rosy
Rookie
This is an article written by Gary Lyon in The Herald Sun today. I couldn't find it on the net so I typed it out for the benefit of interstate people who wouldn't get the paper, cos I think it is pretty good reading. I hope it is legal to do that, ha. All typos and spelling mistakes can be credited to me. Remove it quickly if it is against the rules please CJH.
Have you ever been into the rooms of an AFL club before the players run out to battle for premiership points?
Well, if you haven't enjoyed such an experience and the opportunity presents itself, jump at it.
I did on Thursday night when I was invited into the Richmond rooms in my role with channel 9. And the effect it had on me left my heart racing long after Wayne Campbell led his boys down the players' race.
That may seem strange coming from someone with a 17-year involvement at another AFL club--226 times as a player involved in the very warm-up situations I'm talking about and countless others as an impassive observer, injured player or, in latter years, an assistant coach.
But Thursday night was the first time I have witnessed the build-up of a club other than Melbourne.
And perhaps for the first time since I retired from the game 2 1/2 years ago, as I watched those Richmond players prepare for their round 1 clash against the Magpies, I had an overwhelming desire to play again.
It was a vivid reminder of the attraction this game holds for those fortunate enough to play at an elite level.
There is nothing, in my experience, that comes close to being apart of a large group of people who share the same goal, and are prepared, in a football sense, to die for the cause.
Maybe it had something to do with the Richmond rooms.
Recently I've ahd the chance to inspect the state-of-the-art facilities Freemantle, Port Adelaide and Adelaide have at their disposal. Shiny, ultra-modern, five-star football luxury.
The contrast in the Tiger Den at the MCG could not be more pronounced.
However, from the time I was greeted by the doormen - a couple of Richmond icons who I'm sure were attending to the same duties when Jack Dyer made his debut-I was struck by the tradition and history of this once great club. Once inside I was swept away by the intensity and focus of the men who aspire to return it to the same lofty standing.
Danny Frawley set the mood, make no mistake about it.
I worked with "Spud" for 6 years at the AFL, and a more laid-back, fun-loving joker I have yet to come across in football.
But Frawley the coach prowled around the rooms with a brooding intensity, barking instructions to his players, that was as far removed from his genial public persona as you could imagine. I was taken aback, to be honest, half expecting a smile aand a wise-crack at any moment.
It didn't come.
Matthew Richardson and Brad Ottens were even more imposing from a metre away than they seem on the field. And that's saying something.
The poor bloke holding the "bump bag" was getting a fearful working over, as if the players were holding him responsible for the frustration of making them wait for the game to begin.
Matthew Knights declined to go out on the ground for a warm-up. He seemed to enjoy the solitude of his own company and, as the players filed back inside, he greeted them, variously, with a quiet word, slap on the back, or a solid hip and shoulder.
Satisfied that they were all in "the right place", he wandered off to contemplate his preparation.
Wayne Campbell, the skipper, was all eyes, also seemingly reassuring himself that each and every one of the players under his leadership was mentally ready to go.
The physical fine-tuning had been six months in the making. Nothing anyone did or said 2o minutes before the ball was bounced was going to make any difference on that front.
I watched young David Rodan closely, trying to remember what it was like moments before I played my first VFL game, fulfilling a lifelong dream.
He seemed composed and alert. The footys were zinging around and his touch was clean and assured.
He seemed to stay close to Andrew Krakouer, maybe to draw comfort from the fact that no matter how overwhelming the whole experience may seem, you do get through it, survive, and live to fight another day.
Frawley then tok the players behind closed doors for the last time.
Two rounds of applause indicated he is drawing reference to the two first-gamers in Rodan and Greg Stafford. A moment of announcing their arrival as Richmond footballers; a moment they will never forget.
And then the coaches voice is raised, and although we are now 15m away, and the door is shut, the tone of the message is unmistakable and carries clearly.
The players file out and gather at the top of the race.
I am not sure what was said becuase I was in the middle of my cross for Nine, trying desperately to capture and convey the emotion and intensity of what had transpired in the last 20 minutes.
And then I sensed a presence at my left shoulder and and turned to see the coach, leaning on the wire fence, staring straight through me as he obligingly, but I suspect impatiently, waited to do a quick interview that he had agreed to earlier in the week.
I'm not even sure what I asked him. I'm sure he couldn't tell me how he answered. Thirty seconds later he was off, down the race, to put himself through two hours of mental torture.
