Grand Final - Hawthorn v Sydney Swans

Saturday 29 September 2012, MCG

Unhappy endings

Nohow on

The Hawks hit the ground

This blog began with a Jane Austen quote, but sadly, it won’t wrap with the sort of happy ending that characterise her novels. Instead, the works of Samuel Beckett more aptly describe the denouement of the season. His final short novel, ‘Worstward Ho’ (1983), captures the mood when at its conclusion, the unnamed narrator can find “nohow on.” The blurb on my Grove Press edition of the book describes it as Beckett exploring, “a tentative, uncertain existence in a world devoid of rational meaning and purpose.”  Yep, that pretty much sums up the Grand Final for me. In fact it sounds like he was there.

It was a traumatic and harrowing disaster with a deeply unhappy ending. In the end the inaccurate kicking that plagued Hawthorn all season brought about our downfall when it counted most. During the year this problem was partially masked by the sheer number of scoring shots we tended to amass throughout a game. But against a stingy team like Sydney and in a Grand Final, you’re only ever going to get so many shots at goal, and we simply missed too many of them.

The match began with Buddy missing a set shot and our chances pretty much ended with him missing another. Of course the fact that he kicked some spectacular goals in between just highlights the kicking conundrum that is Buddy.

But it wasn’t just Buddy missing shots; pretty much everyone chipped in with a point or two at some stage. The Rough certainly did. According to the people behind me marking the scores in their footy record, he kicked four. Mind you, their collective knowledge and awareness of the game was not what you’d call encyclopaedic – “who’s that number 23 for Hawthorn?” – I mean seriously, why do some people go? And how do they get in? Perhaps the “Portsea Polo” insignia on the cap gives us a clue. Anyway, you would not want to place too much faith in their assessment.

With Grand Final tickets being so scarce and sought-after, perhaps there should be some sort of test, like the citizenship test, where you have to prove your credentials, or 'footy smarts' before you can get a ticket. Questions like:

1. Complete the following phrase - Jesaulenko, you...  a) beauty!, b) Macedonian!, c) fine exponennt of the high mark!

2. Which Gary Ablett played in a losing Grand Final against Hawthorn a) Senior, b) Junior, c) all of the above

3. Angry Anderson sang 'Bound for Glory' from which mythical vehicle at the 1991 Grand Final a) the Tardis, b) the Batmobile, c) Wonder Woman's invisible plane

Before posting previous match reviews I’ve checked the occasional stat, even run through some vision where possible, but you’ll forgive me if on this occasion I rely on memory – and a fairly hazy one at that as I was shouted a few consoling Crown Lagers after the match. I have no intention of reading any editorials, match descriptions or looking at goal graphs. In fact if I never see so much as a still photo of the game I’ll consider myself fortunate. So I can’t tell you individual points tallies or tackle counts, handballs or hard ball gets.

Sewell, Breust and Mitchell played well, as did Burgoyne in the second half, Franklin, Schoenmakers, Hale and Shiels. Roughead and Rioli just couldn’t do enough for long enough and Lewis had a disappointing match. They tried hard, certainly, but I think we missed the desperation of Goo and Whitecross. A couple of Sydney’s last quarter goals could have been averted had someone smothered the ball, got it out or pressured the ball carrier – the very things those two players do so well.


Alternating narratives 

But what to say of the match? Well it was certainly tough. We had a burst, then the Swans had a burst, then we had another burst, then the Swans had a final one – that’s about it. The two teams very politely took turns to dominate.

It was reminiscent of one of those novels where dual narrators take it in turns to propel the story along, like Peter Carey’s ‘Parrot and Olivier in America’, or even Christos Tsiolkas’ ‘The Slap’, where the reader’s sympathies shift with each change of focus. Likewise in this match, as each team took their turn in the ascendant, viewers believed they were witnessing the decisive break, only for it to shift again; first Hawthorn, then Sydney, then Hawthorn, then, alas, Sydney.

In the first half, with nine of 10 goals being kicked to the city end, we wondered if there was a strong wind advantage, or, as my brother opined, whether players from both teams only wanted to score to the end Chelsea Roffey was officiating.

From 28 points behind midway through the third quarter I thought we were virtually out of contention. But then a sudden rush of goals got us in front, until Mitchell gave away a 50 metre penalty and with it, the lead.

With most of the scoring occurring at the City end, it was going to take an exceptional effort for us to get back in front and stay there. Still, we had our chances and could’ve, should’ve won. In a just world with a benevolent deity, we would have.


More than a game, less than a life

But as the events of the week demonstrated in all too stark a fashion, we don’t live in such a world. In the early hours of the previous Saturday morning, 29 year old Jillian Meagher went missing after leaving a bar in Sydney Road, Brunswick. Her disappearance gripped Melbourne during Grand Final week, as each new piece of information emerged, including grainy CCTV footage that showed not only her final moments, but ultimately revealed her alleged assailant and led to his capture and arrest. Then in the early morning of Grand Final eve, the police found her body.

This awful crime has provoked widespread grief across Melbourne and precipitated an outpouring of sympathy for the victim, her husband and their families. It is likely too that many people will change their habits after dark as a result of this crime and be less willing to trust in their own safety or in other people. In a way, it has made many people feel more vulnerable and wary.

It is of course obvious to say that this crime puts football into perspective; it puts nearly everything into perspective, but more than that, it puts football well and truly in its place as a more or less harmless recreation, a diverting one sure, but ultimately just a recreation on which there is little of real import riding, other than bragging rights.

