 Comments

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Tiger fan Verran Fehlberg adds to his collection of signs on Saturday night, with our collection of wins. He’s taking another sheet of yellow paper back to the Adelaide Oval on Sunday, where his 7-0 sign first appeared.

“I just hope everyone out there’s proud of what we’ve done,” said Jack Riewoldt, in a candid moment after the game – exhausted, relieved, excited – when interviewed in the rooms.

Proud was the word for the night. We were proud-proud-proud.

Proud of what our team has done – proud of the winning – but proud also of the competing, the commitment, the courage, the desire, the hunger, the hurt. We are proud of what “our boys” have made of themselves. We are proud of their passion. We are proud of their feats, of those who wear the jumper, who share with us their ovals of dreams.

We are proud of Sir Alex Rance.

We are proud of Troy Chaplin.

We’re proud also of those who play their role, contributing to the cause. In all the crucial games in this winning streak – against Port Adelaide, West Coast, Essendon, Adelaide – enough players have stood up for long enough when needed, to get a job done.

On Saturday, a Shane Edwards squared kick, a Brandon Ellis tackle, a Nick Vlastuin smother; and Anthony Miles putting his head over the ball – his body on the line – all afternoon and into the night.

Then there was Dusty.

In a moment, in a contest, he made us as one. He turned his man inside out again – gave him the slip – pirouetted with those beautiful hips, kicked a match-winning goal, then arced toward all other 35 players on the field, the umpires, those on the benches, baring his arms in joy. All of us were in his thrall.

Oh Dusty, how we love you.

And now we’ve come to this: another elimination final. But this is different. Changed is the venue, the opponent, the circumstances. Now we’ve got Ben Griffiths. Now we’ve got Batch. Now we’ve got Nathan Gordon. Now we’ve got Anthony Miles. Now we’ve got Reece. Now Nathan Foley will play. Now we have nothing to lose.

Rule a line under Saturday night. All that matters is to find a way to win a game of football this Sunday afternoon.

Rest up, boys, rest. Stay light on your toes. Swim. Play games among each other. Throw the ball around. Tell each other how much you care about this and about each other. We’ve come this far – you’ve worked so hard – we might as well get this thing done. What has begun must now be finished. We need to make this an ending of our choosing. It’s our fairy tale. We write the script.

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I believe in the power of words; to motivate, to float ideas, to change preconceptions, to acknowledge unspoken thoughts. I believe words can help. I believe words can give meaning to something as shapeless as courage and fear, as shapeless as euphoria and anxiety, as shapeless as a tangle of bodies on a football field.

Tyrone Vickery will help win us the game on Sunday, I know he will. He will be our wild card. He will seek personal redemption – for his reckless swing at Dean Cox – finding it in all the ways he can contribute. His season of disappointment will turn in four quarters, on nothing more than ferocious effort.

He is a thoughtful man, Tyrone, gentle and considered, and he knows how he has helped get us to where we are. And like all who’ve played football, he knows about the fear of the contest. It is a brutal game. He knows about masking fear with bravado. He knows also when the gifts of his body are on song, he is unstoppable.

Stand tall, Tyrone, be our colossus. Fly for your marks, shoot out those long handballs, attacks the ball, lead deep and hard, keep your head down and emotions in check, lift all around you. Now is your time. Our forwards need a big man to bear a burden on Sunday afternoon; here is your opportunity, it comes with our blessing.

You are one of us, make us proud.

Jack Riewoldt, we admire you. I think of Port Adelaide and I think of a goal you kicked in the first quarter against them last year. It was tight on the boundary, on your left. Never did it waver. Your first shot on goal on Saturday, never did it waver. When the ball is in your hands, it gives us confidence just as it gives your teammates confidence.

Robert Walls wrote a piece last year that was published before the Port game. You responded to the criticism, just as you responded to the public rebuke before the GWS game. When you play best your emotions are within. When you play best you make something out of nothing. When you play best you lead your opponents on a merry dance. Play your best on Sunday, Jack, and we will be talking your name on cars and buses and planes and trains all the way home, and we will wake up on Monday with you still on our lips.

While other heads might be swirling, caught in the occasion, yours must be on one task only, Jack: playing a game of football of internal rage.

You are one of us, Jack, make us proud.

Nathan Gordon, this is your game. With big Griff in fine touch and flying into the contest, and if Tyrone is back, your efforts need be redoubled. You are critical. You can win us the game. With your sprightly leads, your stamina, your finishing touches, your quick hands, but now more than ever by locking the ball in. There can be no easy out on Sunday, Nathan. This is your task and you are going to shine, I know it.

You are one of us, make us proud.

It is true, Nick Vlastuin, I met your parents early last year at the MCG, before you had even played a game, and they are delightful people. They seem caring; gentle, warm, thoughtful. They seem like people who put this whole game in perspective, like they know much of the outside world, and what truly matters in life.

This understanding is what makes you such a fine player. In the heat of the first quarter, when the clashes are hardest, it is you who we find in the middle. You marshal the packs. You organise the defence. You put your strong body over the ball.

All game long, you shoulder responsibility. Where Lids and Bachar run off packs, you create the space. And when the ball runs the other way, it’s you we find plugging the holes, filling the gaps. Yours was the last kick on Saturday night, and this was fitting. I have no doubt you will play as you played in last year’s final, that you will take all this in your stride. (And I still owe your brother $35).

You are one of us, Nick, make us proud.

Anthony Miles, my goodness we respect you. More than any other player, it’s your courage that’s helped turn the fortunes of this football club. This is of no burden to you. You have led by example. You have been fearless. You deserve every plaudit that comes your way.

Now you’ve shown your wares, a challenge is set. This job is not done. It is no time to quit. There will be time for rest, time for reflection. Once more to the wheel, Anthony, once more to the well. Make us talk about you for years to come. Lead them, Anthony, carry them, show them what you’ve got.

Make us proud, Anthony, make us proud.

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African tiger: Paul Thompson with his friend Alex, who listened to the game at the Yibba Yabba sports bar in Kenya
Easy, tiger: Sean Nestor, 25, at home with his blue heeler ‘Cotch’ in his Tiger man cave
Tiger, tiger: a beautiful bar room drawing (from Lennox Street) from Michael Nichols’ five-year-old daughter, depicting the tussle of Saturday night’s second quarter.

Your elation was our elation after the game last Saturday. It was a win that brought us together, sharing success.

After the game, Richard Miles phoned from Adelaide. Texts pinged. Emails and tweets arrived. I was asked by Francis Leach to talk on radio about what it means to be Richmond.

On Sunday morning, a TTBB reader, Sean Nestor, 25, from Clyde North, sent an email. After our loss to Melbourne, Sean had sent a letter about his heartbreak of being a Tiger that I had hoped to share. His hurt was raw, his feelings true.

On Sunday morning, he emailed this: “This morning after a long night of celebrating I re-read what I wrote you. Seems like forever ago, cannot believe the way we have dug our heels in!! Sitting in a hotel room in Sydney totally unable to sleep, thinking that was a night I will remember forever, topped off by a midnight call from grandma singing the song!”

On Sunday morning, Alison Neil from the Capital Tigers emailed. “Did it really happen, was I really there? That was without doubt the best Richmond win I’ve ever been at. I’m very, very happy.”

Darren Crick, also from Canberra, emailed: “What a day, mate, what a day. That was my best experience at a Tigers game.. WOW!”

