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Septigers

08/09/2015 By Chris 3 Comments

I am as excited about Richmond making the finals again, as I am terrified of what will happen on Sunday. We have made steady progress on 2014, sealing finals to all intents and purposes a few weeks early. Last year we stretched the definition of mathematically to new dimenions to edge West Coast out of the finals. We are now in the Regular Finals Club, have 70,000 members, some first class young players coming through and Cotch, Lids and Jack near career-peak form. We beat the benchmark side twice; Fremantle on their patch and later Hawthorn who had looked to have the rank brown and yellow ribbons on the cup already. We are the duck’s guts.

But having been there when North Melbourne tore us a new air vent in Hobart; I fear and loathe them. In fact I might watch the game on Sunday through the bottom of a Chivas Regal bottle for the full Hunter S. Thompson experience. The patched-together combo they threw out against us on Friday kept us to two goals in the first half. We got serious and belted them in the last quarter but the game was a mixed bag of portents and dry-runs.

Ziebell and Lindsay Thomas are chances to miss, and 3-goal Kayne Turner is sure to be sidelined for a week after concussion; his elbow-to-head + head-to-ground incident looked bloody terrible. Ziebell gives me the willies; he and Goldstein together were driving the bus that ran over Richmond in Hobart. I worry less about Goldy; we have stitched up sides with a dominant ruckman before. Dusty is our barometer; he took too long to click into gear (I am murdering this metaphor) on Friday. Once he was going it was glorious, but I want him going before quarter time on Sunday or he DOESN’T GET AN ORANGE.

Tip for Sunday: Tigers by 11 points. If we can get past the Bananas In Pyjamas then look out, pretenders from the west and the leafy east. Tigers are impatient and unpredictable animals and may not follow anyone’s ‘premiership timetable’.

Maurice Rioli dreaming

20/05/2015 By Dugald 8 Comments

Abstract: Maurice Rioli was a former footballer; a Richmond champion. Matt Corbett, a beef farmer near Byron Bay, contacted Chris Rees, a graphic artist from Hobart, floating the idea of creating an artwork to acknowledge the feats of Rioli; commemorating his story. The project led to Adelaide, and former SANFL indigenous players Sonny Morey and Wilbur Wilson, then to Perth and Maurice Rioli’s son. Approval was sought for the artwork. Chris Rees will be at the Dreamtime game at the MCG, quite possibly wearing his new Rioli iconography. Dugald Jellie will be at the game with Chris, with a batch of homemade Bachar Houli babaganoush, inviting all TTBB readers to half-time nibbles. This is his story about football, and art, and belonging, and a bloke with a prized bull called Richo.

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Football is mostly about the past: about remembering players, games; a single act on an oval that may live on in the mind for weeks or years to come. Anticipation lasts a few days, the game runs two hours, but memories can linger a lifetime.

Maurice Rioli played for Richmond in the 1982 VFL Grand Final. In a losing team, he won the Norm Smith medal for best afield. I was 12 years old and sitting high in the stands. I think of him now and remember his hips, his poise, his balance. Aborigines say if you sleep in the land it talks to you, its spirits sing. To watch Maurice Rioli on the open grass land of a football field was to watch someone on song with the spirits of a game.

As a child growing up in suburban Melbourne, everything about Maurice Rioli was exotic. He was from elsewhere. He was Aboriginal. He was a footballer like few others.

Perhaps it is true that for generations of Australians raised in big cities, a first awareness of our country’s original custodians was through football; through swap cards in the school yard. The Krakouer brothers from Arden Street were a household name. Polly Farmer was from another generation.

We had Maurice Rioli, then Nicky Winmar, Chris Lewis, Gavin Wanganeen, Michael Long, Adam Goodes, Buddy Franklin, and now another Rioli, called Cyril.

Even the name – Rioli – seemed perfectly weighed, balanced; playful. It centres on an ‘o’ – it could be a ball, an oval – steadied by the same vowel and two consonants either side.

He was a centreman; belonging in the oval’s middle, the go-to player, an athlete, delicate skills, and those powerful legs that could roost a ball off a step, or two. Of all Richmond players since, only Dustin Martin has looked to share these two sublime attributes of a footballer: power and grace.

But Maurice was faster, his kicks seemed to spiral further, and he seemed more dangerous. With the ball in his hand, he could do anything.

“I always loved his name,” says Chris Rees, a graphic artist in Hobart who in football sees deeper cultural resonance. “He played with calmness and poise, and no wasted effort.”

Raised in the stiff westerly winds of northern Tasmania, looking at the Victorian Football League from afar, Chris was at high school when Rioli debuted for Richmond. He had moved across the country, a star for South Fremantle in the WAFL, to try his hand in the big city. Chris heard his name on the radio; saw him on The Winners on ABC-TV on Saturday nights.

“I was in Grade 9 that year and Richmond wins were no big deal,” he says. “We won our way through to the finals without a drama and Maurice was the pivot of it all.”

Thirty-three years later, a beef farmer from the back of Byron Bay, Matt Corbett, bought a Bones McGhie T-shirt from Chris and contacted him to suggest he make an artwork for Maurice. Matt is a Tigers man. In his words:

“My prized black Angus bull is called Richo and we have a cocky that sings Tigerland. My 11-year-old is a gun footballer and is considering no other career path than to play for the Tigers. He already has his draft tampering strategy worked out so he lands at Punt Road.”

Chris and Matt exchanged emails about the project, and seeking approval from Maurice’s family for the artwork. It prompted a chain of correspondence, nearly 5000 words. Chris approached former Central Districts Bulldogs player, Sonny Morey, who is the subject of a recent design. Sonny lives in Williamstown, north of Adelaide – he enlisted his fellow-indigenous teammate, Wilbur Wilson, from nearby in Elizabeth Downs. Wilbur eventually located Gavin Rioli in Perth.

What follows are edited extracts of the correspondence.

Chris to Sonny “I want to ask your advice about a new design I am working on – this time it’s Maurice Rioli. Do you think there is any chance they will approve an image of a relative who has passed away used in this way? What do you think of the design? I am trying to suggest Rioli’s indigenous heritage without using art designs I have no right to use.”

Sonny to Chris “The design looks great and the idea has merit – it may take some time to contact his family. You are right in what you stated about pictures and any deceased indigenous persons are not viewed in favour as it’s a spiritual significance. I’ll do my best to contact his family.”

Chris to Sonny “Maurice played for South Fremantle in WA – I will do a version of this design in a red and white South Guernsey, and send it to you shortly.”

Chris to Matt “Step one is done – the design. Step two is talking to the Rioli family about it. Luckily, one of my recent subjects, Sonny Morey, knew Maurice and has friends and family connections. He is going to show them the design and talk about what I do and why.”

Matt to Chris “Just in from two weeks in the wilderness living off snapper. Love the design. You’ve captured Maurice’s sublime balance perfectly and I love the black, yellow and red. You should be proud of it. I know a cousin of Maurice’s on Melville – Gordon Pupungamirri – who coordinates the Tiwi arts centre. If you need his contact, let me know.”

Sonny to Chris “Have contacted a good friend of mine, Wilbur Wilson, who also played for Centrals and knew Maurice’s family very well. I have forwarded your emails to him.”