Sydney has earned those bragging rights this year and congratulations to them. They were a good team all year and the best team in September, which is when it counts. Of course having beaten us in a Grand Final, they now join the pantheon of teams (Carlton, Essendon, North Melbourne & Geelong) I officially loathe.


Life and death

Football has always seemed to me to be a matter of life and death, at least metaphorically; my mood and outlook dictated by Hawthorn’s on-field fortunes.

This season, however, seems to have been marked out by actual death, both in the football world, my own world and the outside world.  The AFL season has been bookended by two tragedies. On the eve of the season Melbourne legend Jim Stynes lost his battle to cancer, and in the first week of the finals, Port Adelaide player John McCarthy fell from a hotel rooftop in Las Vegas and died. In Grand Final week Jillian Meagher was murdered, while in August my own father died.

In any other year when the Hawks lose a Grand Final I may well have been in tears, but this year those tears are reserved for rawer, more sensitive hurts.

It’s not that football doesn’t matter; it still does, but this year its highs and lows are simultaneously magnified and diminished. There are ups and downs in any season, but in 2012 they soared higher and plumbed lower. Thank you for riding the bumps with me.

Will Twenty3 be back to report on the 2013 season? Well, Clarko is urging the Hawks to regroup and I’m a bit scared to defy Clarko. Besides, in 2011 Hawthorn finished third, in 2012 second, so if we follow this mathematical line to its obvious conclusion…in 2013 we’re bound to finish first. In fact we've already been installed as favourites...again.

Samuel Beckett’s novel 'The Unnameable' concludes with the anonymous narrator proclaiming, “I can’t go on, I’ll go on”, which, depending on your interpretation, could be a statement of courageous intent, optimism or even futility. I feel shattered and devastated after yesterday’s match and while losing the Grand Final makes returning to football and the keyboard next year seem difficult, I can no more help caring about Hawthorn’s fortunes than I can abstain from ageing…I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

Final scores: Sydney  14  7  91  d  Hawthorn  11  15  81



Grand Final week residua


The Brownlow

Grand Final week began with the Brownlow medal. Like most Hawthorn supporters, I scoffed at the idea of Jobe Watson being voted in ahead of Sam Mitchell. What madness is this? The only reason I can accept Jobe Watson as the Brownlow medallist is that his girlfriend, Ella Keddie, is the niece of Hawthorn’s 1971 premiership hero, Bob Keddie.


The parade

Was a little disappointed in Friday’s Grand Final parade.  With Sydney involved I was expecting something a little more Mardi Gras. Perhaps oiled up marching boys in Bonds briefs or dykes on bikes, but all we got was a few sodden marching bands and footballers who were barely visible in the back seats of utes.


The day dawns 

Word seems to have got out about the location of the now traditional Grand Final breakfast that my brother and I have been taking together for the past few years. This year as we perused the menu at Il Solito Posto, Bruce McAvaney came in for a coffee. No sooner had he left than Andrew Demetriou and two women took the table next to ours. Don’t you guys get invited to official breakfasts?

Later as we joined friends having a picnic in the car park at the ground, Tony Abbott came sashaying past, if that’s the correct word to describe his awkward gait. First bad omen of the day right there.


Melbourne Storm

The prevailing thought among neutrals after the match was that with Sydney taking Melbourne’s premier football trophy on Saturday, Melbourne Storm would bring Sydney’s major trophy across our side of the border. For Hawks fans it’s of little consolation.


Acknowledgements

Thank you to Angela Clarke for proof-reading, support and regular reassurance, Paul McKnight for igniting the idea, and Chan-Tha Birch and Oscar Taylor for coming to the games with me.

Thanks also to my regular readers: in particular Linda, Kate and John.

And of course thanks to the mighty Hawks for providing such a wealth of material. We didn’t win the flag but we enjoyed a season rich with brown and gold highlights and great victories.

Chan-Tha and the author reflect on the game 

Preliminary Final - Hawthorn v Adelaide

Saturday 22 September 2012, MCG

OMG we’re in the big one…

…but not without a little scare 

Hug me, I'm Hawthorn
source: the roar.com.au AFL media

Jane Austen tips Hawks for flag

“It is a truth universally acknowledged among football pundits that Hawthorn will win this year's AFL premiership.”

I wrote that sentence on 25 March of this year by way of introducing this blog and reporting the foregone conclusion football commentators prophesised for the season’s outcome.

True, Jane Austen wrote a very similar sentence 200 years earlier, but I’m just paying due homage to her tipping ability. Fittingly, just like the novel from which part of that sentence is lifted, I have pride in Hawthorn and as regular readers of this blog will know, display nothing but utter prejudice against any other team. And if Darcy played football, surely he’d be in the brown and gold – what with all that ancestral money behind him.

Anyway, here we are six months and 24 matches later and the Hawks have reached the Grand Final!


Profuse sweating and erectile dysfunction

Winning a Preliminary final should be accompanied by feelings of exhilaration and triumph as we march into the Grand Final, banners held high and voices in full gloat. Much as it is for Sydney after cruising past Collingwood on Friday night. But after Hawthorn barely scraped through against Adelaide in an excruciating match, perhaps our least convincing win of the year, an entire day later and I still feel decidedly on edge. We so nearly lost a second successive Prelim by less than a goal that we were in danger of being known as the new Bulldogs.