Paul Thompson emailed from Nairobi, where he listened to the game on digital radio in a sports bar called Yibba Yabba. “When Dusty nailed it I thought we were in,” he wrote. “Then the Swannies got one back and my heart sank. What can you do from the stands, what can you do from Kenya? You can yell as loud and as hard as you can for the Tigers, so that’s what I did.”

And Michael Nichols (who’s bought one of our fundraising t-shirts!) sent this: “My daughter is five and struggles with our current enthusiasm for Richmond. She indulged us patiently while we went nuts at the All Nations in Lennox Street. This is her depiction of the strain and struggle at about the 20-minute mark of the second quarter as the Swans started to reel us back.”

I love being a Tiger. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

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Last Saturday is dead to me now. It means nothing.

We can hold onto memories, but what does that prove? Ask Dan Connors what it’s like to have an opportunity and squander it. Ask Dave Astbury what it’s like to have an opportunity and be felled by injury. Nothing is fair in football. It is not just.

My pleasure from the game on Saturday came mostly from seeing our knot of defenders embracing after the siren – a brotherhood of “our boys” – proud of their achievements, relieved it was over, and acknowledging what they had done, together.

Last Thursday, a TTBB reader, James Taylor, who’s “followed the Tiges for mumblety-mumble years” (he’s seen six premierships), posted a comment that included a quote from Len Smith, to whom he attributed much of Richmond’s success in Hafey’s halcyon days. “Coming together is the beginning. Keeping together is progress. Working together means success.”

Oh how our boys worked together on Saturday, and now they must do it again. There is another game to be won. This fairy tale needs completing. This story has not yet found its end.

Nathan Foley (did I tell you my father’s a Colac boy, was a champion ruckman for the Colac Tigers, turned down offers from Essendon and Collingwood to remain a local hero?) is going to be in everything on Sunday, yes he is. Bachar Houli (oh how I would love your family to come and meet my family) is going to run-run-run and create everything from the back on Sunday, yes he is. Dylan Grimes (do you know how your defensive punch is like a perfect sonnet?) will be all poise and balance on Sunday, I know he is.

Ben Griffiths on Sunday will fly for his marks in the warm Adelaide air, floating across packs. His damaging long kick will have Port boys scattering. He is our weapon on Sunday. He will play two or three cameos that will turn the game. We will talk about him all the way home, getting all misty eyed with what he has made of himself. Our little football world is all yours right now, Big Griff; it is your oyster. Do with it what you like.

Jake Batchelor is the other of our feel-good stories from these past nine weeks. He has returned, and we’ve not looked back. He plays as his coach once did: hard, tough, direct, and with an air of aloofness. Don’t us Tigers love it! Never mind you dropped a mark on Saturday, Batch, we watched the ferocity with which you reclaimed the ball. This is all that matters.

And all of us knew it was you under that ball in the last meaningful play of the night. Alex Rance helped out, but you won the contest with Gary Rohan and did not flinch as Adam Goodes hurtled toward you. You kept control of the ball, Batch, you won us the day. But it’s not over yet, big fella, it’s not over yet.

Your courage on Sunday will be a tipping point. You are a difference between this year and last. Go about your business. Make the contests. Back yourself. Be the one who puts his hand up, who inspires others.

Shaun Grigg, I have met your parents also, and they are reserved and respectful and proud people, as are you. I could say there is nothing boastful about them, nothing brash, and this is what I like. They are good people, fair people. And I could see in them a deep passion for what you do. They embrace your dreams. It makes them happy.

Us fans are happy for you also because you are part of our journey. At times, this season, I am sure you’ve been wracked with doubt; and credit to you for not showing it. You have the trust of the coach, and you have our trust also. You are our tagger. This is your place. And it is a role that in a game like this, could win us the day.

It does not matter if few might notice. We see you in the packs, we see you dishing out handballs. On Sunday you are our poacher. Our secret agent. Our sneakthief on the Adelaide Oval. They won’t ever see it coming.

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Our lucky charm: Cassandra Hall, giving us a wave at the game in Sydney, sitting among her Capital Tiger supporter friends.

I do not walk under ladders. Last time we played in Adelaide, a black cat ran onto the field. I want to cross every finger to keep this streak alive.

Last Friday, I texted Andy Nguyen, a Sydney-based Richmond fan I met at the GWS game and wanted to make TTBB’s fan-of-the-week. He had been in my mind. “I am thinking you are our good luck charm,” I wrote. He texted back after the game: “Go the tiges!!!”

Last week I interviewed Cassandra Hall, a Tiger from Canberra, for a story I wrote about us Richmond fans published in Saturday’s Age newspaper. I met Cassandra on a bus with other Capital Tigers, going to the GWS game. She gave off an aura of openness, kindness. And last week she said something that still sings in my ears. “It’s like a pilgrimage. We should have shrines along the way to the ground, and when we get off we could light a candle. I’m praying to the football gods. We all are. Please let them win.”

She had me thinking about our patron saint of football, who could only be Dusty.

Maybe one more miracle tomorrow for canonisation #saintDusty, tweeted @KerrynIJ, in response to this musing.

And last week I posted three TTBB fundraising t-shirts to readers in Sydney, two of which I know were at the ground. I take this as a sign. I’ve written this blog for two seasons, our football team has been in the finals for two seasons.

Of course it is not about me, or us fans, but it also is. Football is meaningless, football means everything. Everybody who watches the game on Sunday afternoon – all who travel to Adelaide Oval to be there – hope our barracking makes a contribution.

All the ‘tiger’ tees have sold out, but we still have one M and five XL hoodies to move ($65). All proceeds will cover costs for producing this labour of love for next year. I will be travelling to Adelaide by road, with a friend, so can deliver hoodies before the game. They are my good luck omen.

This would make my night: if our winning players on Sunday each chip in $2.95 to buy an XL ‘tiger’ hoodie, that they could present to one of the players at season’s end. For the player with the worst fashion sense? Or maybe Benny Gale or Mick Molloy look good in yellow. Who knows? For all orders, please email me: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Your contribution helps our contribution. On Friday I will post another fan-of-the-week, chosen carefully. They will be our lucky charm.

hoodie

 

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Yellow and black: Richmond house painter Jason Mariniello last week showed his colours outside his Cotter Street property.

Now is time to win another game of football. There is unfinished business. This story has not yet found its end.

Our leaders on the field will again stand tall on Sunday. No words need be written about Ivan Maric, Lids, Alex Rance, Chappy and Cotch. Their deeds do the talking. They will inspire us on Sunday; with their fearless run, their control of the game, their bravery. Cometh the hour, cometh this quintet. Our destiny is in their hands; all of us are happy to fall into their arms.

Brandon Ellis will be our knight on Sunday, he will be our saviour, I know he will. Steve Morris and Chris Newman and Ricky Petterd, if he is to play, will all play compact and disciplined games, doing the little tasks well, and letting all else fall into place. They will be unobtrusive, they may go unrecognised, but their attack on the ball will not go unacknowledged.

After we win on Sunday I will write a love letter to Reece Conca and his beard, and plead my case for a sponsored flight to Perth (if we are to play there) to eat at his family’s pizzeria. I wish him the best of luck on Sunday. Now is his time to ply his craft, to show the wits of the Conca boys, to show us what he can do.

You are one of us Reece, make us proud.

