So Fitzroy and South Melbourne are going head to head for the Grand Final on Saturday for the first time in 125 years… Whoops, I mean Brisbane and Sydney.
This (video reading) is about the days when the Lions and the Swans lived across the river from each other in Melbourne and the idea of an AFL Women’s Team wasn’t even a wild dream. (Go the AFLW!)
I grew up in a country town just outside of Melbourne, and my Dad had actually played for Hawthorn when he was a young man. Not that we knew too much about it, except that he always went off to the game with his gladstone bag on Saturdays to barrack for the Hawks.
Here he is with his team in 1946. These guys have certainly seen a lot of hard knocks. But I reckon Dad (Wally Spencer) second from the right in the top row had the looks to have been a bit of a star if they were paid to play in those days (not a penny), and if he’d kept going.
As it was, he couldn’t afford to keep playing and risk injury when he was a farrier with a young family to feed, so he took up an offer from Box Hill FC. The arrangement was they’d send around a Brickie and a load of bricks for the time he was on the ground, and that’s how he got his house built.
He said that he always played better when he got roused up so his coach would often send someone out to give him a clip over the ear.
Here’s the start of the piece from The Age of Fibs, and you can watch or listen to the video above (or the podcast) to hear the rest.
…To me, it's the sound of seagulls, grey skies. The meat pie sounds of high-pitched little boy voices. A haunting sound. You turn on the television and there it is. You switch it off again and it lingers.
In the winters of my childhood it saturated everything, the furnishings, the carpet, the walls of the living room, everything was grey and white with its sounds and shapes as the ball flew around, back and forth, inside the tv set in the corner.
Replay. The wonders of modern technology.
In the shadows of the replay I remember rare stolen moments of physical contact with my father. My sister and I would come in from our bath and sit cross-legged on the floor between his knees, and he would towel our hair into knots – pausing to watch a difficult mark, rubbing vigorously after each goal.
My father played for Hawthorn as a young man. His six children barracked for Collingwood.
Love and loyalty. You cut your teeth on these emotions.
At school, we'd start each winter week with the ritual chants of `We won, we won' and `On the Saints' or `Up the Maggies!' You could hear the songs coming through the fog, carried along the frosty air as kids decked out in footy scarves trooped in the gates. And then we'd salute the flag and sing the National Anthem and march inside, where Mr King would stoke up the fire,
and in between the arithmetic lessons
he'd tell stories of how he was the one who taught Ron Barassi how to kick a football
as a little lad many years ago back in Violet Town.
This side, that side.
Football was team spirit and mastery, fair play and honour. How to execute a brilliant hand-pass. Heroes and history, going up with the pack, taking a mark, joining the fray. It was men with pluck, and words like `attack' and `defence' and `wing'. And magical words like `ruck rover.'
It was everywhere in winter, like marbles and skippy and frost.
The girls at the bus stop with black duffle coats covered with the names of their favourite players. The smell of mud on boys' knees and squashed grass and wet leather.
Familiar alien things. Girls territory vs boys territory. Inside the fence and outside it.
Down at the local oval, for instance, the deep bass sounds of thickly padded women with umbrellas stalking the perimeter, shouting abuse and encouragement to their sons. The honking of horns from girlfriend-filled cars lining the fence when someone kicks a goal. The Little Leaguers flooding over the field at half time, hustled off again when the men come back.
There were those allowed inside the sanctum of the dressing rooms after the game, and those who waited outside.
You were part of the action, or you watched….
Here’s a blog post I wrote some years ago when I was new to Twitter and experienced my first Twitter Grand Final, with the hashtag #AFLGF. I guess it will be happening on X or Threads again? Who knows.
And here’s an exciting moment from 1966 — for those who are new to AFL, and to give a taste of what it was like watching it on TV back then:
And here’s John Coleman taking a mark (not the same photo that graced the space above our mantlepiece in the mid 70s, but one of the many showing his legendary skills):
Thanks as always to those who read and listen and comment. I love that we’re creating a bit of a community here so please feel free to share your footy stories or just say hello.
And feel free to share on your socials (or in Notes - the Substack version of Twitter) with anyone you know who might like a bit of immersive pre-game footy history.
Till next time,
xxx Beth
Playing the Man: memories of football