It was truly agonising. I’ve just watched the match again and found it nearly as stressful the second time around. My doctor recently diagnosed that I have a hernia – now I don’t know the conditions under which hernias thrive, but I think mine grew six centimetres in diameter during the final quarter. The shame is that when we buy the DVD box set featuring the Qualifying Final, Preliminary Final, Grand Final and season highlights, this is one disc (or file or stream torrent) that will never be watched.

Reaching the Grand Final is magnificent, but the nature of the victory; scrappy and haphazard, just made it tense and traumatic. It was like finally getting to have sex with the girl you’ve fantasised about for years only to be inconvenienced by profuse sweating, erectile dysfunction or your girlfriend coming home unexpectedly.

But just like that scenario, it’s still worth it! The point being…we’re in the big one!


Inauspicious signs and portents

The whole thing started inauspiciously and looked like it might get a whole lot worse.

First; the time of the game...5.15pm. What’s with that? No other match this season, or any other season, has started at this time. The Hawks have no routine for a 5.15 start so why suddenly in a big final is the game starting at this hour? And it’s just the same for the supporters – with a 5.15 start we didn’t know when to start drinking.

What’s wrong with 2.10 like thousands of games before it (including last year’s Saturday Preliminary Final)?  The Hawks are creatures of habit; they rarely play well at unfamiliar start times – it’s something to do with body clocks and the preparation time they need to go out clubbing later.

Another bad sign; Sydney defeated Collingwood quite easily the previous night. History shows there’s always one close Preliminary Final and Sydney Collingwood clearly wasn’t it, so that only left this one.

Then we hear Hodge is out! At first I dismissed this news as nasty Twitter trolling; malicious, anonymous haters trying to mess with our already frazzled minds…but then we discovered it was true. Gastro of all things! Is Hodge a hypochondriac or just strangely susceptible to illness and injury?  In 2008 Geelong targeted his ribs after he injured them in the Preliminary Final – what will Sydney do next week, waft the smell of parmesan under his nose?

Then the game starts (again, why at 5.15pm?) and we go forward – the Rough marks, so far so good, until he misses the first set shot. Then everyone else continues to miss – the tone is set. Our first three scoring shots are behinds and at quarter time we’re 2.6 trailing Adelaide’s much more assured 4.1.

After the Crows extended their lead early in the second, The Rough dropped a sitter from Sammy, however, before we’d finished groaning Buddy pounced and grubbered through a goal.

But we never really found our rhythm: Breust missed from 25, Lewis’ marked within range but went for a short pass that didn’t hit the target. Our next goal also came from a fluky happenstance: a good smother from The Rough got the ball to Cyril, to Sewell, whose scrappy kick was marked by Breust. This time, thankfully, he goaled.

When Burgoyne burst through the middle and nailed a goal it finally looked like we were finding our tempo, but late goals to Walker, including a monster 60 metre kick after the siren, gave the Crows a narrow half-time lead.


It’s it’s the Hawthorn blitz…well, sort of

The third quarter saw the Hawks regain their strut with Sewell winning the clearances, Lewis going hard and Sammy pinging sharp handballs about like a pinball wizard.

In 10 minutes we had goals from Gunston and Breust, both courtesy of Buddy set-ups, a Suckling bomb from 50 and then one to Buddy himself. But the rout never quite happened: Adelaide continued to play strong, smooth football with crisp passing and accurate shooting. They always looked like they were going to score and despite goals to Gunston and Cyril, we only led by 16 points at the final break – a lead unnervingly similar to the one we couldn’t defend in 2011 against Collingwood.

And sure enough – our composure deserted us. Just as in this season’s two Geelong defeats, we missed several shots and were unable to turn a handy lead into an unassailable one. Burgoyne missed, and Buddy missed three times, including two wayward shanks.

Meanwhile Adelaide couldn’t miss – goals to Walker, Porplyzia – after one of the more laughable free kick reversal decisions I’ve ever had to stand and vent loudly about – and then Johncock gave Adelaide the lead with five minutes to go. Not again, surely?


Cyril and Stratton save the day (or evening)

Enter Cyril. At the very next clearance Burgoyne grabbed it and kicked long to where two Crows were set to take a grab, only to see Cyril spring above them to mark and goal. Hawks back in front.

In Adelaide’s next attack, the aptly named Dangerfield took possession and went to turn towards goal until Stratton first corralled, then tackled him to the ground. When the ball spilled he got it out and we went forward where Lewis paddled it to Cyril, who ran and got it on to Buddy who kicked what we thought would be the sealer. At last.

Cyril took another great grab and could have put it beyond doubt, but missed. What was particularly hurtful was that the Adelaide defender jumped into his back in an action the 50 metre penalty was intended to deter, but in this case wasn’t awarded.

So when Walker kicked another goal the Crows were suddenly back to within a kick. Not again, surely? Happily Burgoyne won the next clearance and despite the umpire trying to interfere in the just and true result by penalising Suckling for deliberate out of bounds, we held on.


The siren song

In Greek mythology, a siren is a bewitching female or mermaid who lured sailors to their death through her beautiful and beguiling song. Ulysses famously had himself strapped to the mast so that he could resist their wiles and temptations. Putting aside the whole grounding of ships on rocky cliffs aspect of the story, I can understand how the sailors became so entranced, as the sound of the siren on Saturday evening worked a very similar enchantment on me. It was one of the more beautiful bursts of sound I’ve ever heard and its resonance sent us all into song…the Hawthorn song.


Hot, hot, hot

Much was made pre-match of Hawthorn’s hot favouritism: the hottest Preliminary final favourite since Essendon in 1999. Essendon, of course, lost.