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Kingy took his top off, selling the shirt from his back. A ghost was looking over us, our guardian angel, Jimmy Jess. By all accounts, the pre-game function arranged by the Sydney Richmond Tigers Supporters Group was a big success. A squiz at Jake’s torso was worth the price of admission. Fran Doughton, one of the organisers, said almost 500 fans attended, with their events getting bigger each year.

And a shout-out for the Geelong Tigers Supporter Group. Their president, Tamara Doheney, has organised a family-friendly afternoon at Buckley’s Entertainment Centre in Breakwater. All Tigers in the Bellarine region are encouraged to attend and watch the game on the big screen. For lunch bookings, call the venue on (03) 5248 4866. TTBB hopes our Geelong Tigers, and all other supporter groups having functions, have a day to remember.

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trout

Front page news: He’s been on the cover of every Melbourne newspaper, now here’s Trout in his natural habitat; euphoric and in the cheer squad on Saturday night.

Sunday is a beginning. It is a statement. It is a demonstration that the men who play for this football club and for our football team can no longer be dismissed. Sunday is a day for atonement. Sunday is when we will walk in the sun.

We will play beautiful football on Sunday. We will play with hunger and aggression, with toughness, with bravery. None will be left wondering, after Sunday. We will find a new way to win. We will control the game, quell their crowd, make them doubt, break them down.

We will be humble on Sunday, we will be respectful, but when the ball is in dispute, when the contest is there to be had – my goodness, they will not know what’s been brought over us. They will not have known of such tenacity. They will fear us, they will loathe us, they will come to admire us.

Before this game, forget about distractions. About what Travis Boak may have said, about the colour of jumpers, about last year, about the crowd. Do not be anxious, that is our job. Let us retch for you, have a dry throat for you, a pit in the stomach for you. Transfer all that stress of anticipation to us, that is our burden to shoulder.

Gather strength from one another. Help each other. If mistakes are made, have trust that others will lend a hand. Shoulder responsibility. Enjoy the game. Don’t be afraid to take it on, to roll the dice when a risk need be taken. The game, it’s there to be won.

Be strong. Be bold.

And always remember this.

You are our gladiators. Each of us admire you because we see beauty in you. Yours is the gift of youth and athleticism. Your opportunity is our opportunity, to make of this two hours on a Sunday afternoon in Adelaide something many will remember for the rest of our lives. We come from everywhere on Sunday, we come by plane and bus and in a convoy of cars.

We come to the game because for us it is like a shrine. We come to the game, because for us you are like gods. Proud of you? My goodness, you don’t even know the half of it.

And if you have doubt on Sunday, remember they have doubt also. They may have won more games and they may have finished higher on the ladder, but all it means is they have more to lose. All is not equal on Sunday. It is their home ground, but you will see our numbers at the ground. You will see how far we’ve come to watch you play. You will see how we can measure our passion in a distance travelled. These Port people, they’ll never have known anything like it.

You beat them seven weeks ago, at Etihad stadium. You beat them in Adelaide last year, when they had not lost before.

When the game breaks, when it’s there to be won, in your minds you know you can beat them just as they know they can be beaten by you. Their fear is greater than your fear. Just as your hunger on Sunday will be greater than their hunger.

And it is this hunger that will win us the day.

You are all one of us, make us proud.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

chris_marcus

Travelling Tigers: the better half of Tiger Tiger Burning Bright (& founder of the Virtual Duffel Coat), Chris Rees, and his eldest son, Marcus, in the cheer squad on Saturday night. Chris has written a charming account of their weekend at the football.

Dugald 03/09/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

An open letter to “our boys” (for their trip to Sydney)

26/08/2014 By Dugald 23 Comments

R22 013

Unscripted, after the siren after the stirring win against Port Adelaide, Jack Riewoldt looked into the Fox Footy camera and said this: “First and foremost, it gives our supporters a chance to go to work on Monday with a big smile on their dial and say they’re Richmond supporters, and proud to be Richmond supporters.”

If words could turn a season, in the hearts and minds of us barrackers, then these could be it.

Here was tacit acknowledgement that the game means more than just the playing; it is also about hope and pride and happiness and belonging. Our Jack spoke for us all. He understood our predicament. He gave voice to our plight. And for this, and for his goals, and for his courage on the field, we thank him.

On Sunday night, singing in the rain, farewelling our boys from the MCG and onto bigger deeds in Sydney, there was much to be thankful for. For most of the game, I sat between Peta Newsome and Trout in the cheer squad. Our Tigers, almost a year later, were back “in the eight”.

And by happenstance, after the siren, I found myself beside Verran Fehlberg, from Fitzroy North. He was the man I mentioned last week, who at the Adelaide Oval held-up a handmade sign on the boundary that said, simply: “7-0”.

He made a new sign for Sunday night. It didn’t matter he held it around the wrong way: 0-8. The message was clear. His smile was as wide as the MCG. After the heart-stopping tension of the North game (what was Firrito thinking with his quick play-on and misdirected kick late in the final quarter!?!), our fairy tale continued. 8-0. We haven’t known about loss all this financial year.

8-0.

May it be 9-0 next week. 10-0 against Port Adelaide. May the dream never die. 11-0 elsewhere. 12-0. May our boys come back to play on the MCG, and may we all pray for a ticket. Dare to dream. 13-0. Imagine that?

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Oscar Newsome, 9, Selby
Stephen Troisi, 57, Brunswick
Melissa Petrisevac, 23, Moornbool West
Jess Benson, 27, Hobart

Can words help a team win? Can words inspire? Can words give meaning to actions and intent?

Jake Batchelor played his eleventh-straight game for this season (8 wins, 3 losses) on Sunday night, and remains an unheralded contributor to our revival. Against West Coast, it’s hard to believe he had only three disposals. Apart from his career-first goal in the gloom against Fremantle – the fist-pump, being mobbed by his team mates – a highlight of his this year was his gang tackle, with Stevie Morris, of Jack Darling – the three of them sliding over the Subiaco boundary, in the tumbling rain; as a metaphor for all the defensive pressure, the desperation, that helped win us that night and has helped turn our season.

Others get the headlines, while Batch plays his role in getting the job done.

On Sunday night, against St Kilda, playing his 50th game, Jake Batchelor collected 22 possessions and a goal from the back pocket. Yet what lingers most was a bump he made off the ball, knocking his opponent over as the two chased for possession in open play. It was all poise, all balance. With his long left-foot kick, his aggressive tackling, this is what Batch has given these past 11 weeks.

Poise and balance. Another week of it, Batch, in Sydney; another week of us singing your praises.

Anthony Miles, obviously, is our season’s good news story. Discarded by last year’s wooden spoon team, picked by Richmond at No. 27 in the Rookie Draft, elevated mid-season but not selected for the seniors immediately, he has proved so many so wrong. As with Batch, he came into the side after the demoralising Dreamtime loss; and as with Batch he hasn’t looked back. In his 11 consecutive games he’s averaged 24 disposals, kicked four goals, but most importantly, he’s put his head over the ball and burrowed into packs in the hottest part of the ground like few others have.

It is true, Anthony, we do not love you yet as much as we love, say, Dusty or Brandon Ellis or Brett Deledio, but this is only because we have not known you long. When you line up for us in the middle in Round 1 next season, all of us will have you in our hearts. You have earned that. You deserve that. You have found an opportunity, and honoured the chance.

