Early 1978 I sensed it was a time for me to play Under 18s with Leongatha. I’d played 4 seasons with Meeniyan Dumbalk United in the AFL (sorry that’s the Alberton Football League) but was now too old for the Under 17’s. Not only that, I lacked the commitment to front up to reserves footy on the converted sheep paddock for the combine. Most of my mates from school were playing for the Gatha, so once a suitable transfer fee was negotiated – 40,000 musk sticks – I went from being a demon to a parrot. I was later to discover this summed up my personality perfectly after even the tiniest measure of alcohol.
I was a bit of fitness nut – the smoking, womanising and gutter crawling would come later – riding my bike from the farm 4 miles out of town into training, school, basketball etc. Subsequently I’d often cramp up in the last quarter and would need to be held up in the showers. It was one of those years where everyone in the group got on. We were fortunate as a group of typically wayward and exhuburant 17 years olds to have the freedoms (lack of discipline?) extended to us by the quiet knockabout coach “Bease”. Given the common gold colour of my respective clubs, I morphed – in my own mind of course – into Peter Knights complete with big yellow puma boots. Whilst now a potential meme for Ashley and Martin, in the day my blonde locks streamed behind me as I steamed up field and then ….. I’d cramp. And be held up in the showers.
Through the mid to late seventies the Roos and the Hawks had a duopoly on the flag. The Roos lost the ’74 flag to the Tigers then beat the Hawks in ’75 who returned the favour in ’76 followed by a tie, then Roo victory against the Pies before this clash in 1978.
Whilst much was made of later Bombers/Geelong V Hawthorn rivalries, I still cant go past the fact that these two teams faced off 4 times in this short space of time. North made their fifth grand final in a row and had finished on top, followed by the Hawks. So a top 2 grand final – the stuff of dreams. Meanwhile the Parrots had also found their way into a second semi final where we’d won the right to play on our home turf. By three quarter time we looked spent and as we broke from the final huddle, winger, artist and later chippie “Curly” Wightman pulled me aside “if I get the ball get running past me and we’ll see if we can break them through the middle”.
While it odds with Bease’s instructions and eternally being weak on strategy and team rules I’d virtually forgotten the conversation by the time I got back to the half forward flank. But it didnt take long. Curly got the ball just defensively of the centre and his instruction loaded into my memory like a DOS version of Doom arcing up on an old 486 Pentium II. I burst parallel to him, screaming his name. His handball was perfection, reaching my out stretched hands without breaking stride. We’d broken the press and now where was full forward Gary “Slug” Young? Sure enough he’d read the action and lead quickly up to centre half forward. I’d need a big kick to reach him so elected for the torp which I unleashed as I sped over the dot in the centre of the ground. It was a sweet hit. “Slug” knew it was going over his head so he doubled back to retrieve and hopefully run into an open goal. The torp is an unpredictable beast in the air, off the boot and on the bounce. It has humbled many a champion and hack alike. But this was a walk between the rain drops torp. It hit the ground 30 metres out and bounced and bounced and bounced …… truly between the sticks. The car horns went off and our lads were back in town. Curly and I continued to provide the run out of the backline and the game was ours. We were into the Grand Final! Unbeknownst to me, there were a couple of Footscray officials there and sucked in by the cheap and cheerful version of Peter Knights they’d witnessed proffered 2 tickets to the Grand Final. Things fell my way and the Hawks ended up part of the deal.
For some reason I didnt take Dad, I took a girl I was “dating” or “going with” in the vernacular of the glitter decade. I still regret that. We had to pick the ticket up from the Footscray Footy Club which was an inconvenient extra few miles on the other side of Melbourne. We passed the MCG on the way which added to the sense of anticipation. We got the tickets off Dogs legend Charlie Sutton, enjoyed a bit of catering and then headed to the old Southern Stand for the final showdown. We sat with the Dogs players who struggled with the game, no doubt wishing it was their opportunity and whether this lottery would fall their way. It didn’t and hasn’t.
We remember the game for 2 sensational marks – Phil Baker and Peter Knights who seemed to float over the point post. Baker’s monster leap over hapless opponent Ian Paton won him mark of the year.
The Hawks were in trouble with the Roos up early in the premiership quarter. After a Roo bungle that cost them a goal and a useful lead, the Hawks banged on 6 goals in 12 minutes and the Roos, while thowing up a heady challenge, were done. The 1978 signature for me was when Peter Knights, champion defender, looked to have turned an ankle. Not wishing to lose him (there was no interchange then, once subsituted by the 19th or 20th man, that was it, you didnt come back), Hawk coach David Parkin swung him to full forward, where he kicked two life saving goals in the last stanza, took a couple of hangers and gave two goals away.
The journey homeward upon the Victorian Railways diesel locomotive was a warm, sunny, honey filled late afternoon transit home. We hang out the windows while slowly venturing through suburban stations, shouting and yelling at anyone with Hawthorn colours. It was truly great.
The Hawks would continue to taste victory in the Eighties. For the Roos, such a powerhouse in the 70’s spawned from the poverty of their history, would not see that one day in September for another 19 years against Sydney.
We had a reunion of the Under 18 flag side at the Gatha. 6 couldn’t make it and one has passed on. It was a terrific night tacked onto an end of season function but we found ourselves alone in the changerooms again with each taking terms to affirm what the experience had meant to and taught them. Most had been through their fair share of triumph and tragedy, some a larger helping than others, and some of us with obvious indigestion.
As I headed for the ute accross the ground for the return trip to Ballarat I again encountered that dot. The noise, atmosphere and smell of that day was with me in an instant.
Fags and footy were a match in heaven.
You could smoke on the train to the ground, at the ground, at the pie stall in the stand, in the toilets and while watching the players smoke at half time and after the game.
Every time you looked in the 1970s Paul Hogan was suckin’ on a gasper. He could smoke, but he couldn’t kick a torp.