Being hot favourite is an indication of what football punters think, not a measure of how football teams play, so the odds were never an accurate guide to the outcome, any more than me wearing my lucky t-shirt and shirt combo – although we are 12 from 12 since I started wearing it. And our only loss in that time was to Geelong when I had to don corporate attire.

And unlike Essendon, we were playing a team who’d finished on equal wins and missed out on top spot by percentage only. So it was never going to be as lopsided as the betting suggested. Sure enough, as Adelaide’s form line indicated, the Crows play fantastic football. They played a strong, free-flowing game and always looked dangerous.

Hawthorn’s poor conversion was a contributing factor to the closeness of the contest, but the Crows played their own game and stopped Hawthorn playing theirs. Pencil them in for a Grand Final berth next year.

After the match one of my Hawk buddies drew parallels between this game and the famous Preliminary in 1999 when Carlton defeated Essendon against the odds. Again bad kicking for goal was the problem. The score that day was Essendon 14 19 103 to Carlton 16 8 104, eerily familiar to yesterday’s score of Hawthorn 13 19 97 to Adelaide 14 8 92.

There was also the third quarter surge by Hawthorn similar to Essendon’s surge in 99, but where the difference lay is that in 99 it was Fraser Brown from Carlton tackling Dean Wallis as he went for the winning goal, whereas yesterday it was Stratton’s tackle on Dangerfield that dispossessed the dangerous Crow, won us the ball and we went forward to goal.

Sanderson said pre-match that for Adelaide to win, they needed Hawthorn to not be at their best. Well, we weren’t and yet we still won. So plaudits and applause for the Hawks. We’re there. And now there’s just one more win to go, so I’d best see about getting my lucky shirt laundered.


Final scores: Hawthorn 13  19  97  d  Adelaide 14  8  92


Buddy goals tally - 3 = total, 66.  Buddy behinds tally - 5 = total, 60


What we liked: Sewell, Cyril, Sammy and Breust: sounds like a tongue twister but this quartet got us into the Granny.

Sam Mitchell for Brownlow. The Brownlow medal is becoming like the Academy Award for best actor in a leading role – it gets awarded to the bloke who should have won it the year before. Like the Academy, the umpires realise they got it wrong and fix it the following year. This all started when Cooney won it ahead of Ablett, following in the great tradition of undeserving Bulldogs players to win the medal. Given that Sammy should have won it last year, expect him to take it home this year. Look out for the embarrassed looks on the All-Australian selectors when he does and put your money on Cotchin for next season.

Dress code at the Show. Went to the Royal Melbourne Show yesterday and I'd estimate that one in every ten people was wearing a Hawks jumper or top of some sort. Expect to see the brown and gold verticals out and proud this week.


What we didn’t like: Hodge’s gastro – as one of my friends said, don’t we have a dietician overseeing every morsel they eat? I suppose next week he’ll want paternity leave.

The Twenty3 All-Australian team

Mitchell looks on as All-Australian team is named

You’ll have seen the scenes of Muslim unrest around the globe in protest over a short film that is said to mock the prophet Muhammad. So imagine how Hawks fans are reacting to the fact that Sam Mitchell and Josh Gibson have not been selected in the AFL All-Australian team.

At Twenty3 we’re seeking redress through whichever means will bring about apology and change. We were going to take it to the streets and burn effigies of Gerard Healy and Andrew Demetriou, but we don’t want to risk being arrested and denied bail, and missing out on Saturday evening’s big clash. Besides, it’s raining out.

So while we stop short of calling for beheadings, we’re protesting in the best way we know – by posting an angry blog.

The quickest way to select our all-Australian team would be to simply name all the number 23s – there’s 18 of them after all. You’d have Buddy at full forward and Darren Glass at full back and just slot the rest in around them. Then we realised that one of the 23s is Daniel Jackson of Richmond, so even though it’s just a fantasy team, we still didn’t want it to be to the discredit of the other players selected.

So we’ll work through the official AFL side and make our own minor changes where we see fit. Really, you’ll barely notice the difference.


Back: Sean Dempster, Luke McPharlin, Darren Glass

Who is Sean Dempster?  I’m not even sure Saints fans know who he is. Can we trust him down back? I think for the good of the team we need to replace him with Josh Gibson – you need someone to pull the chicks at Boutique after the match and Gibbo’s the man. Luke McPharlin – you’ve got to be joking. As someone who left Hawthorn, he can’t use this team as a Trojan horse to sneak back into a rep team and play alongside Buddy. Glass can stay, after all, he wears number 23, and he can move to full back so that we can pop Gibson in the other back pocket as well – hey it’s a fantasy team and Goo is still injured!

Half-back: Beau Waters, Ted Richards, Grant Birchall

Beau Waters has a broken foot so he’s not much good to anyone, in which case we’ll slot Silk Burgoyne into the half back flank, just to add a touch of poise and composure.


Centre: Trent Cotchin, Jobe Watson, Dayne Beams

Cotchin’s quite good; I like how his hair stays in place like a figurine, but clearly Sammy has to replace Watson. Sure Watson’s a good player, but he's from Essendon, and he led his side to eight, or was it nine successive defeats? During the same period, Sammy got the ball out to our runners leading to eight wins out of nine. Admittedly Watson had to get the ball out to himself as he has no one half decent to feed it to, but that shouldn’t count against Sam.  And if you want to compare their effectiveness against each other – well, Hawthorn smashed the Bombers by 94 points…without Buddy! 'Nuff said. On the other wing, I think we need a dasher with a long left foot, and no bogan tatts…out Beams; in Clinton Young.


