The image that belongs here has been relocated to avoid triggering feelings of anger, sadness and deja vu in Richmond people. You can see it here but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Who among us really knew where we were going? And why?
The pessimist said to the optimist “I don’t reckon this can possibly get any worse” and the optimist goes “nah, I reckon it can”.
These blokes have been on our shoulders for decades now. We know how they work, but we never know who to believe. We’ve managed them with booze and laughter and dysfunction and dreams of Nathan Brown …. or Harley Bennell. It’s been a kind of delusional, addictive, glorious, Tiger bipolar. That’s shaped us all.
It would be lazy to use a butterfly analogy as a metaphor for the Tigers emergence. And it wouldn’t sit with blokes like Nick Vlastuin, Kamdyn McIntosh, Jake Batchelor or Dylan Grimes; let alone with Dimma or Dusty. A butterfly changes from a grub pretty quick. Plus life in a cocoon is pretty stable.
Nah, I reckon an eel. Yeah, a shortfin eel. Swimming in Boomerang Creek. Then she slithers though cow shit, over busted stubbies and through inorganic, industrial waste. She navigates her way, on instinct, past greasy gravelly truck stops and through inner city, resort style lives. She’s drawn downstream, overland, and upcurrent. She gets dry and dusty and salty. Bitten, lost and scared. She’s seen it all, without ever understanding why.
Then she finds herself a thousand nautical miles away, in shallow tropical waters. Kind of a fish out of water in an osmotic reverse. She looks back, gives birth, and dies.
The little fingerling, smaller than a grain of rice and an orphan, takes a blind look around and goes “what am I meant to do now?”. It starts wiggling, without knowing, towards Boomerang Creek. Which is a pretty nice place.
You see it? 33 years of pain and misery. The lost footy tipping competitions, the stuffed up drafts, the busted leg, Spud, the countless slabs and bottles paid to smug mates; like charity, the ephemeral threats to call the Department of Child Protection when you buy your newborn a yellow and black jump suit. The pity, the scorn, the self-loathing, the Carlton loathing, the failed attempts to kick the habit; to get off this cruel, beautiful luge. We’ve seen and done and felt and heard it all.
Yeah, its been a long (dare I use the overused?) journey.
Who among us really knew where we were going? And why? How were we gonna get there? What was gonna happen? Were we ever gonna get home?
But deep, deep, deep in our footy DNA. The tiny bits that make us all Tigers, we knew. We knew we’d be OK. and that we’d get home.
And we’re almost there.
This is so left-field but really has the ring of truth. You have painted a vivid picture of the modern-era Tiger experience, and by the end I had goosebumps and wanted to run out and crash into someone.
Actual LOL. Do it reesy! Line up that north bloke in hobart and smash into him.
Brilliant stuff Corbo.
Your piece sums up the Tiger tribulations and expectations beautifully.
Here in Launceston to be called an ‘eel’ is an insult and more so if you are called a ‘Ti-tree Bend eel’ or a ‘Hobbler’s Bridge eel’ – these are where the effluent from our treatment plants run.
No longer will I consider being called an eel an insult thanks to the Shortfin Eel.
From a personal perspective – and I suspect Chris did the graphics – two of the above images strike a chord with me:
First, and most depressing, is the Tommy Hafey banner, which, despite being mostly crepe paper, showed more resilience than the players that day. I actually had money on Melbourne, such was my lack of faith in the team. That was the nadir in my books.
The second is the image of Daniel Connors, whose Dreamtime jumper I received in the mail the day he was sacked. That was in equal parts comical and depressing.
P.S. We will eviscerate the Roos. After that we will, and should, make the remaining finalists very, very nervous.
does anyone know a humane way to remove an eel from ones rectum?
Not sure if you’ve noticed Corbo, but being a Tigers supporter is hard work.