Matt to Chris “Maurice’s NT amateur boxing title is one of intense speculation. I’m sure the record keeping of the Golden Gloves in the NT in the late 70s, especially when an Aboriginal man won, was cursory. It’s almost certain he won a state NT amateur title at welterweight.”

Chris to Sonny “You read everywhere that Maurice won a boxing title in the NT, sometimes it says he won the “Golden Gloves”. I’d like to add that on the shirt to his Simpson medals and Norm Smith.”

Sonny to Chris “It’s a pleasure to get these details for you. There’s not too many who are recording any of the Indigenous players who graced the grounds in the 70s. There was Michael Graham and Roger Rigney from Sturt Footy Club, Bertie Johnson from West Adelaide, Richie Bray and Wilfred Huddleston from Port Adelaide, and David (Soapy) Kantilla and a few fringe players from South Adelaide.”

Chris to Sonny “I am not Indigenous myself so I am going forward cautiously, but I do have a passion for footy history. Our original people’s contribution was neglected for a long time, not just in sport but in general. I am working on a Russell Ebert design, maybe my next SANFL shirt should be David Kantilla. A great player and a great nickname.”

Sonny to Chris “Do you watch the Marngrook Footy Show?”

Chris to Sonny “Marngrook is the only footy talk show worth watching. My favourite writer on footy is Martin Flanagan, and he has opened my eyes to Aboriginal football in a big way. He has written a lot about footy in the Top End, the Yuendumu Carnival and the visits up north by league clubs. It does sound like another world to Tasmania where I am, not just another country.”

Chris to Matt “Sonny is a great old fella, turning 70 in 10 days. Related to Gilbert McAdam, he says. He is one of the few old footy players I’ve contacted who is really happy writing email. What I am planning to do with the Rioli design – if it does get a tick to go ahead – is to donate something to an indigenous health-related charity. Once I reach maybe 50 sales I’ll make it 100% for the benefit of the charity, like I have with Robbie Flower stuff for the Aust Cancer Research Fund. It’s all good for the karma.”

Wilbur to Chris “Sonny Morey asked if I can track down a contact for Maurice’s family. I have been able to get a phone number for Maurice’s son, Gavin Rioli, who lives in Perth.”

Chris to Matt “I have Maurice’s son, Gavin’s, phone number. How do you feel about making the call? I am actually phone phobic, and calling the players, or for instance calling Sean Millane, always puts me in a cold sweat.”

Matt to Chris “Made the call to Gavin. Lovely bloke. He said, yeah, dad won a Golden Gloves alright. He said your artwork should be fine. He’s going to talk to his mum and get back to me with a year for the GG and an OK off aunty Rioli for the artwork.”

Chris to Matt “Just got your last email, wonderful! Bloody wonderful! We are halfway there!”

Matt to Gavin “Dear Gavin, below are the two images of your late father, in all his balanced glory. The two versions celebrate his remarkable career with both South Fremantle and Richmond. The image will be available for purchase as prints, t-shirts and stickers. Chris Rees, the artist and a mad Tiger, has a collection of great footy related art. After purchasing some of his other footy art, I asked him if he would do an artwork of Maurice. As a 9-year-old in 1980, I was in awe of Maurice’s balance, power and charisma, and subsequently followed closely the careers of many Tiwi footballers. I hope your family approves of this celebration of Maurice’s career. Chris will arrange for some prints of the artwork to be supplied to your family.”

Gavin to Matt “My eldest boy Izayah is 13 this year and is the Richmond Tigers biggest fan. My second boy is 11 and they are both extremely talented. Both have different playing styles. They play AFL and breathe it, they both also wear dad’s beloved No. 17. My family and I live in Perth. The artwork is magnificent and totally does dad justice.”

Wilbur to Chris “Glad you have been able to talk to Gavin. I wish you all the best with his acknowledgement project. Maurice was a great man and a very good mate of mine.”

Postscript:

Matt Corbett’s son and Gavin Rioli’s two boys all have their sights set on playing for Richmond and are now pen pals. Matt is sending a poster of the design to Perth, on which Gavin and his boys are going to write on it all the football wisdom Maurice passed down to them. Chris’s design has the approval and blessing of the Rioli family, and is available now through Redbubble.com. Funds raised through the sale of the artwork will be donated to the Lowitja Institute’s Career Development Fund, supporting indigenous health researchers.

Chris plans to attend the Dreamtime Game at the MCG. Dugald Jellie would like to celebrate his attendance by holding a halftime party in the outer, with crackers and a tub of his homemade Bachar Houli babaganoush. Details will be provided on this website next week.

Fond memories of Maurice live on, and through Chris’ artwork hopefully will touch a new crowd of supporters.

Matt’s prized bull, Richo, is doing well.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

Winter, 1976 – South Fremantle Football Club Gym

20/05/2015 By Corbo 2 Comments

76_montage

It smells like sweat, eucalyptus, beer and smoke. There’s a hungover feeling of hope. The narrow urinal is three deep.

Brian Ciccotosto, a broad little bloke; a club colossas, is upbeat. He’s had one instant coffee too many. Some punters can’t get enough of his jittery enthusiasm. Some can’t get far enough away.

Laurie Flanders is low key. Tough.

The young Tiwi southpaw looks relaxed. Supremely fit and with a charisma that needs no words. Few have any idea the heights this kid is going to scale.

Another young bloke, Alec Leatherday, is clearly a gentleman …. already with the first of two national titles. Today he’s fighting up a division for the vacant welterweight title of Western Australia.

An old SP bookie near the makeshift bar looks like he stepped out of the 1920’s. He even has a ticket and a pencil under his hatband. A whippet thin smoke dangles at that angle from his lips as he does a brisk, anxious trade.

2/3 Leatherday. 7/2 Rioli. But the South Freo blokes have seen this kids hands work. The 7/2 is belted and when the bell goes, Maurice is fighting at 68.5 kg and evens. Alec’s at 63.5, and evens.

The first round is a draw. Leatherday is a boxer. Rioli is an Athlete. But with lightening reflexes. When the bell goes, blokes argue about who is in front and look to the bar.

When the fighters touch gloves to start the second, someone calls out ‘stop dancin’ and start fightin’ Maurice’.

Someone responds with ‘show him how to box Alec’.

The crowd sing a chorus of rowdy joy.

Half way through the round, Leatherday tries an old trick thats served him well. He rocks forward, springing his weight onto his left toes. He drops his left glove almost to his waist, shifts his right shoulder back, and his right glove out. Just a fraction both ways. Less than a quarter inch.

In his mind, it goes like this. His southpaw opponent thinks he is telegraphing a right, and counters with straight right. Alec anticipates this, brings up his left, and delivers the telegraphed right, dead straight and hard. Whack! A double stooge.

But it doesn’t go like that. How was he to know this kids hands moved like a puwatingini ₍₁₎, baked on a road?

Maurice falls for the trap. He does thinks Leatherday is telegraphing a right. Indeed, he is. So he retaliates first. Straightening his knees, he pushes up onto his right toes, and delivers a short, straight, right of his own.

The punch is so fast, Leatherday’s left guard is still at his chest, and his right is still a half inch to the East of his chin when Rioli’s jab lands hard like a riled muntamunta ₍₂₎, under Alec’s left eye.

