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I can recall 69…I was 12 and full of that day the year before against Essendon* so I sat beside my dad – gone now 35 years! There is a silver lining in every sorrow – Dad never saw the fall, never had his heart shredded game by game by game, week by week, year upon year, head reeling, whacked by spoon upon spoon – and is it true – do I hear the call again to tank? Have we learnt nothing?
69 was a horror, the great bluebagger army fell silent as it watched the fall – this year no Barass leap at the siren’s call to end the war. Instead, a heart so heavy I felt tears and a lip that quivered, and my dad, he just stood staring out at the ground before turning to me and saying with a smile, “we’ll be here next year no doubt!”
Oh where has the belief gone – did we trade it away when we tanked? Did we lose it, misplaced it perhaps when we changed the name of Princes Park? Did we sell it for 5 has-beens and a donkey for a ruck?
This year, again, this year is the worst and we’re only three games in! Where is Bruce patrolling that half back line – or Ragsy running and punching the dangerous ball far, far away? Where is the rock of Southby? The determination of Crane? The courage of Keogh, the speed of Quirk, the flash of Jackson…Jezza oh Jezza, another now carries your name and I only see you flying spectacularly in my tears when I look up at the sky as another opposition rains goals down upon us again.
And so we have come to this, we bluebaggers, a side fit for only a half, or even just a quarter, a quarter of a side for a quarter of a century as I descend into the last quarter of mine… we ask for no quarter, just effort…just something to hang our bluebagger scarves on now that we can’t hang them out the windows as we scream like mad Americans in a drive-by.
How many of our beloved ancients are turning in their graves? How many past players weep to pull the jumper on again and show their pride in the navy blue? Does Braddles seek to run and bounce once more, is Kouta flexing that massive hand to grab the ball, is Sticks kicking them in his sleep trying to rally this team knowing he has not the power to rally them anymore.
I miss the joy of being in front and knowing the game has been won – remember those days – remember that distilled happiness, that rising belief in the glory of this club? Remember the walk home from the ground replaying the game over and over in our collective heads? Now in sleep the game, in nightmare mode, replays itself over and over and over – there is no escape!
Gone…all gone…like those long-ago picks…just a rustle now, a distant rustle…like the sound of paper bags blowing sadly in the paths beside the once great ground…
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This type of slight is alien in the more cultured part of the world - Walsh. Its up there with mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun!
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