nostalgia

My television is awash with former footballers, all week, blokes who played in VFL and AFL grand finals, blokes who won and lost. It takes me back, of course it does, to Moyhu footy ground, some September Saturday in 1980. It takes me back too to the Saturday before at Tarrawingee, half-time and we’re more than six goals down against the bullies of Beechworth, our season good as done.

We get up and win that preliminary final, otherwise the following Saturday would be meaningless to me. Six goals and copping a fearful hiding. The previous week in the second semi we lose by a point. It’s as if the disappointment paralyses us and seven days later we don’t turn up to play.

I remember only one thing of that horrible first half at Tarrawingee. From a forward pocket where the football never comes I watch our full-back Pat McKenzie repel attack after attack, seemingly single-handed. Beechworth’s lead would be 12 goals, not six, without Pat McKenzie. But the rest of us seem powerless to follow his example.

I’ve no recollection of a stirring half-time speech, but after the break we start to play better. Then Gunna breaks out of the centre square and puts a long bomb through, post-high over my arching neck. Somewhere in the back of 17 minds comes a realisation that we might make something of this.

Through that third quarter I’m still camped in the forward pocket, but can’t get near the ball. I must kick a goal in that third quarter but I don’t remember it. At three quarter-time we’re a vague chance. I go into the shed to get something, don’t know what, never did that before. As I shuffle back to the huddle an old Greta fan tells me he once wore the number 12, my number.

I remember the last quarter. You don’t forget booting four goals in a quarter. I remember each one, vividly. As the ball eluded me for three quarters, now it chased me everywhere, taking fickle bounces to my advantage. I kick a left-foot snap from distance, a right-foot snap from the square, leap clean over a pack at half-forward for the only specky I ever take, and that goal gives us the lead.

I judge the flight better than two big blokes in front of me, the ball lobs in my arms. I punt it through the hi-diddle-diddle: Beechworth are on their knees. I go into the centre bounce, roost a long left-foot shot for a fifth goal. Kel marks it in the goal square, blasts it three paddocks away. The game is ours.

Thirty years later at a reunion Pat McKenzie tells me I won that game. No, Pat, you and Gunna won that game and 16 blokes you inspired to come along with you.

Whorouly never stand a chance next week in the grand final at Moyhu, no chance at all.

Rock on.