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Calling any Tom, Dick or Harry!
Okay review – while we were busy watching our famous jumper Hawthorn pulled our pants down! The great jumper does not look so glorious when the knobbly knees and buttocks are on display for all to see - or as Tweety bird said ‘I tought I taw a puddy tat!’
Before the game my son refused to come and see his beloved Blues. When I told him I thought we were a show he laughed and said, ‘dad, Hawthorn will smash us!’ It’s hard when the son sees what the father cannot. In many respects it highlights our different childhoods. By his age I had seen Carlton win 3 flags! He has seen 3 wooden spoons.
So I fled his wise words, thinking he’ll soon be crying wolf – no, no he knew better than me, our Bluebaggers were just sheep in a footballer’s jumper. We baa’ed louder than a Tarzan cry across the jungle. And what a jungle Telstra Dome became. More blood spilt than in any colosseum. Humbled explains to half time – what came next was even worse.
So we were humbled and bumbled, our jumper stomped on, our hopes burning brighter than any Nero audition. Rome may not have been built in a day but it only took a single night to shoot our dreams down! In fact by half time the fiddler was playing and the fat lady was singing so loud I hid at the bar and drowned my sorrows in talk of yesteryear!
Given the state of our centre square work (or its absence) the talk turned to the great years. We chatted about Mitchell v Diesel and decided Mitch would never match the great man’s work in close. Diesel was a marvel, the slow plodder who became super fast because of a great football brain (think Lance as twins, both brains in the same head though) and two hands slicker than a Persian oil field.
As soon as his mind clicked the gears you’d see Greg move to where the ball wasn’t and then the ball would follow. I think he had a secret leather magnet - or maybe the ball was just too scared not to follow those piercing eyes of the Diesel. It would not have been alone. To this day I have a soft spot for Denham only because he was brave enough (read mad enough) to whack Diesel in the first quarter and then the two of them sought of fought this rolling battle around the ground for 4 quarters – his efforts as much as Long’s won them the flag. Wallis I hate as a cowardly sniper – but Denham, well only Rys was mad enough to whack Diesel until Denham mad’s courage.
Courage, and there was something we lacked against the Hawks. O not the courage of putting your body on the line, but the courage to chase hard as you can, as many times as you must, the courage to tackle again and again, to work as hard ninety points down as three goals up. Did we give up? It’s a question each and every player must answer. Did we give up? Not in the obvious, take off the great jumper and wave it in defeat, but in subtle, small ways, the death by a thousand lashes sort of giving up. A weak attempt to smother, a lacklustre chase, and so on. Were some culpable of this?
Diesel never gave up. No matter what, he just clicked along like a glorious footballing clock, gathering possessions the way a mantelpiece gathers dust. 40 touches a match was nothing for Greg – obviously nothing; a 40+ possession game once cost him the ’93 brownlow (and immortality as another triple brownlow medallist) – he needed to get fifty obviously before the umpires noticed his efforts against Melbourne that afternoon. (thanks to the blueseum for the information. If ever you want to check up some facts/stats or just relive some great games or players for Carlton, check out the blueseum, its all there -http://www.blueseum.org)
So we had Greg, but - and this is where our conversation turned given the slaughter poor old Santy and the other bloke (yep, I am still angry!) copped as our ruckmen that night – we also had the laughing giraffe, Harry Madden. Oh God I wish Harry was still with us.
I admit when he first came to the club I laughed, hell we all did, we all roared as this gangly two legged giraffe stumbled around Princes Park, always, it seemed, five minutes after the ball had passed.
In those early years Harry seemed to drop every mark, every kick slew off the side of his rowboat size boots and his run, well that never changed, even when he ran the ground against Adelaide in the final, bouncing the ball in seeming slow motion, he was always funny to watch running, the way a giraffe, though it can run, looks odd. Harry was like that.
We laughed but he just needed time. A bit like that Brontosaurus (and yes I know they are not called that now but to me a Brontosaurus by any other name is still a bloody big dinosaur) theory, Harry simply needed to grow an extra brain (a football brain as it were) so the messages could reach his feet and hands before the ball moved on.
He grew that brain did Harry and we, lucky enough to watch its growth, learned to love the galloping stick insect as he ambled down the field wearing his Navy blue jumper with pride. Harry learned to mark, was a good kick for goal, could run and bounce and not fall over and won just about every tap out that he went for - think Sandilands, but playing for Carlton, so obviously better.
I loved watching him at the boundary throw-ins. His long body stooped, his head resting on the shoulder of his opponent, stifling a chance to jump, and then his long whispy branch arm would reach out and tap the ball down Diesel or Rat’s throat and away we’d go, a handball to Braddles, a quick kick to a pack demolished by The Duke and then a Sticks mark in the square. As Doctor Smith from Lost in Space would say. ‘Oh the pain, the pain’… those memories are the ghost to my Hamlet.
So I hope that Aisake or Hampson or young Jacobs can be developed real quick. I want another giant ruckman to watch, a bloke who wins more than his fair share of hit outs, a bloke who can feed Marc, Carrots or Tex (get well soon brave heart, its been a stellar season from you!) or even young Gibbs when he is ready. A bloke that will allow Stevo when he returns to run forward the way the Hawks were able because he knows we’ll win the hit out, that knowledge, that confidence makes all teams seem faster.
We need a new Harry. We need him now. I await with baited breath for the next giant to run out onto the ground in our beloved jumper.
Go Blues!
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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!
Last edited by dannyboy on Mon Jun 25, 2007 3:17 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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