Next Sunday, in the west in Sydney, comes your opportunity for denouement on this fairy tale of yours, and ours. Your hard work and bravery will help win us a finals spot. And it will be the beginning of a whole other story.

Brandon Ellis, I met your parents last year, briefly, on your 20th birthday, at the MCG, after we beat Hawthorn in the rain, and your mother was rightly proud of you, as we all are too. You’re so young; you’ve made so much of yourself. All those expectations we had for you at this season’s start have at last come true. You have delivered. You are a fine footballer.

All us Richmond fans are happy for you after your misstep (what do the French call it, Jacko, a faux pas?) in our Round 3 loss to the Bulldogs, when the oldest man on the field, Dan Giansiracusa, drew a free from you, and played on, and kicked the winning goal. How so much of this season may have been so different if that result had fallen our way.

Confidence is everything in football, and Brandon, I fear your confidence was shaken after that game. It needn’t have been. And it’s all kudos to you that you’ve turned it around, and the longer this season goes the better you’ve gotten, and there should be no reason why your run-and-run-and-run next week in Sydney shouldn’t help win us the game. All of us are behind you Brandon. We’ve got your back. We’re proud of you.

Shane Edwards, so much of our resurrection these past few months, especially in the crunch games against similar foe, has been set-up by you. You are our great creator, our conjurer. You make the play happen. You give the team quick hands and quicker reflexes, and a clearer understanding of how the play may unfold. You give us dash, you give us daring. You’ve also given us 21 goals. And plenty of memorable tackles.

Congratulations on your 150th game, against St Kilda, on Sunday. May your 151st game be full of all the wonder you’ve given us over the years. (I still think of the day your jaw was broken, in the middle, early in the game – was it against the Bulldogs? – and how I wanted to let you know how concerned I was for you). Knock ’em dead on Saturday, Titch. Tie ‘em in knots!

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tiger tiger

Prrrrr: Our very own “Skippy Girl in the forward pocket” posted this photo of herself and her daughter on Twitter after the game, modelling their new “tiger” hoodies they picked-up at the ground. Thank you @SatchSkippygirl.

On Sunday night I sat next to Trout, in the cheer squad, behind the Punt Road end goals.

On Sunday night I missed the banner being raised, and Neville Crowe doing a lap, because I was outside the MCG, wearing a gold glitter helmet, trying to spruik our labour of love that is ‘Tiger tiger burning bright’.

Big hugs and thanks to all who’ve bought our fundraising t-shirts and hoodies. It means so much to us. Your contribution to our contribution makes us eternally grateful. We can only hope our contribution – as fans, as storytellers – helps make a contribution to the players, and to the team.

We are, if nothing else, idealistic. We like to believe anything is possible. We value the connection between people. We like the sense of inclusion, of community, that football can engender. We like to share those voices in the crowd that may otherwise never be heard.

We hope it isn’t a misguided ideal.

We still have five ‘tiger’ t-shirts for sale (4 XLs and 1 L, $40), and 10 ‘tiger’ hoodies (7 XLs, 2 L and 1 M, $65). If you’d like to buy one to help us continue TTBB next year, please contact me via email (dugaldjellie@gmail.com). I make deliveries on my bicycle, I make delivers in the post. Thank you.

geoff matheson

Home tiger: Geoff Matheson (Twitter: @geoffmatho) from Ringwood posted this lovely selfie in his new “tiger” tee that arrived in the post. Thank you Geoff, it looks brilliant!

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Craig Brackman, 40, Mansfield
Tom Raisbeck, 25, Ringwood
Jess Hansen, 23, Melton
Carol Spencer, 68, Coburg

Alex Rance is going to monster Buddy on Saturday afternoon in Sydney, I know he is. Rance beat him several times when he played for Hawthorn, and on that Friday night at the MCG on the winter equinox – our last loss this season! – he blanketed him, and ran off him when the game was there to be won. Never mind Buddy kicked four goals and was the match-winner. Rance has had the better of him over the years, and Buddy knows this just has much as Alex does.

Jack is going to be on song on Saturday afternoon, I know he is. He played his most perfect game (11 goals, two behinds, and that pass-off to Cotch, from 17 kicks) at Spotless Stadium, in Homebush. Just across the way at ANZ Stadium, I cannot find any reason for it to be any different.

He is fit and uninjured. His hands are clean, his leads are sharp. He has his eye in. His confidence is up. I want Jack to rip apart the Swans on Saturday. The passion he’s shown for this club, this team, and us supporters – I want it to be displayed on Saturday with a ruthless and uncompromising attack on the ball. We haven’t come this far for all this to be meaningless. Jack is going to turn it up on Saturday, I know he is.

Ben Griffiths attacked the contest on Sunday night. Since returning to the fold after Tyrone’s errant swing, he looks a changed man. It seems as if a burden of expectation has lifted. He looks comfortable within himself. If last year it was stooped shoulders and downcast eyes, for now he’s flying for the ball, full of desire. Few other seven-possession games are as memorable as his was on Sunday night. He kicked two goals. This Saturday in Sydney, oh how I want him to do something he’s never done before: kick three.

Dylan Grimes, on Saturday, will delight in all the space of the ground, as we will delight in his athleticism. Nathan Foley, on Saturday, with his selfless team play – always presenting, always making an option – will do something he’s not achieved in 152 games of football: book himself in to play in a final. Ricky Petterd will do as he does most weeks, put his body on the line for his team mates. Sacrificial acts for the greater good of the team, he knows a few.

Troy Chaplin played perhaps his most perfect game of football on Sunday night. There is no reason he couldn’t improve on it on Saturday. Bachar Houli was everywhere with his run and slick skills on Sunday night. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t repeat it on Saturday. Nathan Gordon has set himself a new benchmark these past few weeks, with his games against Essendon and Adelaide. Against his old team, and with space to create, there’s no reason he couldn’t better it.

Our leaders will rise to the occasion on Saturday – Cotch, Lids, Ivan Maric – as cream rises to the top. Remember that dire game against Melbourne after Tommy Hafey’s death? (How could we forget?) Remember Cotch’s run and run and goal in the last quarter to give us a glimmer of hope? That is why we love him so. And Lids? He makes the game look easy. On Saturday, he’s going to make it look as though he’s playing with his own ball.

But these are the players who on Saturday are going to win it for us: Steven Morris, Shaun Grigg and Dusty. I know they will. Each of them has something to prove. Each of them will show what they can do.

