For a number of reasons, the Fremantle Football club has always held a soft spot in my inner Sherrin. Firstly, those old green/purple/red guernseys that they started off in back in 1995. With Port’s teal abomination, a great product of the time. Also, the fact they’ve gifted the Maggies a couple of quality players over the years (Clement, Holland). And how could you ever hold any permanent dislike toward little Peter “Ding-dong” Bell? But the warm fuzzy feeling I get from hearing the funeral dirge-esque Freo song is mostly thanks to a time almost 10 years ago to this day.
Let’s wind the clock back to Easter 1998. 17 or so reasonably odourless students from a university drama collective leave the Newcastle area headed for Perth, in what, upon reflection, turns out to be an undersized minivan. Arrive 50 hours later on the West coast, tired, cramped, a little less odourless, and somewhat ready to perform a few hastily composed skits and other things drama students do. And in the gaps, check out the small country town known as Perth. A young lass from said drama team suggests we attend the local footy game… which just happens to be one of the early Western Derbies between West Coast and the Dockers. And when a female, particularly one as attractive as this one, pipes up with a desire to check out the footy, well… who am I to argue? They’re as rare as a Prestigiacomo goal.
So off to Subiaco we went, West Coast won, we struck up a friendship on the trip back across the Nullabor and, sharing the walkman earphones, listened to a young Eagle named Gehrig carve up the Swannies as the desert grew colder and the kangaroos skittled across the highway.
… and this very same sports-mad girl became Mrs Pica about 5 years later.
Over the last few seasons or so, however, the Purple Haze have managed to elevate themselves up the Floreat Pica irritation index. Not to Brisbane or anywhere near Carlton level, mind you. But it’s surprising how a few additions to a squad can completely warp the way you view a group of otherwise reasonably neato guys.
Fast forward back to today. A warmish Easter Saturday, the slow contemplative procession up the hill to the MCG, each of us carrying burdens of mind. “Only needed 30 seconds more.”, “Swap Fraser for Richards and we’d have got home”, “A ‘Four and Twenty’ costs *how* much now?!?”
On the way in, the traditional Footy Record purchase with the now traditional annual price rise. Eventually find our seats on the 3rd tier of the Ponsford with the assistance of a Nepalese sherpa and oxygen tanks, and with the pregame crapola and at least 15 showings of the new AFL advert out of the way, Pontius Pilate Ray Chamberlain brings Fraser and Pavlich to the centre square, and asks the crowd who should live and who shall die captains, “Heads or Tails”?
“Barrabas” – says Fraser, possibly getting caught up in the spirit of the chocolate holiday, and we lose the toss. But we’re finally off… and the 45,000 strong crowd exhale 5 month old air. Thank goodness we’re not in the Dome.
The Pies pot two early goals, but we all keep a lid on it….apart from the new converts, untainted by Magpie collapses of yore, who are already devising ways of scoring a grand final ticket. Then, an early highlight. Chris Tarrant, possibly still thinking about his bag of silver coins, gets fairly levelled by his old goalsquare buddy, and the Ponsford Stand roars in approval, then fall silent, thanking Hine for the blessings of Reid and Medhurst that we have received.
And with 14.12 left in the 1st quarter, the moment the Collingwood faithful have waited 9 seasons for. Cameron Wood goes to the centre square, and a hushed sense of anticipation sweeps over the ‘G.
“Colin” Wood promptly taps the ball straight down Shane O’Bree’s throat, and the Pies are away again. So away that as a result, Medhurst slots a goal not more than 8 seconds later.
Grown men weep, and tell their children of the legend of Thompson, Moore and even Monkhorst …. the perfectly timed jump, the outstretched hand – not dissimilar to Dave Grohl in the “Everlong” videoclip – the clean tap of the ball to Collingwood’s advantage. O’Bree even briefly stops for a second, as if stunned by the clean accurate delivery, or distracted by the audible gasp from the unbelieving masses. Pies are up 18-6.
Freo bounce back, as oft happens in the modern see-sawing game, but the first-gamer Nathan *J.* Brown denies Pavlich once, twice and on the third time the whistle blows (as predicted) and we gnash our teeth and tear our black and white garments in frustration. Josh gets outmarked by Ding Dong Bell, one of the smallest men in football, and the critics in the stand pounce, as only they can. The Pies hold a 3 point advantage at the 1/4 break, but should be up by more.
The Purple Man Group go on a handy run, capped off by Rove’s funnier cousin, Shaun, who dobs an opportunistic goal on the siren. 48-44 to the Pies. Halftime. In the stands, we question Daisy Thomas and his worth over 4 quarters, and try to ignore another 15 repeats of that now-slightly-less funny AFL advert. Down in the changeroom, Malthouse reads to the boys from the book of Modern Perimeter Footy, Chapter 5, verses 22 through 30. On the field, a squillion kids run around like headless chooks, and we try to pick the future messiah.
Third quarter comes and goes, and somehow the Pies extend their lead to one straight kick. Highlights include Medders practising his Melbourne Comedy Festival slapstick act, slipping over in clear space, and drilling a shouldabeen goal off the post after breaking two tackles. And Leon, well, just doing his now-standard Daicos impersonation, kicking the unkickable goal.
Then, early in the fourth, as the Pies begin to pull away, Dale Thomas, pound for pound the best tackler in the league, wraps up Gilmore in front of the sticks, and ultimately the game as well.
And as we leave the ‘G, stroll up past Federation Square and jump on the 112 tram to the Afghan Gallery restaurant in Fitzroy, one thought stays with us.
We’re never doubting Thomas again.