Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
Hoddle Street is a bottleneck like Thermopylae. Once it is blocked, one might as well sleep under the car. Last Monday, the traffic was at a standstill. Stuff this, I thought to myself. A Commodore stalled to my left so I jumped lanes and pulled into the Shell petrol station. Brazenly, I bought a packet of chips – that’s the equivalent of having a McShit. Rather than returning to my car, it was time for a stroll. Ahead of me loomed the Wolf’s Lair itself – Victoria Park.
Norm Smith once said that until you had beaten Collingwood at this hallowed ground, you could not call yourself a footballer. The same principle applied to spectators: unless you had braved the mob at Victoria Park, you had yet to earn your stripes. Stuff Moorabbin: the entire ground was an “Animal Enclosure”. And is there a more evocative phrase in the universe than “the ghosts of Victoria Park?” It brings to mind Leeter and Albert Collier, the Rose and Coventry brothers, the Pannams, that dirty little bugger Lou Richards and a host of other legends. And irrefutably, Victoria Park is a sacred site. By comparison Princes Park, the rat-hole of the Cheats, was always an odious experience even with the old Press Box in situ. Arden Street was Oil Drum Lane in everything but name; Windy Hill had a mystique of its own but still fell short of Victoria Park. To this day, Kardinia Park has always been the Handbaggery. I never made it to the Lake Oval, Glenferrie or Brunswick Street – but who cares? And one always “cleared the decks” before journeying to Victoria Park: its latrines were not for the faint-hearted. Under no circumstances was a “Number 2” ever contemplated.
As I walked into the ground, two games came to mind: a certain match in 1984 which I had attended with an old friend and her later-to-be-husband (a hotel room would have been a better option on their part – they saw little of the match). It was the return of Peter Moore to VP – how the mob had bayed for his blood. Our boom recruit, Michael Reynolds, kicked goals from long range but it availed us naught: a Lou Richards-like chimp wearing the number 22 cut us to shreds in the last quarter. My mind then turned to our last match at Victoria Park in 1992. Having had “the salty champagne” poured over his head as he sat on the bench, Jako returned to the field of battle to vanquish the Maggies. I will never forget the elation of that hour as I later walked up Johnston Street – as the Romans would say, it was an Eternal Victory. Its aurora is with me still.
By now it was late afternoon. Twilight was enveloping the ground. As I walked through the terraces of Victoria Park, musing on glory and transience, I was not alone. A man was sitting in one of the rows ahead of me. Even at that distance, he was ursine. I strode up hesitantly and said hello. He slowly turned around and stared. It was Murray Weideman, the venerable Captain of the 1958 Premiership side.
“How are you going Biff?” he rumbled. In awe, I mumbled back a reply. I had not seen Murray for some time. Alas, he had aged frightfully – now he was the Lion in Winter. Even so, his frame still testified to the magnificent specimen he once had been. We exchanged pleasantries and I sat down.
“So why are you here, Murray?” I ventured. “Shouldn’t you be over at the Lexus Centre with Eddy? They make good coffee. It’s climate-controlled, too”
“What a silly bloody question!” he rasped. Silence befell us. The Collingwood enforcer was looking out over the oval but not at anything temporal.
“So Murray, the Maggies are playing your old adversaries – the Dees - next Monday.”
Ominously, the nearby streetlamps were switched on at that point.
“You know Biff,” he croaked at last, “I can see him still, both awake and in my dreams: that red headed bastard in the raincoat. How much grief he caused us! And now they are going to cast him in bronze at the G. Fifty Eight was nice but no real payback. We still owe him!”
I turned around to stare at the old players’ race, as if expecting Norm Smith to stride out with the legions of yore. The wind rattled an old chain but no ghosts were forthcoming.
“Murray, please hear me out,” I pleaded. “For me at least, Collingwood is the Great Enemy – simultaneously loathed and respected. The loss in Fifty Eight still resonates down the years, even to those among us who were not around at the time. It was just as much of a Bloodbath Grand Final as ‘45. It was your finest hour. If it were not for that third quarter, we would have won six in a row.”