Half-forward: Patrick Dangerfield, Lance Franklin, Cyril Rioli 

Can’t argue with this line really, and it’s just a shame that Dangerfield can’t play on the same side as Buddy and Cyril this weekend.  He can stay - he wears number 32, which is 23 backwards.


Forward: Stephen Milne, Tom Hawkins, Dean Cox 

Are they taking the piss with this forward line? Even though this is a fantasy team, no one wants to share a dressing room with Milne, and certainly no one wants to be in the same fantasy as him. If we need a small forward, why not young Breust, who can at least perform in the big games. Tom Hawkins has 'Hawk' in his name, and despite kicking the winning goal against us this year, his foppish coiffure at least looks the part. And Cox can go in the ruck – what’s he doing in a pocket? Clearly The Rough is our forward/second ruck.


Followers:  Nic Natanui, Scott Thompson, Gary Ablett Jnr. 

Look, Natanui has a good leap, but that’s about it at this stage. Both Collingwood and Hawthorn have beaten him soundly in the past few weeks, so we’ll put Dean Cox first ruck, Ablett can stay for the simple reason that he’s been the best player in the AFL for about six consecutive years and his dad and uncles all played for Hawthorn. And while Scott Thompson is good, I think we need Jordan Lewis’ midfield grunt at the opening bounce, to say nothing of his Wolverine beard.


Interchange: Dayne Swan, Scott Pendlebury, Josh Kennedy, Brett Delidio 

This is the miscellaneous section where they chuck all the players they couldn’t fit anywhere else. This quartet are certainly all good players, but we’re going to have to replace a couple so that Sewell and Hodge can get in. I mean it’s hardly fair that Hodge missed out just because he was injured for most of the season; he’s still one of the best. Kennedy can stay because of his Hawthorn heritage, and Pendlebury can stay because he’s a fantastic player, but Deledio will have to go – I mean we’ve already got Cotchin and there's never room for two Richmond players in a representative side. And Swan can’t stay purely from an aesthetic perspective – those tatts! He can be emergency.

So here’s the Twenty3 all-Australian side for 2012…

B: Gibson, Glass, Gibson

HB: Burgoyne, Richards, Birchall

C: Cotchin, Mitchell, Young

HF: Dangerfield, Franklin, Rioli

F: Breust, Hawkins, Roughead

Followers: Cox, Lewis, Ablett

Int: Kennedy, Hodge, Sewell, Pendlebury

There, that’s better. Only 12 Hawthorn players in the line-up which I think illustrates the impartial and objective way we approached selection. We couldn't even find room for Schoenmakers.

Eleven Seasons - a novel by Paul D Carter

Eleven Seasons by Paul D Carter, Allen and Unwin


If the measure of a good book is how soon Hawthorn is mentioned, then Paul D Carter’s debut novel, Eleven Seasons, is in the top rank as it takes just six words before the reader’s retinas fix on the magic letters. Not only that, but on page 1 we also scan the names Michael Tuck and Gary Ayers, and on page 2 we read Lethal Leigh and Dipper. There’s even a school teacher called Mr Cyril – now that can’t be coincidental can it?

Arguably it is this roll call of great Hawthorn names that helped Eleven Seasons win this year’s Vogel prize, an accolade bestowed on the best unpublished manuscript by a writer under the age of 35.

Ostensibly this is a coming of age novel about a young boy, Jason Dalton, who is obsessed by football in general and Hawthorn in particular. We first meet him arranging his collection of 1985 Hawthorn football cards.  He lives with his mum in a small flat and attends Hawthorn games with a school friend and his father. The story follows him through the titular eleven seasons that make up his formative years.

He is also a gifted player and his early arguments with his mum about the dangers of playing the game initiates the conflict that marks their relationship as he moves through his teenage years. She is a single mum who works long shifts as a nurse to support them both and Carter paints a painfully realistic portrait of the tensions that might signify the relationship between a hard-working single mum and adolescent son. Jason is an independent teenager and he gradually shifts to a new crowd and new interests, but continues to play football, which is the environment in which he seems most able to express himself.

It’s a strong novel with rich characterisation and a tight narrative that portrays mother-son estrangement, awkward teenage boy-girl relationships, and the inner life of an adolescent Australian male in a truly believable manner. It is particularly strong when dealing with the dynamics of a local football team, both on and off the field, and the excitement of attending the 1988 Grand Final where Hawthorn defeated Melbourne. Plus there’s a family secret to propel the action along.

So all good you’d think, but for all these positive elements there are some gaping thematic and narrative holes. For instance, how can a book which purports to deal with Hawthorn from 1985 to 1995 fail to mention the 1989 Grand Final, certainly the most famous match of the era and arguably the greatest Grand Final of all time?

And if you’re covering eleven Hawthorn seasons, wouldn’t you start in say 1981 or so and go through the period incorporating eight grand Finals in nine years (1983-1991), including seven in succession? Or if it has to be 1985 to 1995, wouldn’t you drag it out one more year and incorporate the merger debate of 1996? If that alone isn’t a rich vein of thematic redemption to mine, then what is?  All novels would be improved by  the appearance of Don Scott.