Most of the crowd only really see the blur of Maurice’s left and the right that follow in a whip, and the outcome of the first jab. A cut on Leatherday’s right cheekbone that looks like it was done with the slash of a cutthroat. Wide, deep and beautifully neat. A smile of meat and fat and bone.

The Referee steps in, takes a quick look at Leatherday’s wound and motions to his cut man.

Rioli walks to his corner, where Laurie Flanders quietly offers him a stool and a hand on the shoulder.

Leatherday’s cut man doesn’t even enter the ring. He just shakes his head with tight lips.

The referee beckons the fighters to the centre of the ring, and holds Maurice’s left glove aloft.

He grins and nods humbly to the crowd, who are mostly already queuing boisterously and heckling, before the bookie by the bar.

Maurice is the Welterweight Champion of Western Australia. Of course, this is only just the beginning.

Puwatingini – Tiwi, western brown snake (male)
Muntamunta – Tiwi, hornet (female)

What we think about, when we think about football

07/04/2015 By Dugald 5 Comments

Our religion: four posts, a field, a way of life (in Noorat, western Victoria)

In Noorat this morning, in western Victoria, four poles of PVC pipe stand under heavy skies in a paddock, and there is an understanding of a game, and of a way of life.

Last Thursday night under clear skies at the MCG, us Richmond people came together and after an uncertain beginning – the doubt of the season’s first thirty minutes of football – we shared in another understanding, and another way of life.

It felt like sweet redemption. Like all the disappointments of the early part of last season, like the squandered opportunity of the Elimination Final in Melbourne two years ago, like all those miserable opening round losses to Carlton, like the Ben Cousins debut, like our seasons of mediocrity, had somehow come to an end.

Bumped into these blokes before the game #1: full of attitude, didn’t say much.

It was more than a weight being lifted. It was history being expunged.

We toyed with them. We bossed them. We filled their fans with doubt, then bitterness, then disappointment. Us Tigers walked proudly into the night. We’ve floated for days. In four bounces – or was it five, or six? – and a searching run along the wing of the Melbourne Cricket Ground, in all that open space and in the confidence and youth and bravado of a young man from a small town in the far west here tonight to play his first game of league football, before us, the adoring fans, 84,000 faces, chosen for this night by the coaching staff as a mark of belief, the long strides of a gazelle, in this one moment on Thursday night a young man named Kamdyn McIntosh showed us what he could do and what he has and how the game can be played, and this season all at once looks full of brilliant possibilities.

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Bumped into these blokes before the game #2: my man-crush was complete.

Before the game on Thursday I bumped into Brandon Ellis and Jake Batchelor. Outside Punt Road Oval, with backpacks on, they were readying for the walk through Yarra Park to the ground. I was going home to ready children for bed. Our paths crossed, at 5.19pm, two hours before the season’s first bounce; a fan and two players and an understanding.

Of course I introduced myself. I wished them the best of luck for the night, and for the season. “Knock ‘em dead.” I could have told them all the ways I have admired them, as footballers, and how I once met Brandon’s parents in the change rooms after a game (for that brief and joyous moment in my life when I had access to be there, when I was something more than a fan), but this was not the time nor place.

Jake Batchelor looked me in the eye and offered his hand, and my respect for him only grew. He said he reads what I write and enjoys it. My man-crush, on the eve of this season, by happenstance, it was complete.

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A TV camera, a microphone, and Trout: and so our seasonal rituals of football begin.

Thursday afternoon, before the game, I met with Richmond supporter Luke McNiece, who had travelled from Perth to be there. Two seasons ago he contacted me and shared a story that later I will share with others. Both times I’ve met Luke, tears have swelled in my eyes. Football, as with life, is only enriched by the emotions.

We found an open gate at Punt Road Oval and there behind it was Trout – the spiritual leader of our beloved cheer squad – in front of a television camera, dressed in all his finery, being interviewed by a TV news reporter.

And so a football season begins with this. It makes me smile.

On the walk to a nearby café, Luke and I discussed our anticipation of the game, and how we might respond to a win or loss. In our own ways, both of us were at ease with what might happen. Of course we would like Richmond to win, and to win handsomely, but football is only a part of our lives. It is the most perfect diversion, but it is not everything.

I told Luke how my great thrill for the night was to see Kamdyn McIntosh’s debut. I told him how two seasons ago, when I decided to turn my writings to football – to barrack for my team like never before – for a first time I attended the club’s family day, took our little boy along, and under a blazing sun in the old circus paddock by a bend in the Yarra at Richmond, there was a new recruit introduced on stage and his name was Kamdyn.

Eye of the tiger: Trout’s off-season handiwork on his hot pants

His story stuck. In my imagination he was one to watch. I had confused his provenance (until just the other day I thought he was from the Pilbara in Western Australia, but now know it is Pinjarra), but not his family situation.

The story was compelling. A young man from a big family and a country town at the other end of the country comes to Melbourne to try his luck, to make his name as a footballer in the big city.

These past two seasons I had looked out for his name – on the injury list, on the VFL list – hoping he might find his way. I had wanted for his success. I had hoped he would not be delisted before a chance came to him. And then here it was, at the MCG, on a season’s first game, under blinding lights, in prime-time, our whole world looking at him, a crucible of a man’s capabilities as a footballer, for all of us to see.

Friday afternoon, in the glorious afterglow of the night before, Luke McNiece sent a text. “What about McIntosh?” it read. “Now there’s a story”.

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Two days after the game I find myself walking through a forest near Timboon, carrying a child in a backpack and with others all about, on holidays, and all I can think about is the football. It is not just the football; it is how our team played, how our players performed, and what all of this might mean.

I think about Nick Vlaustin’s courage. I think about Shane Edwards’ liveliness in the middle. I think about Troy Chaplin’s composure across the backline; the return of his confidence. I think of Bachar’s run, and his left foot, and his fearlessness in bottling the ball up when it’s on the ground, and how the fortunes of our club have changed with his arrival, and with that of Shaun Grigg.

I think about Jack’s pack mark, and his crucial goals, and how his partner is away in Tokyo, and about the untimely death of his cousin, and about how so many people say so much about our Jack, but that what all should acknowledge is his utter professionalism as a footballer.

1-0: Tiger’s man Verran Fehlberg, in his recently purchased ‘Tiger’ hoodie (only two left, XL, $65) who last season chronicled our streak of wins with placards, gets us off to the right start last Thursday at the MCG.

I think about Ben Griffiths, and the thrill all us Richmond people have when he has the ball, wondering how far he might kick it, delighting in how it spreads a game. I think about Alex Rance and what a composed footballer he is. I think about how Dylan Grimes sometimes reminds me of Francis Bourke. I think about all the young women sitting in front of me at the game who started squealing when Nathan Gordon came on.

I think about Sam Lloyd, and how pleased I am for him that he’s in the starting line-up for the season’s first game, and how he looks to have slimmed down, and how his leads are impeccable, and how he reads a game, and has a knack for the goals, but maybe now a greater awareness of what else is around. Tony Greenberg says Brett Deledio had been his “training buddy” over summer. I think of this as a perfect fit: two country boys, one from Kyabram, one from further up the road at ‘Denny’, both plying their craft in the big smoke.

