Some reckon 2018 was the year football went to the dogs. The low scores, the congestion and the thinning talent pool were constant talking points.
“The game is not the same,” the old legends bleated.
Everyone had a beef, a take, a solution. Every little problem, apparently, could be fixed. Rule changes were mooted, thought bubbles were blown, “a cross-section of thoughts and philosophies” were garnered.
Granted, there was plenty of dross dished up, particularly on Friday nights. But we were still blessed with some superb football. Both Showdowns, both Hawthorn-Geelong games, the qualifying final in Perth and the final quarter of the Geelong-Melbourne game showcased the sport at its best. Round 20 saw five of the best finishes imaginable in the space of 24 hours.
The following day, during an otherwise ho-hum Derby, all hell broke loose when Andrew Gaff whacked Andrew Brayshaw. The rage ricocheted for about a fortnight. Gaff missed out on a Premiership. Brayshaw forfeited a few teeth. That aside, season 2018 was unusually short on scandal.
There was Jordan De Goey’s drink driving charge and Barry Hall’s Wildean repartee. There was an alarming spike in the number of knuckleheads punching on in the stands. Mark Thompson spent the year in and out of the Melbourne magistrate’s court. There was tragedy - Colin Sylvia, Maggie Varcoe and Shane Yarran all died in the prime of their lives.
Through winter, the Tigers seemed to be purring their way towards back-to-back flags. They became the first club to sign 100,000 members. At one point, they were the shortest priced premiership favourites since Geelong in 2008. Still, by their standards, it was a low-key year. No last-minute cock ups. No deportations. No pyrotechnics. They were poor on the road but just hummed along. Several sides – Geelong, Essendon and Adelaide - threw the kitchen sink at them but came up short.
But the more they won, the more they were picked apart. They had a less than convincing six weeks heading into one of the most eagerly anticipated preliminary finals in living memory. There were fans being scammed, breaking down on talkback radio, pitching tents outside the MCC. But the Tigers turned up flat and fumbly. Dustin Martin was lame. They looked like a side that had played once in the last month.
And it was Mason Cox’s night. He often looks all at sea on the football field. But on this night he was a colossus. He had some of the best defenders in Australia tottering like drunks at his feet. He was swaggering about and mouthing off like Wayne Carey. “USA! USA!” the hordes chanted. It was ridiculous. The Tigers, astonishingly, were out. The Magpies, bucking all the laws of the universe, were suddenly a feel-good story.
The two preliminary finals were done and dusted quickly. And the decider loomed as a facsimile. The Pies were cutting the Eagles to ribbons. The visitors were skittish. They were five goals down in Collingwood’s house. One more goal may have nixed the deal. Two definitely.
In the end, despite their best attempts to botch it, the Eagles were a bit bolder, a bit taller and the most worthy of premiers. They won it without Gaff, Naitanui and Sheppard. They dismantled Richmond in Perth. They beat Collingwood three times. They finally worked the locks at the MCG.
We underrated so many of them. We underrated their ruckmen. We underrated players like Mark Hutchings, Will Schofield and Dom Sheed. An hour or so before the grand final, Sheed was sloping around the half forward flanks, casually slotting goals. He’d had a strange year. To many, he was a typical West Coast Eagle – a bits and bobs player, a bit flaky on the road, a bit of a downhill skier perhaps. Four hours later, in one of the most buttock-clenching moments in the history of the game, with hundreds of screaming lunatics hurling abuse and with tens of thousands more willing him to miss, he executed the perfect football kick.
During that crazy, controversial final quarter, struggling to make sense of what was happening for a match report, I had half an eye on an elderly Collingwood supporter sitting a few rows in front. She’s probably seen about a dozen grand final losses, most of them close, several after coughing up sizeable leads. She clearly wasn’t coping. She couldn’t watch. Her hands were clenched in tiny fists. On the siren, red-eyed Magpie fans scurried for the exits. But she stayed. They played West Coast’s dire soft rock anthem. They played ‘Eagle Rock’ over and over. -“…come on fast, you can come on slow….”
The victors received their medals. Still she sat. Still she stared at the concrete. All around her, young West Coast fans were going nuts. They all seemed to resemble Bachelorette suitors. A few bays over, Channel 7’s Samantha Lane was interviewing an utterly drained Joffa Corfe. He too was going nowhere.
She was still there ten minutes after the Eagles had completed their lap of honour. She was now alone in her row. Jimmy Barnes was warming up his corrugated voice. She finally looked up. She unclenched her hands, buttoned up her coat and shuffled up the stairs towards the exit. Another footy season was over.
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