I mean sure, characterisation and plot are important, and Carter should be proud of the stark and accurate portrayal of the pubescent male mind he presents here, but why are there not two or three chapters devoted to Dermie? Even if just to his hairstyles? Really, it’s a missed opportunity, and not just for this novel; all Australian literature suffers for a lack of analysis and narrative covering Hawthorn’s golden era.

The Napoleonic wars have Tolstoy's War and Peace, Indian independence has Rushdie's Midnight’s Children, the Prague uprising has Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Stalinist Russia has Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, Tudor England has Mantel's Wolf Hall and 80s Wall Street has Wolfe's The Bonfire of the Vanities and Ellis' American Psycho. All great eras of history deserve to be chronicled by a novel of vision and lyricism, and Eleven Seasons could have been that book for perhaps the greatest era of all – Hawthorn’s 80s dominance. Sadly, it lets itself down by focusing too much on literary tropes and not enough on Hawthorn.

The answer for this might lie in the author biography at the front of the book, where it says that Paul D Carter, “spent much of his youth going to Collingwood football matches with his dad and brother, Marcus. “  Very disturbing. Hawthorn fans detecting only a superficial knowledge of Hawthorn find here the basis for their suspicions. Perhaps the failings of the book stem from a lack of in depth understanding of what it really means to be a Hawk fan?

I also fear that the publisher, Allen& Unwin, hasn’t helped by binding these pages in such a bland cover. Why would you have a stock picture of an adolescent looking enigmatically upwards and to the left, when you could have a photo of Dermie being helped to his feet vomiting after being hit in the first minute of the ‘89 Grand Final? Or just any pic featuring Dermie’s mullet, Dipper’s tash, Lethal’s elbow or Plats’ plaits.

Sure the cover may suit the novel’s contents, but that’s hardly the point of marketing. In the world of Australian literature, sales of 2,000 are considered healthy and respectable; sales of 5,000 constitute a wild success. So given Hawthorn has over 60,000 members, if you slap a photo of the mighty brown and golds on the front - if only for the Victorian market – you’ve got potentially 10,000 people who will at least pick up the book in a bookshop, and some of them might even buy it.

Oh well, for all that Eleven Seasons is at least a book about Hawthorn, which automatically places it in the top shelf of Oz lit. In fact it joins a rich tradition of great books about Hawthorn – Harry Potter wears a Hawks scarf, Patrick White’s recently re-published first novel, Happy Valley has a hawk hovering ominously over the action, and it’s been a long time since I read it, but I can only assume Gunter Grass’ novel, The Rat, is about John Platten.

So if you want a literary distraction over the next fortnight in the lead-up to the Preliminary, and hopefully, the Grand Final, then Eleven Seasons is as good a Hawthorn novel as you’re likely to read this year.

Qualifying Final - Hawthorn v Collingwood

Friday 7 September 2012, MCG

Riding the bumps (and slaps and punches) with a grin

The moment

Hawthorn: we had our pav beating Collingwood,
and ate it too watching Freo win
photo: womanssday ninemsm

What a triumph! A tour-de-force! You couldn’t help but be excited when the ball sailed through the big sticks to seal the game. Tell me you didn’t leap from your seat and fist pump the air while emitting a primal guttural war cry. Tell me you didn’t have a private thought of the “It’s ours!” variety before reaching for your phone to send a gloating text to a Hawk buddy. It was a truly great finals moment; just reward for a performance of energy, endeavour and enterprise – one that may well go down in the pantheon of great Hawthorn finals moments along with Dermie’s first quarter mark and goal in 89, Stewie Dew’s famous five minutes in 08 or Buddy’s 55 metre winner on the siren in 07 against the Crows – when with just over four minutes to go and the game still in the balance, Pav gathered the loose ball and coolly slotted the sealer from 45 out at the Jolimont end! Freo had won and Geelong was out of the finals! We’re really in with a chance now.

Sure our victory over Collingwood the night before was a glorious and courageous and all that, but even when the siren rang the spectre of Geelong still hung over us like a pall. But Freo lifted that and like new religious converts who can suddenly see the light, Hawk fans can now make out a clear and direct path to the Grand Final.

It was a fantastic weekend; with Hawthorn’s mighty win over the Pies and Freo knocking out bogey team Geelong, only an invite to a snooker night with Prince Harry or a torrid night of passion with Marieke Hardy could have made it more exhilarating and exciting.

We shouldn’t get too excited by Freo knocking out Geelong; after all, we might have to play the Dockers now and it’s scary to think how many goals Pavlich might kick on Schoenmakers. But we can enjoy the moment, particularly coming so soon after our own famous victory.


The missing

The expectant mood in the Bullring bar was brought down a peg or two when the news came through that Lewis was out. Not only was he our best finals performer last year, but it meant that from a likely starting 22 the week before, we were now missing Lewis, Guerra and Young; being replaced by Ellis, Murphy and Savage respectively. Not a terrible trio it’s true, but Ellis lacks Lewis’ he-man hardness and Wolverine beard, Murphy doesn't have Guerra’s poise or Beatles rug, and Savage can't boast Young’s pace or penetrating kick, but does at least have a sleek, suedehead cut.

Still, we reflected, when we beat Collingwood in Round 17 we were missing Franklin and Hodge, so if we can cover those two, we can cover just about anyone.  Then it got worse when Whitecross went down early in the first quarter.

And then what do you know? Ellis and Savage played as well as we could hope – perhaps even as well as the players they replaced. In the first quarter Savage took a handball from Buddy and rolled it through form the pocket; in the second quarter he kicked one on the run from 50, then got a pass to Buddy right on the half time siren.