I think Sam Llyod, the football journeyman, might find more than a home at Punt Road this season. I think he might make a name for himself.

I think of what a rock Ivan Maric is, and how well-liked he must be in the team, and how appreciated he is. I think what a great story Anthony Miles is. I think Taylor Hunt looks a lot like Brandon Ellis on the field, and that he looks a prudent recruit.

I think of Stevie Morris and what he contributed on Thursday night – the harassment, at least one goal assist, and how he absorbed the play when it was in his area, keeping the ball at his end, slowing the play, often stopping it with a free kick (against), and how this very public career change offers him a wonderful challenge that all of us are willing him to fulfil. The confidence will rise, the goals will come.

I think of a mark Jake Batchelor took, deep in defence in the third quarter, a one-on-one contest with Troy Menzel down the city end of the MCG – the last two men in the world and he took the mark, cleanly, and I applauded his name. In my mind it was more than a mark. It was a test of poise and courage and belief. From that moment on his opponent was as good as done. His night was over.

Of course I think of Dusty, and Trent and his new fatherhood, and Lids and his run, and Chris Newman in this first game of what must be his last season, and Brandon Ellis and what a competitor he is.

I think all us Richmond people must have been thinking about the game in so many ways, wanting to hold onto the thoughts and its joys, watching a replay, hanging onto the moment, wanting for that shared sense of happiness to be experienced over and over and over again. Truly, we wanted Thursday night never to end. And this Saturday afternoon cannot come soon enough.

And I think of all the words I would like to write about Kamdyn McIntosh and his first game: a bruising first tackle, a turnover first kick, the turn of pace, the three shots on goal up to half time, the leaving of Chris Judd in his wake (twice), the stunning goal (“that was BIG,” says Bruce), and the run all of us will remember for the longest time. His first game of football. The ghosts of Dean Polo were rekindled for all us Richmond people. Only this bloke is taller, faster, stronger; more exciting, still.

But these words can wait.

All I can say for now is when he took his second set shot at goal, when all the anxiety was tight inside him, when he was 35 out and dead in front and all the expectation was on him, it was Bachar Houli who came across to offer advice and calming words, giving him companionship in the open cauldron of the MCG.

The shot hit the post. Our club is so blessed to have Bachar.

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Country footy at Easter: the Timboon Demons had a comfortable win over Scotts Creek on Saturday, in the Warrnambool and District League.

Thanks to all TTBB readers who this past week shared kind words about our football club bringing me into the fold this season. It feels like an acceptance, an understanding. As I’ve said to many, I’m proud of my football club for embracing what I’ve been up to. Last season, I levelled criticism at the club when I thought it was fair and warranted. The club could easily have turned its back on me. Rather, it has taken the higher road; it’s shown it has a bigger heart. A gesture of goodwill, it is returned in so many unspoken ways.

It will be a privilege to share the stories of so many Richmond supporters this year. Our story of football, it becomes one, as it was on Thursday night.

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A resounding win against Carlton is good, but it means nothing if it’s not backed up with another, against the Bulldogs, this Saturday. We need a ferocious attack on the contest. We need to be left in no doubt. All the disappointments of this corresponding game last season need be reversed. On the field, there is no room for sentiment. It is a brutal contest; and this Saturday afternoon at the MCG we need to make it all ours.

There is no easy way to win a game of football. There are no half measures. All we can ask for, all we hope for, all we can believe in, is something called total commitment.

Tiger tiger burning bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

test gallery

27/03/2015 By Chris Leave a Comment

The Final Final

23/09/2014 By EASY TIGER Leave a Comment

SWANNIES
Or if you prefer the South Melbourne Football Club, The Foreign Legion, The Bondi Billionaires, The Cecil Street Heros, The Bloodstained Angels, The Albert Park Barracks Team, The Bloods, Cazalies, Sydney Swans or the Lakers,

HAWKS
Aka Kennedies Kommandos, the Mayflowers, (very nearly the Melbourne Hawks), The Hawthorn Football Club, Kennetts Kids, Hawthorn City Football Club, Riversdale Football Club,

EASY TIGER

Sashfest 2014

11/08/2014 By Chris 2 Comments

This feud is brought to you by the long sleeve XL Geoff Blethyn t-shirt in Reynolds Red, available in other colours, sizes and sleeve configurations.

This is a late-breaking retro-feud posted after the event, the magnificent 6-wins-on-the-trot-capping event. We have talked about the battle of Windy Hill, Richo’s farcical hands in the back call, Sheedy swapping camps. Here is a list of my general gripes about Essendon. Less of a feud and more of a whinge, and to be honest a lot of these are hair-focussed.

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• Sheedy lured away our star wingman Bryan Wood, who won a flag in the red sash in 85; Richmond finished 8th

• Rotten Ronnie Andrews career in general

• Michael Hurley’s topknot

• Hardingham, Heppell, Hibberd, Hocking, Hooker, Howlett, Hurley, Hams and Hille. Hird’s egomania as regards the letter H knows no bounds.

• Ken Fletcher’s orange shorts, an early example of ranga personal branding

• I am not touching the whole Thymosin thing, but I am citing BT’s endless rhapsodising about The Weapon.

• Annoying Darren Bewick

• Annoying Sean Denham

• Dean Solomon who invented the “someone tipped a bucket of hair over my head” look that really took off

• The general over-reliance on Danihers. This is a national league club, not the Ungarie Magpies ‘Team of the Century’ fundraising dinner.

This pissweak (and late) chapter of the Book of Feuds is closed.

The Map takes on the Common Bottlenose Dolphins

23/06/2014 By Chris Leave a Comment

Today I saw The Map in action live for the first time. At the world’s prettiest test cricket ground™ Tasmania took on a team representing the far-flung NEAFL, which covers the Northern Territory, Queensland, NSW and the ACT.

The traditional state football guernsey is known for obvious reasons as The Map. Its finest hour in recent times was when a Tassie state-of-origin side (which I think was 98% AFL players) beat a middle-weight Victorian side at North Hobart Oval in 1990. Darrin Pritchard, Simon Atkins and James Manson starred for Tassie. Jose Romero, Ross Lyon and Shane Kerrison wore the Big V that day. I guess “star-studded” would be an inaccurate description of that Vic side.

Some years later Richo wore the map in a game coached by then-Fitzroy coach Robert Shaw. This was a disaster and according to Richo, Shaw told the team they were a disgrace to Tasmania.

This man disgraced this guernsey.

It was a gorgeous day today, so when Rob rang and suggested getting over to Bellerive I quickly talked myself out of spending the afternoon at the computer. I got a park so easily I expected to find the crowd outnumbered by players. I’d guess it was about 1000 – there was plenty of room.

I arrived right on the halftime siren – so I rang Rob and told him to met me in the centre square. I got the footy out of my backpack, took a few running bounces, then spotted my man on the northern wing. My first kick (in Blundstones) was appalling, and lightly sconned a small child. He had a hoodie on for protection, and neither he not his dad seemed fazed.

Rob and I exchanged some Gerard-Neesham-era-Fremantle-style chip passes then shook hands and caught up on things. He and I were at art school together in the 80s. These days we are making an effort to prop up the Tasmanian football and pie industries as regularly as possible with our joint attendance at local fixtures.