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On Monday afternoon I sent a tweet: Have been writing an open letter to “our boys” (for their trip to Sydney). All suggestions welcome. #gotiges.
Here’s a selection of replies:
Glen Weidemann @weedo 04 WIN!
YELLOW & BLACK @Punt_Rd_End very short letter DJ. GO HARD, WIN, SEASON OVER IF YA DON’T. Love from ALL @Richmond_FC Supporters
Murf @nmurf27 kick it to Jack and Lids
Emily O’Connor @emily_rfc no matter how the season ends, we’re proud of them for not giving up when it all got tough. Showed they are #strongandbold
Darren Crick @derwoodau make sure they know we will have a good time watching them and a better one if they win!
Alan Scott @alanrfc56 Just keep on winning, we don’t want the dream to end #gotiges
Cheryl Critchley @CherylCritchley Channel Richo circa 2004 last time we beat them up there. Richo kicked 7.0 and won the game for us :-)
Liam Kiernan @liammichaelliam tell them… Win lose or draw I will never not support the tiger and I am proud as of the Richmond football club
Caz @MallettCaroline Just that we are there with them no matter what… #GoTigers
Chelsey Huber @LifEinColoR96 don’t hold back, keep the dream alive!! #gotiges
Shelly Connors @DameTassiemum Self belief is everything. This year has proven that. We played the first half with none, the second half with plenty! #gotiges
Paul Ager @PaulTAger If it is to be it’s up to me – Tom Hafey
Ben De Pedro @BenDepedro believe in yourselves it’s possible, with belief possibility becomes probability

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Alarna Sewell (holding baby Sebastian), 24, Pakenham
William “Billy” Gilchrist, 49, Mornington
Jared Kamins, 23, Rowville
Jackie Branson, 45, Montmorency

Before last year’s Elimination Final I wrote that Damien Hardwick ought be both careful and bold in his team selections. I called for the inclusion of Orren Stephenson in the team, to no avail. And I said he should be wary of carrying injured players. Jack was injured going into last year’s final, and Newie was injured, and Jake King was exhausted and spent.

We tried to play tempo footy and got caught out. We got ahead of ourselves. The only blessing was the day’s occasion, and how Nick Vlastuin and Cotch, among others, rose to it.

Saturday afternoon at ANZ Stadium is the first of this season’s two Elimination Finals. It is a time for redemption. It is a time for a new beginning. It is a time for charting a destiny.

Our resurrection, from 3-10 to 11-10, has been one of the football stories of the season. But it should not end here. It is a story that needs to get better, still. Here is an opportunity – to take on the league’s best team, on the eve of finals, in Sydney, on their home ground – that ought not be squandered. Here is an opportunity for this team, for this group of young men, to break our shackles of history.

Casual observers are willing us to win, I know they are. Other supporters understand our fairy tale. They understand it is good for our code of football. Our hope and our passion and our fervour make others happy.

I offer no advice for the game this Saturday. I offer only encouragement. I want every Richmond player to play with a brave heart and a free spirit. Take the game on. Be strong and bold. If ever in doubt, think of all times in your life you’ve overcome adversity. Have no fear. Go into the game with no expectations. Help each other. Do it for each other. Take pleasure in selfless acts. Take on responsibility.

And before the game, think about this. The Sydney players know they have a home final booked, with a double chance. They know we’re playing for everything. Our backs are to the wall. They know we’re going to be harder and lower and more ferocious in the contest; that we are going to hunt them, and maul them, and when we get the ball we are going to run like the wind to open up scoring chances.

They know we are willing to hurt more than they are willing to hurt.

It is what will win us the day.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

 

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Thank you North: My big sister retweeted this photograph late on sunday night, of us together. It makes her happy. And her team winning makes me happy. I will never say a bad word about North again.

 

Dugald 26/08/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

On fairy tales, and may they know no end

18/08/2014 By Dugald 12 Comments

boys

Late Saturday night I received a phone call from Richard, a young policeman working night shift at Port Augusta in South Australia, who needed to talk. His family, who live in Adelaide and barrack for Richmond, were at the game. On nights like these we need share in the joy. We hug each other. We embrace. We text, we tweet, we post on Facebook, we call and talk. We cannot quite believe what has happened and it’s as if it is only real if shared.

It’s moments like these I love being a Tiger, I am proud to be a Tiger, and I believe that what we have is a deeper kindred spirit than most of us truly acknowledge.

On Monday morning, another Richard – Richard Byrne – a native Sydneysider and whose path in life seems always to cross mine (most recently through TTBB) sent a poem:

Sing the song of Richmond
a rocket full of pie
2 and 20 black birds
sent out to try
to dine upon the tigers.
what happened next, of course?
Yellow pastry full of crow
with nice tomato sauce.

It’s times like these – incredulous times – we become creative with our barracking, letting it take new shape, and a life of its own. Our spirits are singing. We are heady with delight. We believe anything’s possible. Our team have forgotten how to lose.

What they’ve done since last playing St Kilda – in stringing together seven victories, in finding new ways to win – has given more joy than all of last year. After the Melbourne loss, after the loss to Essendon in the Dreamtime game, I couldn’t imagine what has happened. The sky had fallen and our Tigers had left us bereft for this season and, presumably, for many more to come.

Now we hope to smell the grass of the MCG in the sweet balm of spring. We hope this is another season to remember. We hope this fairy tale knows no end.

Now we dare to dream; that these players truly have forgotten how to lose, and this winning is contagious and it is all that we will know for the rest of the season.

Imagine that? Imagine if this group of young men pulled off such a feat? They would become immortal. They would be spoken about in reverential breath for generations to come. They would rewrite the record books. The whole city would fall to its knees in respect and admiration. They would never have to kick a football again and they would be talked-about with such fondness for the rest of their lives.

All us Tiger fans would block the gates to the MCG and carry each of them on our shoulders, in victory, beneath the flowering elms of Yarra Park to Punt Road Oval, where for a full week – maybe more – we would celebrate their deeds and honour their achievements.

Our boys, our boys, our boys.

Please, on that journey could I help carry Dusty?

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hoodie

Thanks to all who’ve placed orders, and have paid, for the inaugural TTBB fund-raising t-shirts. We’ve had 20 tees and 20 hoodies made-up, and all proceeds will go to keeping our little project solvent for next year (mostly ISP hosting fees, domain name, boring stuff like that – with any extra to fund a TTBB budget trip to Tatyoon to recount the Dave Astbury story, on behalf of the Dave Astbury Appreciation Society). The hoodies are now on sale! They’re a gold fleece hoodie with a black ‘Tiger’ on the back. They’re cheerful, creative, and full of Tiger pride.

They could be collector’s items. We’ve made only 20. Bottom line is that each hoodie has cost us $43.45 to make, and we’re selling them for $65. I’m happy to accept any pleas for discounts (from students, disability pensioners, etc). We are not trying to profiteer; we’re just trying to find a way to cover our expenses for this year, and next.

For orders, please email me at dugaldjellie@gmail.com and we can arrange payment/delivery. Also, anyone who’s put an order in for a Tiger tee, please confirm payment by this weekend to secure your order.

I’ll be at the game on Sunday from 3.30pm selling the t-shirts and hoodies (all confirmed orders can also be picked up). Find me at Gate 5, at the Punt Road end, by light tower 3. I’ll wear my gold-glitter helmet so you can’t miss me. Even if you don’t want to buy one, come and say hello. But for a general warning, please see the second-last item on this blog.

shirt

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Truth is, if we win these last two games I don’t really care if we make finals or not. The joy is in the winning, and how the team are playing, and witnessing this – and not so much on the construct of finals. The pleasure is in the reversal of fortunes. In learning how to win when confronted with adversity. In seeing the players mob each other after Saturday night’s game – a knot of exuberance and care for each other, in the ground’s heart.

It is true, when the players come together as one, so too, do us fans.

7nil

The pleasure is in seeing a fan on the TV telecast hold up a home-made yellow-and-black sign on the boundary line that says, simply: 7-0. In those two numbers, so much is known. All us Richmond supporters understand the significance of those numbers. 7-0. We are willing it to be 8-0, to be…

The pleasure is in seeing Big Ivan, a heartbeat of our team, our recruit who seems to understand us fans more than we understand ourselves – so carefully spoken, so gentle, so supportive of our efforts – embrace this fan and his 7-0 sign and share in his celebration. Such a small gesture, that causes so much pleasure for so many on our side of the fence.

