Chapter 3: on the Bulldogs

I cannot dislike the old Bulldog. It’s not in my marrow. Few clubs have known misfortune like the sons of the ‘scray. Who could forget Libba, hoisted aloft in the arms of Paul Hudson early in the last quarter of the 1997 prelim final against Adelaide. The Doggies were up by four goals. A first Grand Final since 1961 beckoned. Libba was like a town crier – heralding deliverance – legs wrapped around Brett Montgomery, fists waving maniacally in the air.

Alas, it was but an Italian farce.

Bathed in glorious sunshine, his match-winning lead wasn’t. Most with a decent view considered it a goal. But the goal umpire was an obstinate fellow. He had no sense of theatre, nor occasion. The Bulldogs lost by two points. Adelaide later won the flag, over St Kilda. Thus as it’s almost always been, Bulldogs hearts were broken.

Oh, Footscray, how we wept for your sorrow and despair.

In the game’s modern era you’ve garlanded Hopkins Street with champions – Gary Dempsey, Kelvin Templeton, Brad Hardie, Tony Liberatore, Scotty Wynd, Adam Cooney and Chris Grant all topping the Brownlow count. What do us Tigers have to show for ourselves. Ian Stewart in 1971, an old Saint swapped for Billy Barrot.

Could anyone dislike Dougie? Scotty West, Simon Atkins, Brad Johnson, Rohan Smith, Nathan Brown (137 games in the red, white and blue before moving to Tigerland) – all were wonderful footballers. I had a soft spot for Daniel Southern in his playing days, then as an ABC Radio commentator. He told it how it was. He had a cheeky sense of humour. And then he left for Cairo.

Mr Football himself, Ted Whitten, was a Footscray boy. They named their oval after him.

Last Thursday I read a line in Bob Murphy’s column in The Age, and knotted in tears. “For all the noise and hostility in the air, my precious babies looked proud”. Maybe it’s because I was spoon-feeding one of our precious babies at the time. Maybe it’s the broken sleep. Maybe it’s this time of year. Maybe it’s because Bob Murphy had played a milestone game in the far west the week prior, and they walked off downtrodden, and no other footballer writes like he does, and there is longing and melancholy in his words because he knows the end is closing, and he knows his beloved Bulldogs are still battling, and he knows each time they take the field the odds are against them.

I like the Bulldogs, I do.

Last season I was amused all year by a subversive cartoon strip, First Dog on the Moon, found on their club’s website. I can’t imagine Richmond doing anything like it. The cartoonist was invited into the change rooms. He met their coach. He was embraced. He’s back this season, and worth following. (I also like the club’s new slogan #gatherthepack).

I’ve read Martin Flanagan’s Southern Sky, Western Oval and enjoyed it enough. I’ve seen Bob Connolly’s Year of the Dogs at the cinema and think it the best documentary ever made about Australian Rules football. In 2000, I was at their  Round 21 game against Essendon, undefeated on top of the ladder, with the Bulldogs seventh and down 15 points at three-quarter time, and Chris Grant kicked a miracle goal from the boundary to win it. And my goodness, was I barracking for the underdogs.

And yet, and yet… us Tigers, we’ve long memories and deep wounds.

Terry Wallace was a Hawthorn premiership player (174 games), who passed through Richmond (11 games), finishing his playing days at Footscray (69 games). He coached the Western Bulldogs with success for seven years (79 wins, 67 losses, 2 draws), before arriving at Punt Road with a “five year plan”. And some plan it was: a wooden spoon, finishing no higher than ninth, and a recruiting philosophy that included Ben Cousins. Five years of hot air and pricked hopes.

I blame it on the old Bulldog.

And remember the Sunday afternoon in late April, 2008, the Tigers sitting 2-and-2 and Richo unshackled on the wing, and us leading them comfortably halfway through the last, for a win that would set up our season. What? They kicked six of the game’s last eight goals. A draw! And what? Their full-back, Brian Lake, took the game’s pivotal mark, but Will Minson took the resultant kick on goal! Those canny old dogs, they pulled a two-card trick on us.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Time to run a merry dance around them, my dear Tigers. Never mind we’ve had their measure these past two seasons – in the nine games prior we never won. It’s our turn now. Our turn to lengthen a sequence, to keep them at bay. Show ’em who’s the boss, Dusty! Run their legs off, Brett Deledio! Give us another bagful of goals, Tyrone! Make us again all proud, big Dave Astbury! Keep floating through those packs, Griffo! It’s our time to snarl, Tigers, our time to bite. Have no mercy on them, but walk off after with respect and humility.

We like the Doggies; just not when they scrag us.

This chapter in our Book of Feuds is now closed.

Footnote: TTBB is unlikely to be at Etihad Stadium on Saturday. No spare tickets have been forthcoming, which is fine. Plans instead are to join fellow football writers John (The Holy Boot) and Craig (The Footy Maths Institute), and maybe even Rhett Bartlett, at Whitten Oval to see Round 1 of the VFL season. If you’re on Twitter, see #BackToSuburbanFooty for details. Gold coin donation entrance.