B.O.G. Brady Jones has it on a string for Tasmania. The NEAFL jumper lacks conviction.
Photo by Nikki Davis-Jones from The Mercury.

Former Essendon man-mountain Jason Laycock is back home playing for Burnie Dockers now. He represented the island state with distinction, getting 22 touches and 31 hit-outs.
Photo by Nikki Davis-Jones from The Mercury.

Tassie were 4 goals up at the long break but it had been more. The NEAFLs were clawing back into it. They wore a sort of Melbourne-clash-strip-esque jumper that totally lacked conviction, style, moxie or swagger. I was waiting for a mainlander to kick a clutch goal under pressure and look down to search the jumper for an appropriate symbol to grab, kiss or pump. Didn’t happen.

Rob and I searched for a mascot that could represent all of North-Eastern Australia. Carn the Scrub Turkeys? Carn the Skinks? We settled on Carn the Common Or Bottle-Nosed Dolphins which, although scarce around Canberra, do visit Jervis Bay, that enclave (or is exclave?) of the ACT on the NSW coast.

I can reassure Dons fans that Jason Laycock is still comically tall and still covers the ground rapidly with great, slow giraffe strides. He’s quite a sight, particularly on a pin-sharp sunny afternoon with a few sailboats in the background. There is a massive new stand under construction which will effectively blot out the sailboats – great news for those who hate the paint-a-picture-between-deliveries school of cricket commentary.

The third quarter was a lively contest with a proper comeback from the mainland cetaceans not looking out of the question, but Tassie finished the term with a couple of handy goals to McCulloch and Charlesworth. Jeromey Webberley (ex Richmond) was listed in the best but perhaps has dyed his hair – I didn’t spot him all day.

The Map romped through the last quarter when a lot of the NEAFL boys had clearly forgotten each others’ names again and the team spirit just wasn’t there. One of them with his head over the ball at center-half-back got caught high and dumped, and looked up blearily to see his assailant traipse into the goalsquare and test out the toughened glass of the D. C. Boon First Class VIP Balcony Superbox.

At the final siren most of the crowd climbed over the boundary fence with their footies and enjoyed running around on the excellent international-standard outfield. Rob teed me up with a pass into space which I ran onto, and dobbed one from about 35 metres, with a low-key celebration.

As it happens that’s about how far my car was from the D. C. Boon Gates. Rob’s mum lives two blocks from the ground so that’s where he leaves his car when he comes over. I gave him a lift there. Tassie as. TASMANIA 18.12 (120) d. NEAFL 11.13 (79)

Not happy, Benny! (On the role of dissent)

23/06/2014 By Dugald 14 Comments

Tiger love under Friday night lights: Doug Sinclair, 66, from Wattle Glen, all smiles at quarter time
in his yellow-and-black candy striped suit, with 12-year-old grand daughter, Lily.

'Boo, hiss! Poor form pushing gambling on Twitter, anywhere. A family club? Apparently not' , was my recent reply to a tweet from the Richmond Football Club.

Another follower replied to my reply. 'You seem to have a lot of anger towards the club lately'. And in this brief exchange, there’s an essay about all the ambiguities of supporter loyalty.

Two days before this season’s first game, our CEO, Brendon Gale, said in a press release:

“We are excited about the partnership with Sportbet.com.au [sic], which is another important announcement as we continue to build, on and off the field.”

Never mind that in an orchestrated media announcement – on the eve of the opening game, when all were looking elsewhere – the club would misspell the name of a business it had entered into a two-year deal with. Our football club chose money over responsible citizenry. It sold its membership to a betting agency. It has become complicit in gambling. It has traded in all its history and honour – its great community goodwill – for the quick fix of a bet.

Buggered if I’m going to be silent on this.

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The Tigers were terrific on Friday night; they were dreadful. Matty Dea stood under a high ball and took a courageous mark, and spontaneous handclapping rung out around our end of the ground; he spilled a mark near the top of the square and the Swans goaled. Alex Rance was at his imperious best on Friday night, blanketing his opponent and running off him when the game was there to be won; Buddy Franklin kicked four goals and was the match-winner. There are so many ways to look at a football club; there are so many ways to look at a game of football.

Seventeen minutes into the second quarter, when Brett Deledio kicked a running goal, grown men in the stands hugged each other. A belief that’s been missing all season was back. At this darkest hour, on the eve of winter’s equinox, our team at last was here to warm our hearts. There was beauty in the spectacle.

“Smash ’em, Richmond!”

Richmond would kick only one more goal for the game, and this night’s and season’s despair was complete. The glow-in-the-dark boots worn by Jack and Cotch were of no succour. Still we could not see the light. It didn’t matter that Shaun Hampson kicked his first goal in yellow and black and was mobbed by his team mates; voices in outer still derided his efforts. All that was gained was again lost. The final statistic condemned us: another loss.

“Stem the flow, Tigers!”

“Stand up, Richmond!”

“Do something, Tigers!”

A chestfull of Tiger pride: Glenn Rigg, 34, from Princes Hill shows-off his Bones McGhie design classic at half time.

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About a month ago, in a blog post titled A lament for Richmond (& how the club broke my heart), I offered considered criticism of the club I hold dear. It may have been misconstrued as anger. It wasn’t. Mostly, it was disappointment; generally about how I thought I’d been treated by Simon Matthews, the club’s general manager of media and stakeholder relations, and specifically about seeing my name on a whiteboard within the club, alongside the word “flog”.

I thank all TTBB readers who posted comments about that story, and who contacted me directly, and “Daffy” who posted about it on the Punt Road End fan forum under the title Shameful treatment of a devoted fan. I also thank the mediator of Punt Road End, Rosy23, for following-up on the issue and managing the debate. Again, in this thread there’s a lively discussion about ideas of loyalty.

In this piece, I wrote about the death of Tommy Hafey, and trust and belief, and about Benny Gale’s tilt for the AFL top job. I wasn’t disappointed in him pitching for the job – most of us have personal ambition, a virtuous trait in football as in life – but was disappointed for all those Richmond fans who hold unconditional trust in his leadership.

In “the Chief” there is an aura of strength and stability, of strong guidance, of a steady hand. In the Chief there is belief and hope. He’s a big man. All of us look up to him.

What had his interview for the top AFL job said about his duty to Richmond, I asked.

“For us outsiders, it can be read only as duplicity. He is Richmond, until a better offer presents. Rightly or wrongly, it is a signal that percolates down. And in a time of crisis, his wavering of trust resonates beyond its circumstances. If his heart is tempted by another offer, why should ours remain true?”

Last week, Brendon Gale was in the news again. At issue was a trip to the Soccer World Cup in Brazil, arranged for by Chrysler whose subsidiary, Jeep, are a major club sponsor. In an article by Greg Denham in The Australian newspaper, Simon Matthews said he had no problem with Gale’s trip or its timing.

“He left on Wednesday and he’s away for a week,” he said. “Brendon’s gone with our major partner, they are a big part of our business, and he’s gone with our blessing.”

Last week I tapped the words “maritime law” and “abandon ship” into Google. So much about football is about perception. The most damning accusation to be levelled at a player is that he is not trying. Or more truthfully, that he looks not to be trying. How a player appears on the field – the way he mans a mark, attacks a contest, runs off the ball – is everything, just as how a club and its leaders might look off the field.