We want to be part of the winning, we want to contribute.

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Midway through the last quarter when everything was running against us – the goals, the umpiring decisions, the bounce of the ball, the scoreboard, the clock, then more of the umpiring calls – hands up who thought it was over? Who thought our shared dream was to end? Hands up who had started to apportion blame for the season? Who called for the sub to be made? Who was cursing ‘Newy’ and his ill-advised kick-in in the third quarter (all of us knew the smart play, the percentage play, the wet-weather play, was to go long and wide)? Who had that awful pit of melancholia, of familiar disappointment, of sadness for what may have been? Hands up who thought our Sunday morning would be full of longing?

Hands up who jumped from the floor, the couch, their seat, when Dusty kicked the goal that would seal the win? Hands up who ran around the room, clenching their fist, pumping their fists, incredulous with joy, not wanting to wake up sleeping children, trying to contain such relief and pleasure (oh, that was just me?)…

I would love to see a compilation of footage of how our fans reacted to that win, to that Dusty goal, to the team singing the song.

For the longest time, I’ve not known a win like it. On a Saturday night, under lights, away, broadcast for all to see, and our boys came up trumps! They made us so proud. They made us want to hug them. They made us fall in love, all over again.

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So there are several things I need to do, that I said I would. I owe Nick Vlastuin’s brother $35 as a pledge for walking the Kokoda Track. I will pay him. I have said I will visit Tatyoon to write about David Astbury’s home town. I will visit Tatyoon before the year’s out. Last week I said I would write an open letter to Bachar Houli. I will write this letter, but not right now.

Right now I need to praise Troy Chaplin. It has been a pleasure to see him defy his early-season form when he looked bereft of confidence and touch. Since the Port Adelaide game – and those goals, and that celebration that delighted us all – he has been a wonder. He has been as he was last year: dependable, sturdy, solid, reliable; a calming influence on the back six.

Twice in the last quarter he single-handedly kept our dream alive. When he stripped James Podsiadly of the ball – at the top of the goals, as he turned to shoot and bury us – it was a single act that saved our skin. Our season was on the line, and Chappy restored a heartbeat. Alex Rance applied the pressure, and Troy Chaplin saved the night. How lucky are we to have these two?

And when Chappy took a sliding, defensive mark late in the quarter to win back possession, to repel an attack, to hold the ball, I jumped from the floor and clapped. I needed to applaud. I needed to acknowledge his deed. I needed to let him know how appreciative I was of that mark. My partner told me to stop. She said I’d wake the baby.

Right now I need to praise Big Ben Griffiths. On Saturday night he arrived as a footballer. On Saturday night, his hair wet and slicked-down, he looked like the sort of old-fashioned, no-frills footballer so many of us admire. He’s always been a fan favourite, with his beautiful, long kicks and the way he flies for the ball. On Saturday night, these attributes helped win us the game. He kicked a goal in the wet from outside 50. His ruck contributions were more than handy, and helped create Cotch’s brilliant rove and snapped goal. He sent the ball long and over the lines and into the teeth of goals, that helped set-up Nathan Gordon’s match-winning snap. And in the dying minutes he won valuable possessions that gave us composure.

When Big Ben gets his hands on the ball, our team are in good hands. His long kick is such an asset. It clears the ball from defence when the screws are on, and it lengthens our forward line. He can gain possession from near the outside of the 50m arc, and he’s still a realistic scoring chance. And his ruck work is a bonus. And his marking is a bonus. It would be lovely to one day see him kick a bagful.

And right now I need praise Nathan Foley. For his selfless acts, for his professionalism, for what he has given our club for so long, for how he has responded to the profound disappointment of last year and being dropped for the elimination final. If we were to make the finals this year, Dimma would not make the same mistake twice. We would not let him.

Nathan Foley, especially early on Saturday night, did what he always does best: create. With quicks hands, with his run, with getting to contests, with extracting the ball, with finding a team mate. It pleases me so much how he has extracted so much from his body, from his abilities, to give back to the team.

I need to praise also Shane Edwards and Brandon Ellis and Dusty and Cotch and Lids, and others, but not right now.

I don’t wish to dwell on the negatives, but for the whole night – crossed as it was by a spooked black cat – there were only three moments of disappointment with our players. Sure, Sam Jacobs gave our Big Ivan the run-around, but you couldn’t admonish Ivan for his efforts. That’d be churlish.

There was Chris Newman’s aforementioned short kick-in that cost us a goal and turned momentum their way. There was Dusty turning-over possession twice in succession, resulting in an Adelaide goal against the run of play (but could anyone hold a grudge against Dusty?). And there was the ball bouncing off Ben Lennon’s chest late in last quarter that nearly was the catalyst for our season’s end.

But I couldn’t have blamed Ben. He came on so late in the game when the stakes were so high, it’s a tough ask for him to straight away pick-up the tempo. His was the most thankless job in football on Saturday night. I’m glad for him he had the kick that set-up Dusty’s last goal. He needs to hold on to this contribution. He needs to keep backing himself. All of us want to believe that he will belong in this team, that he will become a player.

Next week, if we win on Sunday afternoon against St Kilda, I will write an open letter to all Richmond players. I hope to express how we think of them. I hope to tell them how we care. I want to tell them what they mean to us.

I want words – and our support – to help carry them to Sydney. I want this fairy tale never to end.

22_mont_2

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Before the game on Saturday I checked myself into a hospital’s emergency ward. When away in Tasmania last week I had a vicious cold, and a night of fever, and something strange happened. I had numbness in my lips and on the left side of my forehead. On Saturday morning I went for a run with a friend, and did jobs around the house, and was on the floor playing Lego with one of our children, when I was struck by dizziness and nausea.

I had no idea what was going on. I was frightened. The left side of my face was numb and tingling and burning. I thought about stroke, or brain tumour. I thought mostly about our children, my partner.

The doctor’s diagnosis, while alarming, is a huge relief. For a while, my life has changed, markedly. I have contracted Bell’s palsy. In short, it’s a relatively rare paralysis on one side of the face that in about 90 per cent of cases resolves itself within a few months. Scientist remain unsure how it is caused, but know if effects men and women equally, is less common before age 15 or after age 60, and it disproportionately attacks people who have diabetes or upper respiratory ailments such as the flu or a cold.

It is not hereditary, it is not contagious. I mention this only for anyone I might meet at the football on Sunday. The left side of my face has, inexplicably, and temporarily, slumped. I’m calling myself “ol’ slopey side-face”. I certainly don’t mean any disrespect to anyone with a permanent disfigurement. Mine is a humbling experience. My lips are numb, my speech is slurred, my self-esteem is bruised.

I have a deeper understanding of empathy.

It thrills me no end that on Sunday, Trout has saved me a seat in the cheer squad. I’m wearing my gold-glitter helmet. I need to cheer myself up. I need to barrack. And I really hope it’s not the last time we do so in Melbourne, this year.

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Another thing that has cheered me up this year is collaborating with Chris Rees on this football-community TTBB thing of ours (especially his Virtual Duffle Coat, to which this week I nominated a badge for ‘Skippygirl’, a Tommy Hafey Club committee member who makes our club a better place for her involvement). His account of watching the game on Saturday night is a must-read.