The slightest of smiles came to his face. Me, I would have been damned proud of such an accomplishment. Were the annihilations of 55, 56 and 60 still in his soul, to say nothing of the endless home and away defeats? When it became clear that he was not going to respond, I piped up again.
“Murray, let me ask you a question please. I know that both sides played finals against each other in the late 80s – and the 1990 Grand Final should have been Melbourne v Collingwood (we stuffed up) - but some would say that the last game of consequence to occur between the two clubs was the 1964 Grand Final. That was eons ago. Does the fixture still matter?”
Murray nodded his head sagely. “Collingwood versus Melbourne is always important – it does not matter where they sit on the ladder. Same as Collingwood versus Carlton or Collingwood against Richmond. In the old days, I would say the same about Collingwood versus Fitzroy.”
“What about Essendon?” I asked.
“They’re just big. They’re not special.”
“Hawthorn?”
“Uppity newcomers.”
“Geelong?”
“Forget the 1953 premiership,” he said huskily. “Lou Richard’s claim to fame is that he coined the word ‘Handbaggers’. They still haven’t won more premierships than Fitzroy.”
“What about St Kilda? They are a foundation club.”
He snorted and returned his gaze to the setting sun.
“Point taken,” I replied at last. “But do you think the glory days will return, when the Melbourne Football Club slugs out September with the Black and White?”
“Well we’re already waiting for you. Tell your boys to stop being shit. I never thought that a club once coached by Checker Hughes and Smithy would ever be accused of playing bruise-free football – but there you go. Perhaps they should revert to being called the ****ing Fuschias.”
I smiled. Far from being extinguished, the old fire burnt on. Our talk died away with the light. As darkness overwhelmed Victoria Park, I could have sworn that I saw thirty six ghostly figures, half Collingwood, the rest being Melbourne, playing out a home and away game as if it was 1910. Was our defender Joe Pearce among them, the man who died on the shores of Gallipoli? Perhaps it was all in my mind – ashes to dust and then nothing. It was time to depart. I bade farewell to Murray Weideman - everlastingly, the Captain of Collingwood - and took my leave. By the time I returned to my car, the congestion had cleared. Frost was in the air but I was toasty warm.
Dees by one point – from the worst tipper on the Board.
Biffinator.
Norm Smith once said that until you had beaten Collingwood at this hallowed ground, you could not call yourself a footballer. The same principle applied to spectators: unless you had braved the mob at Victoria Park, you had yet to earn your stripes. Stuff Moorabbin: the entire ground was an “Animal Enclosure”. And is there a more evocative phrase in the universe than “the ghosts of Victoria Park?” It brings to mind Leeter and Albert Collier, the Rose and Coventry brothers, the Pannams, that dirty little bugger Lou Richards and a host of other legends. And irrefutably, Victoria Park is a sacred site. By comparison Princes Park, the rat-hole of the Cheats, was always an odious experience even with the old Press Box in situ. Arden Street was Oil Drum Lane in everything but name; Windy Hill had a mystique of its own but still fell short of Victoria Park. To this day, Kardinia Park has always been the Handbaggery. I never made it to the Lake Oval, Glenferrie or Brunswick Street – but who cares? And one always “cleared the decks” before journeying to Victoria Park: its latrines were not for the faint-hearted. Under no circumstances was a “Number 2” ever contemplated.
As I walked into the ground, two games came to mind: a certain match in 1984 which I had attended with an old friend and her later-to-be-husband (a hotel room would have been a better option on their part – they saw little of the match). It was the return of Peter Moore to VP – how the mob had bayed for his blood. Our boom recruit, Michael Reynolds, kicked goals from long range but it availed us naught: a Lou Richards-like chimp wearing the number 22 cut us to shreds in the last quarter. My mind then turned to our last match at Victoria Park in 1992. Having had “the salty champagne” poured over his head as he sat on the bench, Jako returned to the field of battle to vanquish the Maggies. I will never forget the elation of that hour as I later walked up Johnston Street – as the Romans would say, it was an Eternal Victory. Its aurora is with me still.