Last week I set an alarm and got up in the mid of night and in a cold living room in Melbourne watched the Socceroos play the Netherlands in Porto Alegre in Brazil, and marvelled at Tim Cahill’s left boot, and thought of Brendon Gale and wondered if he were there.

I think his going to Brazil was ill-advised. Those within the club will, of course, say it was about business networking, which in part is true. But as with all these things, how much was work, and how much was personal pleasure? With Australia 3-2 down late in the second half, my head swirled with the fever of the occasion and the hour of the night, and SBS commentator Craig Foster asked: “How much do you love football?”

The point is this: all of us, if offered, would have jumped at the opportunity of an all-expenses trip to Brazil to watch two games of the World Cup. It’s a no-brainer. But all of us aren’t the head of an organisation with a $44.8 million turnover last year that now faces a crisis. The Richmond Football Club is in trouble, no matter all the calming words. Its on-field woes have the very real possibility of tilting off-field stability.

There is no harm in acknowledging this.

Last season, for instance, of all AFL clubs, only Collingwood pulled more barrackers through the turnstiles than Richmond, and it didn’t sell one if its home games to the tropics. Already this season, the crowd’s voted with its feet. Two weeks ago, for instance, the home crowd at the MCG against Fremantle was about half of what it was for the corresponding fixture on an unseasonably cold day last year. The more we lose, the worse it’ll get.

Both on and off the field, this season’s poor form has dire ramifications for next year, and maybe years beyond. It is not unreasonable to say there will be job losses, and belt tightening, and new ways will need to be found for doing things.

If a crisis is a time of immense difficulty or danger, then this feels a crisis for our club and us fans. And now in this time of crisis we hear that our CEO went to Rio, and it looks a folly. If the trip was about brand partnership with Jeep, then surely Brendon Gale’s most prudent course of action would be to stay home, remaining behind the wheel.

If Jeep wants commercial leverage from the Richmond Football Club, the club need uphold its end of the bargain. It needs to draw crowds. It needs to ensure prime-time exposure. It needs traffic to its website. It needs to pull an audience to be sold to its sponsors. In short, it needs to win games of football.

When Brendon Gale presented to the AFL board for its top job, it was a matter of self-interest. When Brendon Gale boarded the pointy-end of a plane for Brazil it was, in part, a matter of self-interest. As Caroline Wilson, an ardent Richmond person is wont to say, it “wasn’t a good look”.

If this is a misguided interpretation, consider an alternative scenario. Brendon Gale is approached by the AFL to pitch for its top job and he respectfully declines, citing his ongoing role at Richmond. And Brendon Gale accepts a sponsored trip to Brazil but later pulls out, citing urgent matters at hand, namely that he cannot vacate his office due to pressing and unforeseen problems on the home front.

Footy, it’s a game of perceptions.

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I stood in the outer on Friday night with Michael Green and others. No, not that Michael Green. This Michael Green is a freelance investigative journalist, and a Richmond man, who looks a likely half-back flanker. Our crowd was in full voice, and good humour, and wasn’t afraid to speak its mind.

“Ya sold your soul, Buddy! Ya sold your soul!”

At game’s end, I left my night’s companions – a Tiger and a Swan – to jump the MCC fence and scuttle around to see the players leave the ground. Richmond were in no mood for lingering. There is little to celebrate when you’re at the bottom of the ladder and expected so much more. Even our home games must for now seem so foreign to the players.

Swans players, conversely, were in no hurry to leave the rapturous adulation of their crowd. The aesthetics of the game mean nothing when you win. Their crowd and its colours looked so joyous, so cheerful, so happy with the night. It is as it should be: their team had just won its ninth consecutive game.

Imagine that? Nine games in a row. It’s been 34 years since Richmond last won nine games in a row. That’s a generation of support. And how it feels as if it could be another 34 years until we do it again.

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Early last year I wrote and sent a letter to Brendon Gale.

It began:

“My name is Dugald Jellie and I am an ardent Richmond supporter. I am also a writer. I was a journalist at The Age newspaper, before moving to Sydney in 1997 for a job as a features writer for the Sydney Morning Herald. I have played football, mostly for country teams, and once ran into Greg Dear’s elbow at a game in Lakes Entrance while playing centre-half-forward for the Snowy Rovers. For this I received a free-kick.”

I don’t think he read it.

After last year’s heartbreaking loss to Carlton in the Elimination Final, I had a long telephone conversation with Brendon Gale. I found him inquisitive and fair-minded man; knowledgeable, open and considered.

What I know about Brendon Gale is all on the public record. He’s a family man, a graduate from Marist College in Burnie, was a champion Richmond footballer (244 games, 209 goals), studied law at Monash, was on the Board of the Victorian Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, and before taking the top job at Richmond was CEO of the AFL Players’ Association.

His faith is Catholic and his political leaning – gleaned from Martin Flanagan’s book Richo – is to the left. Every way I look at Brendon Gale, I like the man. He is that heady mix – the thinking-man footballer – that so excites respect and admiration among the crowd.

Our phone conversation was about my perceived grievances. What was unsaid is that both of us knew he was always going to back one of his senior managers – any of his employees – over a complaint from a fan who writes a blog. But he listened, he heard me out. A simple conversation, he placated resentments.

Textbook dispute resolution.

At conversation’s end, Gale confided in trade talks with a Richmond player. He said it was off-the-record. He trusted me, and knew that he could.

When once asked for advice for students at his former secondary college, Gale offered two tips. “Don’t limit your potential and be a doer not a knocker.”

Does my written criticism of the club, and of his recent absence in Brazil, fall into the category of ‘doer’ or ‘knocker’? Are my concerns – my voiced disapproval – of our club pushing the product of a betting agency, those of a ‘doer’ or a ‘knocker’?

Brendon Gale is 10 centimetres taller than I but I know I can look him in the eye. I am passionate about Richmond, I am loyal to Richmond, I want the best for Richmond, as so many of us do.

But this loyalty does not preclude me from dissent. Loyalty cannot silence the crowd from fair-minded criticism. And if the club is blind or deaf to those who disagree with some of its ideas, then surely it will never truly grow and prosper as an organisation. Three wins and 10 losses is the bottom line, as it stands, for this season. The house of cards has fallen. Our disappointments cannot be denied. The time is nigh for Richmond to consider new ways of doing business; to consider new ways of being a football club.

Tiger tiger burning (loyal and) bright.

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie

A long night closes: turn off the lights, shut the gate, as the last of the Richmond contingent leave the field on Friday night.

On training at Punt Road & an unknowable match & Presentation Night #3

03/06/2014 By Dugald 5 Comments

Tiger woman Ann Bakker, from Brighton, at training at Punt Road on Friday.

Under an entirely blue sky, last Friday morning I caught a train to Punt Road Oval. It was my first training session of the year. I wanted to show support for my team, joining others at the fence in glorious sunshine. I wanted to know if our attendance – our enthusiasm – couldn’t yet help right this season from its confusion.

Trout was there. Lyn was there. Shelly was there. I met a woman visiting from Darwin for the Dreamtime game, now with her daughter and her four-month-old grandson. His name was Joel. I asked if he was named after Joel Bowden.