Recalling Ellis’ fantastic game in the 08 Grand Final, he might just be a finals specialist. He gathered kicks all over the ground, his passing was precise, in the third he smothered a Collingwood clearance, gathered and kicked forward to Gunston who goaled. Then he soccered through the opening goal of the final term.  He was among our best players.

Murphy did most of what he was asked – spoiling and clean kicking. A poorly judged double fist over the line when he could have marked and a 50 metre penalty to gift Krackouer a goal were his only mistakes, and in such a fierce and frenetic game, that’s not too bad.


The match

Friday 7 September was a momentous day in world affairs – not only was Hawthorn opening its finals campaign against Collingwood, but Bob Dylan released his new album, ‘Tempest’, a title, as it turns out, that is quite apposite to the gusty and fiery mood of the match.

And if one of the tracks from the album called ‘Pay in Blood’ aptly describes how Hawthorn heroically withstood Collingwood’s premeditated dirty tactics (by the end so many Hawthorn players had bandages around their heads they resembled escapees from the recent Tutankhamun exhibition), then we can lift a line from the second track to describe the dilemma of any match correspondent with the task of assessing Hawthorn’s performance: “I’m searching for phrases to sing your praises.” For Hawthorn was fantastic. In a tight, intense battle, our boys showed resilience, patience and flair, and kept the ball moving forward relentlessly at all times.

Buddy spent the best part of the first quarter being subjected to Tarrant’s attempt at some form of frottage mixed with BDSM tactics, replete with slaps, verbal abuse and groping. I mean some people are into that sort of thing, and I’m not suggesting Buddy isn’t, or that he didn’t enjoy it, but there’s a time and place…and that is after midnight at The Peel.  And even there you generally get to choose someone more alluring than Tarrant. Certainly someone better dressed.

But after 17 minutes without a goal, the entire crowd was being tormented by a sort of sexual frustration – until Hodge finally got sick of it, dug the ball out of a pack in the forward pocket, said “Out of the way for fuck’s sake!” and banged one through. At that point it didn’t seem like we were in for a 20 goals to 15 game, but it seems it only took one goal for the players to remember what they were there for and to get on with kicking more. A couple of (ordinary) Collingwood goals were then followed by a strong Birchall challenge and interception and a pass to Cyril who goaled from the square. Sublime.

Collingwood hit the front again in the second quarter before Hawthorn scored three late goals leading into half time: one to Smith, one to Hale from a free kick (more on that in The Maxwell factor, below), and one to Buddy after the siren. An 18 point half time lead was good, but the better signifier was how well they were playing: Mitchell, Sewell, Gibson, Breust, Ellis and Rioli, were all playing superb games, and Buddy was just beginning to get warm.


The Maxwell factor

Fairly or unfairly, Nick Maxwell is thought by many football fans to be the worst captain in the AFL. This of course is entirely subjective. I can’t think of any off the top of my head who are definitively worse, but I don’t even know the captains of the Bulldogs or Port Adelaide, so I wouldn’t want to rush to ill-considered judgement. Although having seen the Bulldogs play this season, I’m not certain they have a captain. But even so, Maxwell didn’t exactly do anything on Friday night to turn around public sentiment.

In the second quarter at a stoppage Maxwell put a blatant block on Buddy about 20 metres away as our man prepared to run past the contest towards goal – presumably planning to collect the ball on the way through. The free kick was awarded to Hale who goaled at a crucial moment. (To see vision of Buckley carrying on in the box about umpiring at this point – with a free kick count of 10-3 in Collingwood’s favour was truly laughable – even by the high benchmark of Collingwood whingeing).

In the third quarter, Maxwell, having not learned, runs at Puopolo approximately 30 metres off the ball and breaks his nose. The umpire was going to award the free kick but Hawthorn went on and kicked the goal anyway. Quite rightly Maxwell was reported.

In the final quarter, Hodge marked on an acute angle and as the umpire asked him to get back five metres, Maxwell actually took two steps forward to within about five inches of Hodge – a 50 metre penalty was duly awarded and Hodge's difficult kick from the pocket became a straight forward shot from the goal square.

It also didn’t escape my notice that it was Maxwell against whom Whitecross was competing for a mark when he sustained his knee injury. Now I’m not suggesting that Maxwell acted in any way that brought about Whitecross’ injury, I’m just highlighting the coincidence that he was there when The Poo went down, and he was on hand when Whitecross went down. You draw your own conclusions.

So in total, I make it a behind the play hit leading to a report and two week suspension, giving away a free kick and crucial goal when scores were close and giving away a 50 metre penalty leading to another goal, which I’ll call the sealer. Nice work Nick. Captain’s effort. The good news for Collingwood fans is that he won’t be playing for the next two weeks, so they might yet rebound.


The momentum

I’m not going to slavishly detail every goal, great as they all were, but it would be remiss of me not to highlight the nice two goal turnaround early in the third due to Collingwood's clumsy ill-discipline. Cloke had marked close to goal when Tarrant put Buddy down behind play. The ball was taken off Cloke and Buddy got it down our end where Hale marked and goaled. Also in the third quarter The Rough tapped the ball through the legs of a Collingwood defender and on to Cyril who ran in and goaled. Brilliant.

