Football To Believe In

Two very different things happened in my football life today.

I made a reel for social media for the first time. Like I'm a twenty-something influencer, fresh off the plane in Dubai, ready to sell some form of training/powder/snake oil.

My work was less polished, less high stakes. But it taught me a few things about what I value in sport, what I value in people, and the kind of person I'd like to think I try to be.

Immediately after I posted it, I read about the passing of Dennis Cometti. Excellent timing for a light-hearted content drop.

Dennis is like a character in a movie, one that was in nearly every single one of your favourite scenes, but melted so perfectly into the fabric of the backdrop that you barely registered his appearance.

He soundtracked so many iconic moments, it's both impossible and pointless to name them all. You know them, even if you don't know you know them.

I'll remember him for the same reasons as everyone else will. 'Like a librarian' is maybe the most replayed of the lot, a beautiful meshing of a huge Grand Final moment and sublime dry wit.

I loved the fantastically glitchy commentary on the iconic AFL Live games in the early 2000s. Awkward banter between Cometti and Brereton, 'centimetre perfect' for complete shanks, calling the end of the game midway through the second quarter. You'll still hear lines quoted in pubs around the country.

Most of all, I loved his ability to conjure the most magnificently dry language to describe the most mundane events;

“He’s not the quickest player on the ground, but he’s trying.” 

“If you’re wondering why the score board is blank, it’s because neither side has scored.” 

“The umpire says play on, and who am I to argue?” 

He understood in equal measure what the game demanded and what the viewer needed. He knew footy, and those who loved it.

He was unique, and he will be missed. He already was.

Before hearing the news, I spent a good 20 minutes fighting with my phone, trying to create a 'reel'. A middle-aged man attempting to create vertical video is not the point of the story, but it was a gentle reminder of the unstoppable progression of time and tech.

The idea was to celebrate some of the players I admire the most, from inside and outside Collingwood. What I discovered was a predilection for defenders, and for men who didn't fit the current mould.

Veneration of the underdog has long been a theme. At first, I shared the same heroes as everyone else. Peter Daicos. Sav Rocca. Nathan Buckley. As I grew older, I started to notice the other guys, and what they were contributing.

Between 1995 and 2000, there was a guy named Stephen Patterson running around in the Pies midfield. He wasn't particularly quick. Or big. Or skilled. But he ran, and he worked, and he was tough. He got as much out of himself as it seemed he could, and he did it every week. 

I never saw another guernsey with his number 6 on its back, besides my own. I don't remember many accolades, besides a third in the Copeland. I think he's a politician in South Australia now.

I loved Scott Burns for similar reasons. No bullshit. He just played footy. He saw the ball, he tried to get the ball, he wanted to help his team. There were several guys part of those early 2000s teams, playing in the shadows of Buckley, of a similar ilk. Clement, Presti, Betheras, and my guy Jason Cloke.

Again, defenders.

These days, I still admire the same sort of player, especially if you throw in an unconventional story. Tom Stewart. Tom Atkins. Darcy Moore. Nick Blakey. Mark Keane. Libba. Sam Taylor. Max Gawn. Alex Pearce.

When I look at that list more closely, I see something else. I need my footballers to be people. I haven't always had that clarity.

At some point in my late teens, I realised that many sports stars were dicks. I stopped loving the players as much, but tried to maintain a respect for the game, and the clubs and history that go along with it.

I spent my VCE years at a famous football school. I couldn't tell you if any alumni were doctors, or lawyers, or any other profession that we the people have deemed 'important' and 'successful'. But I can tell you dozens of names of boys who made the jump from First XVIII to the big time, including some from my time.

I'd arrived at that college from a much smaller school, in a relatively small town. I'd been in that school from Grade 3 to Year 10. This new one was five times larger.

I knew about the footy program. I'd had older cousins attend the same school. What I wasn't prepared for was the ingrained class system that ran rife throughout, mostly centred around who was good at sport.

Those considered worthy peacocked around campus with extra embroidery on their blazers. Classes were cancelled to watch the games. The football team especially was feted continuously, first amongst less than equals.

Meanwhile, my homeroom teacher didn't know my name until the third term. My methods teacher couldn't see me struggling to find my feet. My lit teacher was exceptional, but no one else gave a fuck.

I wilted into the walls as much as I could. Life happened around me, and I did what I could to get through each day. Some days were even pretty good. Other days, I ate my lunch alone in a toilet cubicle.

I resented everyone. I thought they were better than me. To be honest, so did they.

I tried to play footy for a bit, and it stole something from me. I couldn't love the game the same way. I flirted with the firsts, and finished in the thirds, thankful to be rid of the pressure.

I left that school careering towards chronic depression, the first of many mental health challenges coming my way.

I didn't fit into to country football culture that well either. It's exactly what you think it is. Hyper-masculine, hyper-sexual, just hyper.

But those clubs can also be rewarding, enjoyable, incredibly social outlets for men and women who really need that connection. Like everything, there's light and shade. There's just never enough light to warm everyone.

I have questioned many times whether I've overblown those experiences. Perhaps it is me, and my (undiagnosed at the time) autistic tendency to withdraw. Maybe it's not their fault. They're just having fun, playing footy with their mates. Aren't they?

I'm probably wrong. I usually am.

Rightly or wrongly, my attitude and exposure during those years infiltrated my ability to enjoy professional football. I barracked for Collingwood, passionately, emotionally, but I would remember my time inside those environments. I could easily assign a role to the AFL guys I was in awe of. One was a bully, one was a predator, one was violent, the rest were just arseholes. They were no longer heroes. No longer worthy of respect.

This has become even more acute since becoming a parent. Footy is unavoidable. It's participants are modern day gods. Despite all my resentment, children everywhere continue to idolise these guys.

Which is why, over the years, I've rebuilt my relationship with the game. I don't play anymore, but I take my children to Auskick. I've zeroed in on the way the kids love it. Innocently, whole-heartedly, without the tarnishing of a life half lived. They love it better than I do.

I've focused on clubs and organisations as a whole. I've looked towards their societal contributions. I've tried to feel positive about their impact.

I've also found great comfort in some of the modern day players. I'm so grateful to be bringing up kids in a Collingwood home while Darcy Moore is the captain. At once an old-fashioned, rugged defender with Brownlow bloodlines, and the anti-footballer; thoughtful, eloquent and socially conscious.

Pride is the overwhelming emotion when he talks. Particularly on Anzac Day. He takes his time. He recognises that the game is just a game, just one small part a much bigger picture.

Relief is also a common experience. When he speaks, he's not just speaking for himself and his club. I feel like he is representing me, and all of us who love the game while simultaneously feeling uncomfortable under it's umbrella.

I'm relieved by what Darcy Moore means for everyone, but mostly for my kids. Idolise away guys. You've picked a good one.

There's others who have guided me back into the towering floodlights. Some of the leadership around the AFL clubs has been exceptional. They might not realise they are doing it, but some of these guys are ripping open doors, providing opportunities for more people to love the game like we do.

Some do it with words, and off field activism. Others do it in front of packed stadiums with four points on the line. I can't wait to watch both.

One day to go, and we can keep finding ways to love footy just that little bit more. No matter how we got here.