“Selwood,” said mum. “His dad’s Geelong.”

I went because there is an attraction in seeing the players – professional athletes – up close. I tell it how it is: they are beautiful. Young and immensely fit men in a physical prime of their life, in their bodies is a dream of what life once was, of what it could be, of how it may have been. They have unproblematic good looks. They are pharaoh boy-gods. They are what so many of us wanted to be.

And up close – away from the prism of television, the detachment of a stadium – they also become human. They are no longer names and numbers, lists on a stats sheet, “cattle” to be bought and sold at season’s end, appraised by all. Up close they again become young men. Young men with partners, wives, some with young children. Young men with ambitions and vulnerabilities, with pride and fear. Young men earning a precarious living, probably never feeling entirely secure in their job – despite a contract – knowing all the ways it could go wrong.

Brendon Gale walks the boundary in a crisp white business shirt. Dimma is in a black tracksuit, looking relaxed. I ask for a photograph and he obliges. I miss my opportunity to ask for a coffee catch-up.

On Friday morning I felt uncomfortable for having recently criticised the performance of some players. I owe Shaun Hampson, Troy Chaplin, Steve Morris – possibly others – an apology. What I see on Friday morning is that all players are trying in their own way, as hard as they can. Their mistakes are not deliberate. Their errors are not wilful.

I come to understand that from distance – watching from the stands, or through television glass – my heart has hardened. I’ve turned into a critic, and I do not want to be that person. Down that road leads only bitterness.

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On Saturday night I was reliant on others for the score, and to interpret the game. I was elsewhere; at a wedding, in Church Street, Richmond. It was a crowd mostly of medicos – all specialists – and at times I felt awkward. What have I done with my life? It was an evening of fine champagne, and introspection. None were probably too interested in football, despite the groom’s predilection for Hawthorn, mentioned in speeches.
Before the game, Skippygirl (@SatchSkippygirl) said she’d send quarter-time tweets. In her four messages is a summary of a night:
OK Dons 28-1 but maybe Tigers will get it together for 2nd quarter.
OK enjoy the wedding it aint pretty here
Enjoy the wedding :(
Oh dear, enjoy the dancing.
A tweet came also from Darren Crick, from Canberra: its not good mate… don’t look!
Chris Rees (the better half of TTBB) sent a text: Wish I was at a wedding too. Just terrible. 0-26.
And a text came from a mate, Dave: Sitting in a bar in Lombok watching game – beer in my hand. Got a great souvenir to take home – 9 stitches in face.
What happened, you OK? I replied.
His response: Got hit by an Essendon surfboard.
Then early on Sunday morning, Dave sent this: “Am listening to a call to prayer from local mosque… considering going down. Go tigs!

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 I’ve not seen the game and am not sure I will. Advice via Twitter after midnight on Saturday seemed unequivocal.
@SatchSkippygirl: Don’t watch the replay, no no no no no
@jebsrock: do not watch the replay. It will be painful. #holidayinSeptember”
@Suzeme: I’ve already deleted the recording.
@BorisABLBuzz: At least it was easy to create a few hours free space on the DVD hard drive… #brutal #brokenrecord #hugme
@ReadingSideways: don’t watch it. We’ve seen it all before, too often.
@BAFLD: that’s 120 minutes you’ll never get back – I wouldn’t bother

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Monday morning and in the letters-to-the editor section in The Age newspaper, between commentary about federal politics and capital punishment, Tom Pagonis (from Richmond) adds three words to the issues of the day: Vale Damien Hardwick.

It is surely a brutal business being the coach of one of the big teams in Melbourne, when the tide’s running against you. The losses are so public, the humiliation so complete. There is nowhere to hide, no way to air-brush the hard truth. The bottom line in football is that it’s all about results, and the only result that matters is winning. I feel for Dimma, I do, I do, I do.

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Wednesday night is Presentation Night at the Corner Hotel, featuring Cameron Ling and Paul Dempsey, lead singer and guitarist of rock group, Something for Kate. I hope to be there. August last year, when Richmond was winning and the love was being shared, I went to Presentation Night #2. What follows was my interpretation:

It was a night of beautiful nostalgia. Last Thursday at the Corner Hotel, in the bowels of Richmond, they were together at last: Matthew Richardson on stage with Tim Rogers, in a salon of football and music – two forms of creative expression Melbourne does best – hosted by a saint known as Francis, adept at bridging this cultural divide.

It was Presentation Night #2, the creation of music impresario and Pies fan, Andy Kelly, in collaboration with the latter-day ABC Grandstand commentator, Francis Leach. Earlier this season they had assembled player-writer Bob Murphy and musician-poet Paul Kelly together on the same stage, for magical results.

Now it’s standing-room only and the pairing of a Tiger legend with the You Am I front-man – a rackety shinboner – for a long conversation about playing days, and performance, the spotlight, greatness, and the very meaning of life itself. For people like me, who love their football, music and this city, it promised a night of pleasure.

▰▰▰

Some confessions. In 1994 I was a cub reporter working at The Age newspaper, living with a flatmate on the top floor of an apartment block on the brow of Lennox Street in Richmond (the ‘Loft on Lennox’, we called it), playing sport, drinking with the boys, partying on weekends, often playing a round-robin of squash with two mates on a weeknight, then the three of us running laps of the ’tan’ after midnight. We wanted to push our limits, hold onto the moment.

We fell asleep on summer nights under a glow of neon. We could see the whole city from our living room. It was a time when we thought anything could happen.

I was 24-years-old in 1994, and restless, and often between girlfriends, and unsettled, and was listening to an album called Sound as Ever released by a band called You Am I, with a lead singer called Tim Rogers whose life looked to have the creativity and freedom I desired. He was wild, unhinged, intoxicating. His lyrics had a yearning (“And anyone who’s looking out/Just waiting for tall guys to fall”) that resonated. He could put on a show. He could travel the world.

Francis with a Bones shirt that was raffled to raise funds for injured footballer Casey Tutungi.

Instead, I wrote little stories for the newspaper. I was good at my job, but never fully at ease. Office life was a chore. I never felt part of the crowd. Looking back now, I think I had bouts of depression that I masked with bravado. I often felt vulnerable. I found happiness in bending words as best I could. I wanted to excel at my craft. In my own way – fearful, unknowing, sometimes reckless – I was careful with what I had.

One of my fondest memories of being at The Age was playing football. One of our games, in the annual media cup against News Limited, was on a Sunday morning at Punt Road Oval. I was young and tall and fit, playing centre-half-back. Rohan Connolly was coach. We wore the Richmond sash.

I’d played sport the day before, been out until the early morning, and had slept in a bed elsewhere. I threw-up in the change rooms before the game, and at half-time. I still have a photograph of me playing that day – all unruly hair and sideburns – lifting up a Herald-Sun player, readying to thump him into the ground. This is how I played football. I was angry. I had no time for pleasantries.

After the game, a colleague, Stewart Oldfield, gave me a lift home to his unit in Northcote where we watched Withnail and I, and I fell asleep on his lounge room floor. Next morning, my name was in the sport section of the paper. I was named a best player.

Richo with his treasured possession, “The Map”.

