Grand Final 2012

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