Also, I’ve really been enjoying compiling our fan-of-the-week. Last week, while doing this, there was a wonderful serendipity. I had been thinking while away in Tasmania of a fan I met in Canberra, Cassandra Hall, and wanting to write about her, and was chuffed that of all days, I called her on her birthday. It was meant to be. This week I’ll profile one of the stalwarts of the cheer squad, and a man who I’ll always appreciate because last year he accepted me into the fold.

No, it’s not Trout.

It’s somebody else who understands that football, and our Tigers, they’re family.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Dugald 18/08/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

On the joy of winning

14/08/2014 By Dugald 2 Comments

cotchy & me

If this is fool’s gold, then let us all be fools.

For another week, let us rejoice in what it means to be Richmond when the Tiger roars. Let them all be jealous of what we have. We may not be champions, but we have again found our pride, and this is all we ask for, all we need.

May this run of victories never end, may this fairy tale never cease. May the whole city know of what a tease our team is; how it can break our heart then just as easily piece it together again.

It’s not easy, being a Tiger, but it is true and it is raw and it is real and it is the only way we know how.

If any of us doubted, then forgive us. We believe, again. The love, it’s returned.

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I stepped from the snows, from seven days in Tasmania looking for its mythical tiger, and heard the news.

I had walked into the wilderness not knowing the fate of Reece Conca. I returned, full of doubt, soothed by the sweetest victory of them all. The Tigers by 18! We won! We beat Essendon! On a Friday night, at the MCG!

Oh, how I would have loved to have been there, to hear the roar, to see the scenes, to sing the song.

Still, as with the Dreamtime game against Essendon, I have not seen the replay. I want this win to live long in the imagination. I want this game to hold on to its wondering. I want to shape this victory, fashion it like a dream.

In my mind, Troy Chaplin, who started the season so wretchedly, continues his resurgent form (how good was he in the wet, mopping up at the back, against West Coast?). In my mind, Shane Edwards sparkles with his livewire touches; Big Griff takes telling grabs and breaks lines with his long kicking; Jake Batchelor rag dolls opponents with his tackles; Anthony Miles racks up contested possessions; and Brett Deledio lights up the night sky, as only he can.

In my mind, Jack is imperious, and Brandon Ellis is fearless, and Alex Rance is brave and Dusty is unstoppable.

In my mind, it is a win that becomes a benchmark; for what is possible, for what can be achieved, for what the future holds.

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So I stepped from the wilds, from long days of walking in snow, to be reunited with my mobile phone, and found this message from my partner:

“Oh, the tigers. My love.  I can’t believe you missed it. Such a great game. I can’t believe they won, there were so many moments when momentum swung the other way and every tigers supporter expected the pulverisation to follow. Credit to Hardwick — he had 
Vlastuin as the sub, which was a brilliant idea — he came on just as 
Thomas really needed to go off (or perhaps Morris, who’d made one
 really terrible error) — and brought his solid form through the 
middle where it was needed. Especially valuable in the fourth when 
Essendon stacked things up forward in the hope of scoring whenever
 they moved it down their end. Everything just kind of worked –
 Griffiths had one spectacular quarter, and a good game; Gordon was
 wonderful; Edwards got two important goals. Jack was able to break 
away from his defender, finally, in the fourth, and do what he does best. Maric was terrific. Lids too. I can’t wait to watch it again.
 When I woke this morning, it was one of those foggy starts when you 
can’t even remember what day it is, and consciousness slowly came with 
the reminder that yesterday was Friday, I’d ended the day watching the 
footy and my team had won, and this reassuring sense of well being 
enveloped me. Now I get it, after all these years together. On that, I realise I haven’t read any of the commentary yet. I’m off! 
Might even watch Dimma’s presser.”

On returning to Launceston, to mobile reception, I sent a tweet, three days after the fact: “WE WON!!!! You beauty, Tiges!” In the replies, there is all I need to know about the game. I want to see it through the eyes of others. I want to savour in the beauty of it all.

@loumur81 (Lou Murray): It was awesome. I almost cried with happiness!

@Harris_Chas (Andy): The passion was back at the final siren!! Bloody ripper. Done a bit of trekking thru Tassie myself, too.

@sb1193 (Sarah Black): Best was when Ivan was kicking after the final siren and a trainer was alone in the middle throwing bottles of powerade in the air

@sb1193 (Sarah Black): Showed the real human element of a steadily more corporatized and poker face, cliché-driven industry

@Sarah_C_Rae (Sarah Rae): such a satisfying win over the dons (finally!) – at 2 mins to go I started inexplicably thumping the arm of our couch lol

@Sarah_C_Rae (Sarah Rae): loved seeing Dimma’s joy as he reached the players on the ground after the siren too. Much deserved.

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In Launceston, on Tuesday, I called my father. He is a Bombers man and was at the game, as he always is. It was his birthday. I had thought about him on the walk. Dad goes to every Essendon game he can get to, and is an ardent member also of Melbourne Storm. His ideal dinner party companions would be Paddy Ryder, and Billy Slater.

Dad told me recently how, with his loyal football companion, Les, they had gone to a members’ function for the Melbourne Storm armed with letters. The two of them had thought they are too old for autographs. What they did instead was write a letter to their favourite players, and hand it to them.

This is what I would like to do, also.

Next week I will write an open letter to Bachar Houli. It will be on everything about Bachar that I have liked and admired. If any readers have any photos or comments they would like to add, please email them to me.

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Thanks to all who’ve contacted me about TTBB’s ‘Tiger’ fundraising t-shirts. I will reply to emails later this week, and arrange payment/delivery details. Both Chris and I appreciate the support. A box of ‘Tiger’ hoodies has arrived. I will post details next week. Please keep spreading the word, we’ve a few more tees that need selling, and then I need to offload 20 ‘Tiger’ hoodies!

t-shirt_model

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My last word on last Friday night’s game goes to Andy Fuller, who in his Tiger Abroad column on TTBB wrote this:

“But my moment of the match came a few seconds after Ivan had marked Ben’s long kick into the forward line during the game’s dying moments. Ivan lined up; the siren sounded –the crowd roared, roared, roared. And Ivan – did not blink. No smile, no relief, no nothing. The man was looking in between the goals: that is where I shall send the ball. And goal he did. No concentration lost by that booming projection announcing the Tiges as victors. Ivan the Maric. And the team swamped him. This was a win for the Believers. Ivan believed in the Tiges when he no doubt told the Team that they could be better. Ivan believed that the Team could respond to criticism; to take it on board and then improve and improve some more. Ivan leads by example and the Team follows. This was the Beautiful Game.”

Ivan Small

Now it’s time to go watch this game.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Dugald 14/08/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

The business of hope, & of selling our TIGER t-shirts.

04/08/2014 By Dugald 6 Comments

shirt_montage

A football club is an enterprise in hope. And for another week, at least, our hope remains solvent.

I want to believe anything is possible. I want to believe this run of wins knows no end. I want to believe in fairy tales, in myth-making. Why shouldn’t our football team string together more wins than any of us have known for the longest time?

If our football club wants to win a premiership, it needs to start breaking records. Why not start from now?

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It is a curious state of affairs. After such crushing despair – compounding losses to Melbourne, Essendon, North Melbourne, and all the others – I can’t help but look at the games remaining, and hope we might keep winning, and hope results go our way, and hope that on the last weekend in winter there is value for all us Richmond fans in getting ourselves to Sydney.