▰▰▰

“They’re resilient and loyal, Richmond supporters,” says Richo, up on stage last Thursday night, before an adoring crowd, in a room that hung off almost his every word. He looked a natural performer; tall and handsome, and with an easeful and disarming manner. In a recent profile interview, Greg Baum wrote that Matthew Richardson looks “as if he expects something good is about to happen”, and this is how he is on Presentation Night #2. He tells his story about “getting off the boat” from Davenport with his new Melways – a wide-eyed boy coming to the big city – and all of us want to share in his success.

He is also funny, open, and self-deprecating. “I did like to express my body-language on the ground,” he says, wryly. Memorable anecdotes include the phone call he received from Leigh Matthews trying to coax him from Tasmania to Victoria Park; the day he wore the “map of Tassie” on his jumper in a representative game (“we disgraced the Apple Isle,” lambasted the coach, Robert Shaw); and the afternoon he had tea and biscuits at Denis Pagan’s house in Moonee Ponds, seeing if he might defect to Carlton.

Stories were told about playing against Glenn Archer (an “angry man”, “psychotic on the ground”, all “sharp elbows”, and “once you marked it he fell on top of you”); the fearlessness of the Kellaway boys, especially Duncan running back into the path of Tony Lockett and Gary Ablett (“those guys didn’t miss you if you were in the way”); and the crowd participation behind the Punt Road end goals, most notably from the so-called Grog Squad.

▰▰▰

In 1994, when Sound as Ever hit the charts, Richmond put together a decent team, and I saw Tim Rogers play an acoustic set in a pub in Fitzroy, a 19-year-old Matthew Richardson was in his second-year of AFL football, had found his feet, and showed all what he could do, while promising more. He kicked 56 goals that season.

I watched him play often, sometimes with ‘Yeatsey’, or with other friends who were MCC members, who wangled me in to the old Members’ stand. We walked across from Richmond Hill, stood in front of the stand, drank beer, called out to the players – and all the time I wondered what it would be like running around out there. If I were put on the field, and the ball came to me in space, could I hold my own?

This wondering, I think, must enthral many able-bodied men of an age when they could be a footballer, a contender.

Yeatsey also lived in Richmond, buying a house in Cotter Street, on the flatlands, where our bunch of friends often would end up on Saturday night. He was also a You Am I fan, and through a mutual friend who did occasional night-shifts on 3RRR, got tickets to see them play a prized gig at a club on Jazz Lane. A young Matthew Richardson was also there.

Richmond finished 9th in 1994, missing out of finals by percentage, from Melbourne and Collingwood. In the second-last home-and-away game I went with Yeatsey to see them play Carlton at Princes Park on a Saturday afternoon. We stood in the outer, on a warm day, among a crowd of 32,486 people. It was the Tigers’ last roll of the dice. We needed one win to get in the finals, but were to play Geelong in the last round. We could never beat Geelong.

I had been to a party the night before and had not slept a wink since the Thursday night. Our Tigers got flogged by 114 points. I went home to bed, and slept for two days.

▰▰▰

Tim cranks out Berlin Chair to close proceedings.

I could have stood all night, listening to Tim Rogers talk about football, his childhood growing up in Adelaide, his love for North Melbourne, and the day at the Sacred Heart Mission’s Community Cup, playing for the Espy Rockdogs against the 3RRR/PBS Megahertz, when he took an overhead mark and went back and kicked a goal, in front of his child and several thousand spectators.

I had most recently seen Tim Rogers on stage at the Regal Ballroom in Northcote, performing an evening of musical bohemia during last year’s football finals, and it left me flat. Not so last Thursday at the Corner Hotel. At Presentation Night #2 he was at his engaging and compelling best. He told stories about his father who on weekends was a field umpire; about being a teenager in the Sturt Football Club cheer squad (with Paul Bagshaw’s number on his duffle coat); and about life as a North supporter.

He sang a song about the Paragon Café in Goulburn – a Greek institution where I stop regularly on drives up-and-down the Hume, usually after a booth and lambs’ fry on the menu.

And showman that he is, Rogers provided the night’s two enduring memories. The first was an achingly raw monologue about life in Adelaide as a young man with an ongoing mental illness, and how for him salvation could be found in being passionate about something. “Live a life with heart,” he implored.

And the second came with the night’s final curtain. He picked up a guitar, sat on a stool front-of-stage, the lights dimmed, and he played Berlin Chair. I was 24 all-over again, and I didn’t want the night to end.

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Before this season began I received an email from Sydney-based Richmond supporter Richard Byrne. It contained this photograph:

His annotated caption: “Rome, January 2014. TOOK THIS WITH YOU AND THE BLOG AND THE TIGER DIARY AND RFC IN GENERAL ALL IN MIND. I OF COURSE TOOK IT AS A (GOOD) OMEN.”
Early last month, Richard emailed again with other tidings I’d like to share. “Been disappointing times for us tiges, battling on with both injuries and a hostile draw against us. None of us thought we’d be sitting 2-5 after Rd7, did we? What a great time for a bye, though…”

This present season… you can see us with a mope,

hanging from a rope

if we’re behind then we don’t mind

we’ll fight and fight and…….. hope…….

So where to from here?

Where is our mythically powerful team?

Who are the characters – The Captain Bloods, The Rolls Royce King of Harts’ ? The Winners?

Who can pull the sword from this terrible stone?

Where are the merry men to lead us out of this dark forest, and who in turn shall lead them?

We need a man who has shed blood on the battlefield. Shows loyalty, follows orders, and leads only by example.

He wears the handsome, scarring near-death glory of a shuddering jousting head clash.

He risks head and skin and draws swoon and envy and respect and admiration at every turn.

Who is this Ace in our deck?

ARISE SIR RANCELOT !

and with him rise the cast of this fabled fairytale forward.

Sir Ivan of Mullet, David of Astbury, The Jack of Riewolts, The Bacchus of Houli and arise too The Chaplin of Troy.

Arise Edwards The First

Arise Edwards The Second.

Arise the Two Blond Bombshells, Morris and Ellis, the Three Scarlet Pimpernels, Jackson, Vlastuin and Conca, the Four Scotch Guards, McDonough, McBean and McIntosh and Nathan@39Gordon and Nathan @42Foley

Arise The Cotchin of Trent, Sir Tyrone, Shaun of the Grigg, The Noble Batchelor, Doubtless Thomas, Grimes, Big Ben, Biggles, Lucky Pets, T42with SamLloyd, Chris the Elder, Flip Delidio, Service Hampson, The Martin Lad,

Intoducing Ben-John Lennon, Todd Elton-John, Bro’Hanlon, The Bigger O and the Matts Dea and Arnot,

Arise(please) Chris The Knight of Knights Knee.

But arise and go quickly good men of Richmond,

for constant and confusing dangers are alurk.

Awrys things may go, you know, when the Jester is the Jake is the King.

Richard contributes to a blog (thebackpocket.blogspot.com.au) run by Mathilde de Hauteclocque, known well-enough to many Football Almanac readers. His sporadic contributions are filed under ‘The Tiger Diary’ which, he says, are a “slightly loopy look at the riches and routs of Richmond.”

In these strange days, maybe loopiness is what we all need.

Tiger tiger, burning (not at all) bright

Email: dugaldjellie@gmail.com

Twitter: @dugaldjellie