By now it was late afternoon. Twilight was enveloping the ground. As I walked through the terraces of Victoria Park, musing on glory and transience, I was not alone. A man was sitting in one of the rows ahead of me. Even at that distance, he was ursine. I strode up hesitantly and said hello. He slowly turned around and stared. It was Murray Weideman, the venerable Captain of the 1958 Premiership side.
“How are you going Biff?” he rumbled. In awe, I mumbled back a reply. I had not seen Murray for some time. Alas, he had aged frightfully – now he was the Lion in Winter. Even so, his frame still testified to the magnificent specimen he once had been. We exchanged pleasantries and I sat down.
“So why are you here, Murray?” I ventured. “Shouldn’t you be over at the Lexus Centre with Eddy? They make good coffee. It’s climate-controlled, too”
“What a silly bloody question!” he rasped. Silence befell us. The Collingwood enforcer was looking out over the oval but not at anything temporal.
“So Murray, the Maggies are playing your old adversaries – the Dees - next Monday.”
Ominously, the nearby streetlamps were switched on at that point.
“You know Biff,” he croaked at last, “I can see him still, both awake and in my dreams: that red headed bastard in the raincoat. How much grief he caused us! And now they are going to cast him in bronze at the G. Fifty Eight was nice but no real payback. We still owe him!”
I turned around to stare at the old players’ race, as if expecting Norm Smith to stride out with the legions of yore. The wind rattled an old chain but no ghosts were forthcoming.
“Murray, please hear me out,” I pleaded. “For me at least, Collingwood is the Great Enemy – simultaneously loathed and respected. The loss in Fifty Eight still resonates down the years, even to those among us who were not around at the time. It was just as much of a Bloodbath Grand Final as ‘45. It was your finest hour. If it were not for that third quarter, we would have won six in a row.”
The slightest of smiles came to his face. Me, I would have been damned proud of such an accomplishment. Were the annihilations of 55, 56 and 60 still in his soul, to say nothing of the endless home and away defeats? When it became clear that he was not going to respond, I piped up again.
“Murray, let me ask you a question please. I know that both sides played finals against each other in the late 80s – and the 1990 Grand Final should have been Melbourne v Collingwood (we stuffed up) - but some would say that the last game of consequence to occur between the two clubs was the 1964 Grand Final. That was eons ago. Does the fixture still matter?”
Murray nodded his head sagely. “Collingwood versus Melbourne is always important – it does not matter where they sit on the ladder. Same as Collingwood versus Carlton or Collingwood against Richmond. In the old days, I would say the same about Collingwood versus Fitzroy.”
“What about Essendon?” I asked.
“They’re just big. They’re not special.”
“Hawthorn?”
“Uppity newcomers.”
“Geelong?”
“Forget the 1953 premiership,” he said huskily. “Lou Richard’s claim to fame is that he coined the word ‘Handbaggers’. They still haven’t won more premierships than Fitzroy.”
“What about St Kilda? They are a foundation club.”
He snorted and returned his gaze to the setting sun.
“Point taken,” I replied at last. “But do you think the glory days will return, when the Melbourne Football Club slugs out September with the Black and White?”
“Well we’re already waiting for you. Tell your boys to stop being shit. I never thought that a club once coached by Checker Hughes and Smithy would ever be accused of playing bruise-free football – but there you go. Perhaps they should revert to being called the ****ing Fuschias.”
I smiled. Far from being extinguished, the old fire burnt on. Our talk died away with the light. As darkness overwhelmed Victoria Park, I could have sworn that I saw thirty six ghostly figures, half Collingwood, the rest being Melbourne, playing out a home and away game as if it was 1910. Was our defender Joe Pearce among them, the man who died on the shores of Gallipoli? Perhaps it was all in my mind – ashes to dust and then nothing. It was time to depart. I bade farewell to Murray Weideman - everlastingly, the Captain of Collingwood - and took my leave. By the time I returned to my car, the congestion had cleared. Frost was in the air but I was toasty warm.
Dees by one point – from the worst tipper on the Board.
Biffinator.