I wandered off to the commentary box, heart pounding, excited about the call of the game, but realising it comes a distant second to actually playing out there.
Have you ever been into the rooms of an AFL club before the players run out to battle for premiership points?
Well, if you haven't enjoyed such an experience and the opportunity presents itself, jump at it.
I did on Thursday night when I was invited into the Richmond rooms in my role with channel 9. And the effect it had on me left my heart racing long after Wayne Campbell led his boys down the players' race.
That may seem strange coming from someone with a 17-year involvement at another AFL club--226 times as a player involved in the very warm-up situations I'm talking about and countless others as an impassive observer, injured player or, in latter years, an assistant coach.
But Thursday night was the first time I have witnessed the build-up of a club other than Melbourne.
And perhaps for the first time since I retired from the game 2 1/2 years ago, as I watched those Richmond players prepare for their round 1 clash against the Magpies, I had an overwhelming desire to play again.
It was a vivid reminder of the attraction this game holds for those fortunate enough to play at an elite level.
There is nothing, in my experience, that comes close to being apart of a large group of people who share the same goal, and are prepared, in a football sense, to die for the cause.
Maybe it had something to do with the Richmond rooms.
Recently I've ahd the chance to inspect the state-of-the-art facilities Freemantle, Port Adelaide and Adelaide have at their disposal. Shiny, ultra-modern, five-star football luxury.
The contrast in the Tiger Den at the MCG could not be more pronounced.
However, from the time I was greeted by the doormen - a couple of Richmond icons who I'm sure were attending to the same duties when Jack Dyer made his debut-I was struck by the tradition and history of this once great club. Once inside I was swept away by the intensity and focus of the men who aspire to return it to the same lofty standing.
Danny Frawley set the mood, make no mistake about it.
I worked with "Spud" for 6 years at the AFL, and a more laid-back, fun-loving joker I have yet to come across in football.
But Frawley the coach prowled around the rooms with a brooding intensity, barking instructions to his players, that was as far removed from his genial public persona as you could imagine. I was taken aback, to be honest, half expecting a smile aand a wise-crack at any moment.
It didn't come.
Matthew Richardson and Brad Ottens were even more imposing from a metre away than they seem on the field. And that's saying something.
The poor bloke holding the "bump bag" was getting a fearful working over, as if the players were holding him responsible for the frustration of making them wait for the game to begin.
Matthew Knights declined to go out on the ground for a warm-up. He seemed to enjoy the solitude of his own company and, as the players filed back inside, he greeted them, variously, with a quiet word, slap on the back, or a solid hip and shoulder.
Satisfied that they were all in "the right place", he wandered off to contemplate his preparation.
Wayne Campbell, the skipper, was all eyes, also seemingly reassuring himself that each and every one of the players under his leadership was mentally ready to go.
The physical fine-tuning had been six months in the making. Nothing anyone did or said 2o minutes before the ball was bounced was going to make any difference on that front.
I watched young David Rodan closely, trying to remember what it was like moments before I played my first VFL game, fulfilling a lifelong dream.
He seemed composed and alert. The footys were zinging around and his touch was clean and assured.
He seemed to stay close to Andrew Krakouer, maybe to draw comfort from the fact that no matter how overwhelming the whole experience may seem, you do get through it, survive, and live to fight another day.
Frawley then tok the players behind closed doors for the last time.
Two rounds of applause indicated he is drawing reference to the two first-gamers in Rodan and Greg Stafford. A moment of announcing their arrival as Richmond footballers; a moment they will never forget.
And then the coaches voice is raised, and although we are now 15m away, and the door is shut, the tone of the message is unmistakable and carries clearly.
The players file out and gather at the top of the race.
I am not sure what was said becuase I was in the middle of my cross for Nine, trying desperately to capture and convey the emotion and intensity of what had transpired in the last 20 minutes.
And then I sensed a presence at my left shoulder and and turned to see the coach, leaning on the wire fence, staring straight through me as he obligingly, but I suspect impatiently, waited to do a quick interview that he had agreed to earlier in the week.
I'm not even sure what I asked him. I'm sure he couldn't tell me how he answered. Thirty seconds later he was off, down the race, to put himself through two hours of mental torture.
I wandered off to the commentary box, heart pounding, excited about the call of the game, but realising it comes a distant second to actually playing out there.
It's about the best article to come out of Mr Spotty Dogs mouth.Gary Lyon.