And I should also highlight the opening minutes of the final quarter, when we transformed a lead of 24 points to a match winning 49 points within the space of a few minutes. Firstly, Ellis soccered it off the ground for a goal. Then Shiels kicked a long ball in; Franklin marked and dished off to The Rough who ran into an open goal. Smith then kicked forward and Hodge marked in the pocket, and goaled after a 50 metre penalty. Hawks intercepted, Cyril got it to Buddy. Big goal! Then Buddy finished off with one more and struck a pose that all the papers could use in the next day’s papers.

All the match lacked was a shot of Eddie looking glum in the grandstand.

It was a great final and (a)rousing victory. I can't actually remember us playing Adelaide or Freo, but presumably we did and we must have beaten them, so we've got a real chance against any of the remaining teams. We're getting close and pre-season predictions are gradually turning to expectation and blind hope into hype.


Final scores: Hawthorn  20  15  135  d  Collingwood  15  7  97


Buddy goal tally - 4 = 63  Buddy behind tally - 3 = total, 55


What we loved: the Hawthorn crowd. It’s not often that a team can match Collingwood for support at a final, but the brown ‘n’ gold contingent were loud and colourful, and perhaps even made up the majority of the crowd. We certainly drowned them out.

Also, in The Final Story documentary about the 1975 Grand Final screened on Channel 7 on Sunday, Big Al Martello looks younger now than he did nearly 40 years ago in the mid 70s. Leon Rice on the other hand…

In memory of John McCarthy, Collingwood & Port Adelaide, 1989-2012

Round 23 - Hawthorn v West Coast Eagles

Friday 31 August 2012, MCG

Hawk couture

Luke Hodge leads the boys out for
fashion week

Melbourne Spring Fashion week launched on Friday night so it’s only fitting that Hawthorn’s brown and gold vertical stripes were on prominent display on national television.  What better way to showcase Melbourne fashion than to send the iconic poo and wee design of the Hawthorn jumper down the MCG catwalk.  This colour scheme codifies the expending of waste, the voiding of the unnecessary, and in doing so celebrates the essential and elemental in life, and positions Hawthorn as fundamental, or at least at the fundament, of existence.  The alternating stripes, meanwhile, hint at duality, at interdependence or yin and yang, while the clean lines and lightweight fabric accentuate muscular tone. Teamed with a brown short with gold trim and hooped hosiery, the ensemble makes a bold and daring statement that the wearer is adventurous, an ideas person, most likely with a killer left boot. It is the very finest in exquisite haute couture, or as I call it, ‘hawk couture’. I wouldn’t wear anything else.

When we played the Eagles in Perth in Round 3, we kicked five goals for the entire match. This time we had five goals half way through the first quarter and by quarter time Buddy had kicked four and set up two others. At seven goals to one at the first break it was looking pleasingly like another win in excess of 10 goals with Buddy making a claim for his third Coleman medal.  We were certainly looking good, and not just in a fashion sense.

There was run, flair and attack. Mitchell and Sewell were winning it in the centre and getting it forward quickly where Buddy did his thing. Buddy running on to a Suckling kick and poking it over the line for his second; Buddy getting on the end of some precision passing and slotting them from 50; Smith getting a short one from The Rough and running into the goal square unimpeded, duffing the kick but still scoring – it was that sort of quarter.  “Fabulous, darling” to appropriate fashion parlance. "Bubbles?"

But as we know, fashion doesn’t last, which is a good thing if we’re talking about stonewash denim, but less desirable in this sense. From quarter time the match tightened up and was reasonably even for the remainder, dour eve. The Eagles even threatening briefly in the final quarter – a fashion faux pas if ever there was one. But goals to Breust and Hale snuffed out what faint hope they had – hope that sprang largely from some strange umpiring decisions, but still, it was enough to send a moment of unwanted anxiety through Hawk fans.

So not a classic Hawks victory, but the Eagles are a good team who have been on or near the top all season, so it was still impressive. We managed to nullify Cox, Natanui, and Kerr for much of the evening, and even if they managed to restrict the Hawks for three quarters, it was effectively too late by then.

A healthy crowd of over 50,000 for a match against an interstate team was impressive given that Essendon and Collingwood drew only marginally more the following night – perhaps it’s time to rethink the ANZAC Day draw?

And the crowd provided two major highlights: in the first quarter when Josh Kennedy went into his convulsive, stuttering run up, the crowd literally burst out laughing as one, like the mass hilarity that grips the Romans in "Life of Brian" when the Emperor calls “Fwee Wodewick!” Kennedy missed and I can’t help thinking it was partly due to embarrassment. The second moment was the Cyril chant as the camera showed him sitting on the bench wearing the sub vest – a garment we probably shouldn’t dwell on in fashion week. I’ve never before heard a chant go up for a sub, and the roar that greeted his entry was probably the loudest for the night.

So top spot secured and with it, what is referred to as the ‘minor premiership’ though given we won it from a fair way back, it was a major achievement. Nice work Hawks! Best dressed in more ways than one.

Final scores: Hawthorn  14  11  95 d West Coast  10  10  70

Buddy goal tally – 4 = total, 59

Buddy behind tally – 1 = total, 53

So not quite the 100 goals 100 behinds we wanted. Richmond's Riewoldt won the Coleman - at least he now knows what the phrase "hollow victory" means. Given Buddy missed six games and still finished only six goals behind, perhaps they shouldn't award the Coleman this year.

What we loved: Top spot, the double chance and a home final. And The Rough of course!

What we loathed: the injury to Goo. We need his mongrel in the finals.

And what was McInerney doing stopping Buddy in mid stride as he walked in to take his shot on the half time siren? Since when is that ok?

The essence of fashion