‘The Bull’ has died, long live ‘The Bull’. Richo turned 40 – and the footy, it’s started. Good football is good football, and good writing is good writing. Richmond fan Tess Pryor last year wrote this piece and published it in The Footy Almanac. It needs sharing; as a tribute to Richo and his father, but also to further honour the shared respect we have for once-were footballers.

Tess is a Tiger woman who 21 years ago, inexplicably, married a Shinboner. He’s a Painter and Docker (from the Melbourne rock band, not the former waterfront union), from a third generation North Melbourne family who’ve never strayed too far from Errol Street. But he does have a soft spot for the Tiges, just as Tess has a “huge maternal crush” on Anthony Miles. (Nothing wrong with that).

We’re also big fans on the shared football conversation that is the www.footyalmanac.com.au. It was established by one of Australia’s best sports writers, John Harms, as an arena for others to voice the way we think about football. It is a collective storytelling. John is a historian by trade, with a generous spirit, and a wide smile. But he does have some personal issues we must warn you about. He likes Cats. He barracks for Geelong. He knows not what is best for him.

He needs to talk to Tess. 

TTBB

I loved Richo at first sight. I loved his youthful flush, his passion, his tantrums, his gazelle-like grace and his enormous cock-ups. 

Having him in the side guaranteed that the entertainment would exceed the admission price. He would either bring us to glorious rapture or get himself tangled up in a comedy of errors.  Or both. In the same quarter.

He was Richo. He was ours, he had breathtaking talent but at the same time, he was one of us. He was fallible but he tried his guts out over and over again to make it up to us.

And in doing so he would either kick a bag or kick it out on the full.  He’d do his knee, come back and make All-Australian. He never shirked, never played dirty and never ignored the kiddies.

The 2008 Brownlow count nearly changed everything. It was the best telly ever.  Everyone wanted him to win. We all cheered every vote and screamed when he hit the lead.  In our hearts we knew what was going to happen –we are used to finishing ninth afterall – but he was Richo and he didn’t need a medal around his neck.  We all already knew – he was and always would be fairest and best.

I inadvertently stalked Richo for ten years.  And I’m pretty sure he had no idea.

In 1995, my husband and I made an unexpected move from St Kilda to North Carlton. Our sudden relocation to Blues territory did not sit well with me.  But, the Universe has a funny way sometimes of putting you in the right place at the right time.

Our housewarming coincided with my birthday – Grand Final Day 1995 – Carlton thrashed Geelong, Greg Williams won the Norm Smith and the area was jumping.

Weeks and months went by and we fell in love with Carlton and surrounds.  We walked around Princes Park every day and loved the proximity of Optus Oval for pre-season and real games.

One Sunday night we saw a pony-tailed, coltish Richo outside La Porchetta’s in Rathdowne Street with his mates (one played for Carlton can’t remember his name). I couldn’t believe Richo was in my ‘hood!

Shortly after, he popped up regularly in various places at various times in the area.  I even saw him playing golf once in boardies at dusk at Royal Park.   

These random sightings were just like Richo – always unpredictable but always a tonic for a weary heart.

One day, walking to the shops, the world as I knew it, changed. I noticed a man in shorts and a singlet sitting on his front porch. His knees were swollen and he moved gingerly like a bloke whose body had been smashed around in a younger life.  He had a very distinctive face and huge lips. I knew immediately who he was.

It was Bull. 

Richo’s dad. 

RICHO’S DAD!

He literally lived around the corner from us.  I had never known the Universe to be this kind.

Over the next few years I had to walk past Mr and Mrs Richo’s house daily for work and play. I saw Richo many, many times. Mother’s Day. Christmas Day. Some Sundays. Probably his birthday.

Once I saw him kissing his mum goodbye at her gate. I was walking about 50 metres away laden with groceries. I panicked and crossed onto a traffic island to avoid having to walk past them as it would have been too overwhelming to be that close to him.  He got into his (Richmond sponsored) Nissan Pathfinder, drove around a roundabout and tooted his mum. At the exact time he tooted I was directly lined up with him, on the traffic island.

It looked like he had tooted me.

He saw me and looked mortified. I saw his reaction and looked mortified. In a locked look that lasted all of two seconds he tried to let me know he hadn’t tooted me and I tried to let him know that I knew who the toot was intended for. 

I ran home balancing my groceries, my heart was racing.  Richo hadn’t tooted me and only he and I knew it!  Richo and I had shared a moment!

Time went by and we eventually moved just west of Princes Park.  I heard the Richo’s moved out to the ‘burbs.

Today, there are no Richo street sightings.  But, in his honour we have a vine on a brick wall outside our bathroom window festooned with the cardboard Richo masks the Herald-Sun produced in 2010 for his send off in the season opener against Carlton.

In this way, without him knowing, he is always with us.

I really loved Richo the footballer. But over those years I got a tiny glimpse of Richo the son, the friend and the man.  Loving him got even easier.

P.S. We have a confession to make. We’ve got a Richardson old golf putter – we “souvenired” it one local hard rubbish night.