Childhood dreams of a famous Collingwood victory
I've been Collingwood since the cot. My dad barracked for Collingwood. He was taken to Victoria Park at the age of 10 and watched "Nuts" Coventry run rings around Richmond. Dad spoke about his Collingwood heroes with reverence. They were "decent men, a credit to their families and the club".
One night over crumbed cutlets and soft peas, he told us about a new business associate, the great Collingwood wingman Thorold Merrett. Dad said Thorold was a complete gentleman. A well-groomed, courteous man who could stab kick the ball like a rocket. Dad set up a target in the backyard and I combed my hair and practiced stab kicks, keen to master this mysterious art and even keener to please my dad.
I read everything I could find on Collingwood, but nothing matched the power of going to the games. I went to matches at most of the grounds. Drenched at Windy Hill, squashed at Moorabin and frozen at Kardinia Park. At Glenferrie Road I made the mistake of admitting I barracked for Collingwood to a Hawthorn fan with a Scotch College blazer and a powerful right hook.
But none of the grounds could match the atmosphere of Victoria Park. There were many trips but the first visit is indelible. Dad parked near Dights Falls and we walked around the ground. Past the railway station and the Social Club with the massive magpie on the wall and fleeting glimpses of ancient portraits, honour boards and wooden doors into hidden boardrooms. Through rusty turnstiles and up crowded concrete paths, past huge men buying beer and raucous kids kicking footies in the dirt. Pies, pretty girls squealing, crumbling toilets overflowing.
Up some stairs and onto the terraced hill behind the goals and whoosh! There's a primitive roar, a vast sea of heads and the Collingwood reserves kick another goal and it's sunny and dad finds a couple of cans for me to stand on. Cigarette smoke rises in clouds and finally our team runs out and dad and I cheer and he lifts me high and we roar as our black and white heroes do a lap of the emerald green grass before handing out a wonderful thrashing. Go Pies!
My bedtime stories were divided between New Guinea and Victoria Park. Dad had seen service in the Second World War and had a repertoire of jungle combat stories. Treatment for malaria, prisoner-of-war tortures and my favourite ... eye contact with a smiling Japanese sniper who wasn't fast enough for dad. But I had to work hard to get him to tell this one and the awkward silence that followed was usually filled with Collingwood tall tales and true ... a half-time address from coach Phonse Kyne, Murray Weideman kicking a winning goal after the siren with a broken ankle, or Lou Richards putting mercurochrome on his boots when he was feeling kind to the opposition.
Fuelled by these tales of valour and heroism, I drifted off to sleep, often in the midst of my own heroic football fantasies from deep within the '60s ...
... I'm selected to play for Collingwood in the grand final against Richmond. Peter McKenna has done a hammie and club talent scouts remember me from a junior game when I slammed on six goals in the final quarter. On grand final morning there's a photo of me polishing my boots on the front page of The Sun under the headline, "Magpie Magic: Teenage Tearaway Takes On Tigers".
I'm in the changing rooms early, stretching and signing autographs for the bald boot studder's grandchildren. Coach Bob Rose insists I lead the team onto the MCG and I crash through the banner wearing McKenna's number 6 jumper. Freddie Swift welcomes me with backhanders and cracks about my mother's personal hygiene, but by half-time I've kicked five goals, shut Royce Hart out of the game and given Len Thompson a hand in the ruck.
But Richmond come back strongly after the break. Billy Barrot and Dick Clay are unstoppable and at three-quarter time the scores are level. We eat orange quarters handed out by short angry men who pace nervously around our huddle. Bob Rose speaks calmly, and then Des Tuddenham takes over. Tuddy is bleeding from every orifice but there's fire in his eyes and magic in his tongue. The siren sounds and for the next 31 minutes the lead seesaws madly.
Collingwood are fabulous. Graeme "Jerker" Jenkin runs the length of the ground, before goaling from the half forward flank. Colin Tully sharks the ball from a centre bounce and goals with a towering drop kick. But Richmond is determined and somehow, at the 28 minute mark, they are only five points down. Suddenly Roger Dean is paid a free kick in the Richmond goal square. Oh no! He's been niggling Tuddy all day and finally Des has had enough and flattens him with a shirt front. Dean kicks truly and with time running out, it's Richmond by a point!
Umpire Crouch bounces the ball and the Collingwood fans are stunned as it races back towards the Richmond goals! But our defence steadies. Laurie Hill bursts through a pack and sends a wobbly punt towards John Greening who side steps Kevin Bartlett, blind turns and shoots a long hand pass to Barry Price. Price looks towards goals and sees my lightening lead. His stab kick is a bullet and I take it on the chest, high in the air. The siren blows and 120,000 people explode, then fall silent.
I'm 50 yards from goal, on the boundary, alongside the Collingwood bench. Rose is flanked by various club legends ... Tommy Sherrin, Thorold Merrett, Jock McHale ... all tight-lipped, ashen-faced and frozen with expectation. Peter McKenna hobbles up to join them! Shaggy mop of hair, big eyes, crooked smile. He gives me a nod and motions for me to use a drop punt.
I walk back slowly, pull up my socks and unleash a beautiful drop punt which sails between the big sticks and into the grandstand! We've won the grand final! I'm carried triumphantly around the ground, a hero, a legend, a kid from North Balwyn proud to be wearing the mighty black and white.
Brian Nankervis is a Melbourne writer and presenter on RockWiz.