“This job changes you,” Chris Scott tells author Anson Cameron in his book, Neil Balme: A Tale of Two Men. “It has the real potential to negatively affect your life. Neil used to say to me, ‘Don’t let this turn you into a maniac.’ I mean, I respect Bomber as a coach. But what did it do to him?”
The book is full of fantastic little nuggets like that. Nathan Buckley’s thoughts on Mick Malthouse warrants its own column. So does Cameron’s sketch of Eddie McGuire: “A man who can scan a room and rank everyone it in from greatest to least before he blinks, a mix of blokeish bonhomie and clear analytical smarts, a man to be reckoned with.”
Even as a schoolboy, Scott was a pitiless footballer. He terrorised his opponents for years. But the game itself tortured him. The more his body let him down, and the more his team began to struggle, the more obsessive he became about how he trained and what he ate. His only thought when the final siren blew was, “Thank God that’s over.” He was adamant that football would play no further role in his career or life.
Naturally, within a couple of months, he was an assistant coach at Fremantle. He resolved to make footy as stress-free as possible for his players, but it was still all-consuming for him. He’d stew for days after losses, barely sleeping. After the 2022 grand final, he sat alone in a meeting room, his head in his hands, and let out an almighty bellow. “It felt like breathing out for the first time in 10 years,” he said.
It’s rare for Scott to let us in like that. “He talks a lot, but he doesn’t say anything,” Adam Simpson said last week. Ross Lyon will shuffle into a press conference and totally unbidden will give you a dossier on how the opposition just played. Good luck getting anything similar out of Scott. He’s a thoughtful voice on many of the broader issues surrounding the game. But when it comes to his own team, the drawbridge goes up. He gently flicks the reporters down to fine leg. He never talks about the fans the way Craig McRae does.
He doesn’t speak the language of Harvard leadership courses. He speaks the language of Leigh Matthews. He has a way of structuring his answers to make the questioner and the viewer come away thinking they have no idea whatsoever. “I could understand why you would think that but …” Or, “I could be wrong, but …” Or “I’m not going to explain that to you right now.” In many ways, it’s a reasonable approach to the necessary evil of the post-match press conference.
He’s also reluctant to talk about himself. He gave the annual MCC oration about eight years ago and agreed to the Howie Games podcast during the depths of Covid. And that’s about it. Mark Howard broached the subject of Scott’s father, Colin, who flew helicopters in the Vietnam war, being awarded a distinguished flying cross for rescuing American soldiers behind enemy lines. When Chris and Brad Scott were eight, Colin had an asthma attack walking to a local store and died. He was 41. His mum was an English teacher who took over the family news agency and with the help of Legacy put her five children through private school.
Both twins speak in awe of their mum. And both, just like McRae, just like Michael Voss and just like everyone who was coached by him, always defer to the coaching philosophies of Matthews. Scott shares his even temperament, his bluntness, his total absence of jargon, and his ability to distil complex information. And though he wasn’t as destructive as Matthews on the field, those who meet either of them for the first time are always surprised to reconcile the affable, analytical man with the athlete from their playing days.
Half a decade ago, he was criticised for squandering his potential and being too wedded to his gameplan. Look at the savage response after the 2019 and 2021 preliminary finals. A lot of that came from Geelong supporters, because he’d never let them in, and because frankly they’d had it too good for too long, there was resentment. That changed when he won the premiership in 2022, and especially heading into the 2024 preliminary final. Suddenly he was spoken about as the best coach in the land – relaxed, whip smart, the man who was doing the most with the least.
Balme warned him against turning into a maniac. And judging by his Krakatoa acts early in his career, you’d swear he wasn’t temperamentally suited to the role. But every person who’s worked with him or played under him – even the ones he sacked – insist they never saw him lose his cool, raise his voice or berate a player. After the reverse free kick in the qualifying final, as pandemonium raged around him, he just sat there like a chess master – the master of a job he never saw himself doing, a job he’s sometimes hinted at leaving, a job he says isn’t healthy, and a job that few have done better.
This is an extract from Guardian Australia’s free weekly AFL email, From the Pocket. To get the full version, just visit this page and follow the instructions