Anthony Miles has given us hope, and thrown up all sorts of questions with his every game played. Why did GWS delist him? Plaudits to our recruiting staff for putting him on our rookie list, but when upgraded, why did it take so long for him to get a chance?

Jake Batchelor has given us hope. He looks the footballer he once promised to be. A dour defender, as defenders ought to be. Upright, upstanding, and floating up the field to kick the odd goal. Feathers in his cap. Good luck to the man; he’s a likeable fellow.

Nick Vlastuin is all about hope. Since his first game, in a pre-season that offered such tease, he danced among men, always with his head over the ball, with such perfect balance that all who witnessed knew here was a boy-man ready to play. He is a leader, before his time. As long as the Richmond Football Club has young men like Nick Vlastuin on its list, it’s in capable hands.

Dusty is our hope. He is our one true love. Oh, those hips, tell me about those hips, show me what his hips can do.

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t-shirt_model

NEWSFLASH: The first batch of Tiger Tiger Burning Bright merchandise has arrived, and is now on sale. They’re ‘TIGER’ tees, cost $40, and all proceeds will help fund this blog for this season and next; then hopefully the one after that. Details below. Please share this news on social media, messenger pigeon, with Chinese whispers, or however you can.

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Early last year I hoped to write about my football team and make of it a job, but it wasn’t to be. Never mind. I tried, and sometimes that’s enough. Rewards came elsewhere; in the experience, in the shared stories, in knowing that I contributed and for a while may have made others happy.
And at the end of last season, in the first days of spring, something wonderful happened.

Through contacts at The Age newspaper, where long ago I worked when there was good business to be had in such things, I was asked to write a story about what it meant to be a Richmond supporter on the eve of finals. The brief was open, the page blank: I had a day to fill it with words.
I wrote about 75-year-old Gwen Harris from Morwell, who has a Tiger logo tattooed on her bottom; and about Graeme Upton, 73, whose father used to go duck shooting with Jack Dyer; and about Jess Pannam, 24, from Mount Macedon, who I had met one night at the MCG in the “grog squad” and who told me that in football she found family.

I wrote words that in the morning ended up curled in plastic, on front lawns everywhere, inked on the front page of The Age. It was a thrill.

But what pleased me more was this: when I filed the story on a Wednesday afternoon I contacted the newspaper’s picture editor, telling him about the cheer squad and its banner making exploits that night in a little hall in Coppin Street. When I awoke the next morning, the Richmond Football Club’s cheer squad was one the front page of one of the city’s daily papers. They were the news, and I’d helped make it.

I was paid $600 for my work, and for that fleeting moment I could call myself a professional sports writer. I had joined the ranks. I had gotten paid for something that had given me great joy. I had hoped it might be the beginning of other opportunities, but nothing was to come of it.
The dream was short lived; then it was over.

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shirt_montage2

For a heartbeat, this season began with such promise. Remember the pre-season win at Punt Road against Essendon? Remember our season’s first goal, up at the Gold Coast, with Bachar Houli cartwheeling and Nick Vlastuin overlapping to finish off a delightful string of possessions? For a moment, we were champions-in-waiting; the top-four beckoned.

Before the season I contacted Chris Rees in Hobart, and asked if he would like to collaborate in this thing we call Tiger Tiger Burning Bright. He is a Richmond man. He has a gentle demeanor, and a fine eye for creativity. I was chuffed when he said yes. The possibilities seemed endless.
All along, for us, and Andy Fuller who writes from The Netherlands, it has been a labour of love. Here is our place in the hierarchy of the football media: in the outer, as voices in the crowd. We are but barrackers.

I would like to write more about the football, more about Richmond, more about the recent wins, more about Jack and Cotch and our memories of Kingy, who so delighted us and made us smile with his showmanship on Saturday, skolling a beer in the cheer squad. It will go down as the stuff of legend. Those around him will never forget. His was a gesture of togetherness. It was a last hurrah; an acknowledgement that he’s now one of us, sitting on our side of the fence.

Good on ya Kingy! All hail the King!

I would like to write more about Tyrone and his intemperate swing in Perth, more about Troy’s goals against his old side, more about Whitey’s run-and-goal, more about the folly of Hampson, more about the dependability of Alex Rance, more about the great-white-hope of Brandon Ellis, more about the quick hands and quick-step of Titch, more about the pleasures of Bachar Houli’s left foot, more about the opportunity opened-up for Big Griff; more about the value of Nathan Foley, more about where our club has lost its way.

But for now, I have no time.

I have needed, again, to find work; I have needed to fulfill my commitments to family.

It is a true story that the other week the newspaper called and they want to send me to an end of the world, so I may write about what it is like.

When I am not following football, these are things I’ve done. I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro, then higher mountains still, to write about it. I’ve skied into the back country, with tent and map, gone for days on end, to write about it. I’ve walked the highlands, to find solace in the wilderness.

So this week I’ll find myself at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania, with snow shoes and pack, gone for eight days, walking the Overland Track. I will have no mobile phone. I will have no contact with the outside world. When Richmond’s crucible comes this Friday night – 7.50pm, at the MCG, against Essendon – I will be blissfully unaware.

On Monday morning I step out of the wild; I hope only for good news.

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shirt_montage3

So this is unfortunate timing. I have a box of freshly-minted ‘Tiger’ t-shirts under my desk, and would like to sell them to good readers of TTBB. It is a fund-raising effort: to pay for the cost of hosting this blog, and to help keep it going for next year. Trust me, what Chris and I and Andy have done is no profit-making exercise. In fact, as with Richmond for the best part of this past generation, it’s very much a loss-making enterprise.

Each of us does it because we enjoy it; because, like others, we want to contribute to the social capital of what it means to be Richmond.

The t-shirts are an original design that I crafted at my kitchen table. Results from clinical tests await, but it’s believed that wearing these ‘Tiger’ t-shirts makes you 32 per cent better-looking, appear 19 per cent slimmer, and at least 64 per cent more accomplished in bed. I wear mine nightly. I sleep the sleep of the innocent.

As a matter of public disclosure, all proceeds from the sale of the t-shirts will be reinvested into the upkeep of the blog. I hope also to raise funds for my long-awaited trip to Tatyoon, to visit the birthplace of Dave Astbury, and for a trip to Mildura to join the Sunraysia Tigers Supporters Club on their road trip to Adelaide to see Richmond play.

Available sizes are S, M, L, XL and 2XL. Cost: $40, which includes postage within Australia (if you live overseas please contact me and we can work out the postage rate).

And please note, when I get back from my little walk in the snow and ice, his-and-her HOODIES should be ready (they have the ‘TIGER’ on the back). Price yet to be determined.

I’m afraid this is a very organic fundraiser. At this stage, if you’re interested in a t-shirt you’ll need to contact me directly (via email, dugaldjellie@gmail.com), and we can arrange delivery and payment, etc. As it’s a fundraiser, I’d be happy to acknowledge all benefactors on the blog – or if you wish to remain anonymous, that’s fine, too.

Remember, wear the ‘TIGER’ tee under your daily wear and it gives you inner strength.

And remember my email address: dugaldjellie@gmail.com.

And if you get no reply for a week you know it’s because I’ve gone for a long walk. In the snow. To think about life, and fatherhood, and football.

Go Tiges!
Tiger tiger burning bright
Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com
Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Dugald 04/08/2014Filed Under: dugald_14, front

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