My son is 18 now and his Carlton is very different from my Carlton.
I want my son to know my Carlton.
I want him to know our pride, our ability to fight. We have never been a monstrous side but we have never shirked. We have always had warriors who enjoyed the bloody aspect of this game. We have always had players that are a delight to watch, players that take your breath away but we have always had steel and an uncompromising attitude to the team.
That is my Carlton... the team of my youth and young adult life.
My son knows a team that capitulates, he knows them well. A team that can look like silver shining in the brightest light and then turn to buckling tin, allowing a deluge of goals. He knows about 10 goal losses, 100 point thrashings, humiliating surrenders.
That is my son's Carlton... The team of his youth and now, it appears, his young adult life.
I remember the flags. I was there in '68 & '69 for the win and the loss
and in '70 I stood on the street corner with Paul Scanlon and we waved the herald's Carlton poster at all the passing cars.
I was there again in '72 and again in '73 the day Big Nick was felled and the Carlton heart shook in Asgardian shock as if Thor himself had just been felled and the rainbow bridge had collapsed.
I was there in '87
I was there in '93
In '95 I watched it with my brothers on tellie and we danced the famous Family jig for my father was not there when he had been with us at all the others.
I was with my brothers again in '99 when my son was but 2 - too young to follow the journey and live the glory and the agony. My Carlton is the Sistine chapel, it brings all the emotions to mind.
Or it was. My Carlton.
My son's Carlton is an unfinished tapestry. There is no artistry, just a old club dozing in yesterday's glory...Like children wearing the proud medals of their grandfathers without ever having fought the battle. Never having consoled the fallen comrade or pushed beyond the barriers to final victory.
I have seen 8 flags in my life.
By 18 I had seen the Bluebaggers win 3, felt the ecstasy of each lofty win and seen us lose 2 and bore the agony of each.
My son has seen 1 great final's win (in '99 when he was 5) and then last year's final win when he was old enough to go along and enjoy the ocassion. 1 flag (when he was 2 and was unaware of it). They are a mirage to him. Something other kids who follow other clubs talk about. But not him. He keeps that hope buried deep. It does not see the light of day for it will be ridiculed, a fool's gold hope, an illusion. This club is not about premierships. Not his club. It struggles in the heat. It doesn't stand for anything.
If I had my old jumper with the number four on it I would burn it and send the ashes to the club.
We are the new England.
My son worries not, he knows this club, he knows its losses, its inability to deliver, its weaknesses, its excuses, its lack of leadership and innovation, its cruel disbelief, its arrogant inattention to the changed landscape. That's his Carlton.
My Carlton is lost
or trapped back there in the past with my youth - where it strides still, big and brave and bold. A giant of a club with a glint in its eye, the reflection, perhaps, of another approaching cup.
My son's Carlton keeps its eyes down, hides behind memories, injuries, excuses, old battles and faraway promises.
Mine once fought the fight and now sleeps like an old dog before the fire, eyes closed, dreaming of ancient chases, barking in its sleep as it soars again, a young club fresh on the hunt.
My son follows Carlton because I do, my fear is that in his heart of hearts, he wishes he could have followed Collingwood like his mum, at least then he might have had some pride in his club.
My son follows Carlton because I do and I wish that were not so for his Carlton is not My Carlton...
It may never be so...
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