Chapter 9: On Melbourne

In a simpler time, a pre-digital age with no neoliberal economics, a gentler world when six games of football were played in Melbourne on a Saturday afternoon, when the game was easily understood and readily recognisable, when Richmond were good; in this time of certainty and routine there was a man found on the wing every other week at the MCG and his name was Robbie Flower. 

“Beat Flower and you could just about retire from League Football because anything else smacked of anti-climax,” has said Brent ‘Tiger’ Crosswell, of this will-o’-the-wisp wearing the No. 2. 

In this time of the final five, with the Demons always on the ladders’ lower rungs, among all their losses this man called Flower would blossom. Frail and short-sighted, an unlikely footballer, he played the game as though on another field; always finding space, always balanced, always fair, always with poise.

He was a purist, a classical footballer; a player it was improbable to dislike.

Then in his last season, Melbourne got good. 

Were it not for a muddle-headed Irishman, they surely would have played in a Grand Final. Richmond, incidentally, in that first year of an expanded 14-team competition, finished stone-motherless last, behind the Brisbane Bears. 

The Demons of ’87 had a roll-call of flint-hard footballers, including the Lovett brothers, Todd Viney, Jim Stynes, Sean Wight, Brian Wilson, Greg Healy, Garry Lyon, Steve O’Dwyer and TTBB’s all-time favourite, Rodney Grinter. It was a solid core that took their club to the Grand Final the following year, and to winning September football in three finals campaigns hence.

It was a place Richmond was nowhere to be seen.

Never mind Melbourne’s recent plight, they have been contenders far more recently than us. They have been to the big dance on that last Saturday of September, they have waltzed with the best of them.

And yet, who’d be a Demon? It’s a grand old flag – yes – but is it high flying? Does it have the moral supremacy?

Don’t mention the war. It’s a minefield. And as with North Africa and that desert rat called Rommel, it’s all about the tank. Remember round 18, 2009, when our boys got over the line against the Dees, courtesy of an after-the-siren shot on goal from outside 50 from Jordan McMahon? His last-gasp heroics kept us from the wooden spoon. Turns out Melbourne, those old Machiavellian squattocracy types (what would Robbie Flower make of it?), were contented enough to lose the game and win the spoon, all for the cause of a No. 1 draft pick. 

They mocked us, dear Tigers, they played a game with us. It was a cruel hoax. It was middle-class welfare.

Now they ask the AFL for handouts, and spend their millions on the man with the perfect coiffure, and overnight they are again competitive and have won several games and on Saturday will be looking to win one more. No draft picks are at stake. They know now about pride. They understand it is something that can sustain a club.

We at Richmond of recent times have known not of success, but we hold dearly onto our pride. This week, all our hearts are saddened, our souls feel that little emptier, and the night darker, with the news that Tommy Hafey is dead. Since Monday night, the flags at Richmond have flown at half mast, the church bells have pealed, all have walked the streets with heads bowed. An era is over. Long live Tommy! We will remember him always. 

Now on Saturday, there is a game to be played. It’s a throwback. All this season, here’s the match that’s as close as it gets to a 2.10 kick-off at football’s spiritual home. Forget about Flower. This afternoon is all about the spirit of Richmond, the legacy of Hafey, the proud tradition of the Tiger. Nothing less than a win will do. It is non-negotiable. It is written in our destiny. It is all that Tommy would have wanted.

Most of all, it is all he deserves.

This chapter in our Book of Feuds is now closed.