Two years ago, at a long lunch at Docklands Stadium, nearly a thousand supporters and former players celebrated the 40th anniversary of Carlton’s 1979 premiership. What an era it was for the Blues. They always stood up when it mattered. They had Alex Jesaulenko, who was born in a displaced person’s camp in Salzburg. They had Wayne Johnston, the consummate big-occasion player, who was at a nightclub on the night before the grand final. They had Bruce Doull, who looked like a beekeeper, spoke only in emergencies and whose game, a former teammate once wrote, “had a moral purity about it”. They won three premierships in four years. They drank industrial quantities of booze. They all had that Carlton swagger. On and off the field, they were the most ruthless and dominant football club in Australia. A Rhodes scholar would lead them out. The prime minister would welcome them back in.
That afternoon, when interim coach David Teague was introduced on stage, the room was uproarious. The hard-bitten, well-oiled old-timers were unanimous: this fresh faced, mild-mannered young man was the answer. Carlton, who had put their supporters through seven shades of shit for two decades, had seen the future, found their man, and were ready to launch. “The Teague Train” had been gathering momentum for weeks. The team was winning. The forward line was functioning. The fanbase was bubbling. The hashtag was trending. People power was speaking.
That was unheard of at Carlton. For better and often worse, men like Dick Pratt and John Elliott had called the shots and written the cheques. Seconds after Mick Malthouse was appointed coach in 2012, he was handed a phone. From Mermaid Beach on the Gold Coast, pokies king Bruce Mathieson wished him all the best. Two years later, he wouldn’t return the coach’s calls. At Carlton, that’s when you know you’re cooked.
In the rooms on Saturday, Teague sat alone on a plastic chair, perusing the stats. His team had just been dismantled by Port Adelaide. A review into his coaching, undertaken by a Perth boundary rider, a leadership consultant and the man who oversaw Collingwood’s recent turmoil, had just been tabled. There were no standing ovations. No one was handing him a phone. No one from the club was speaking up for him. He was on his own, and surely on the way out. It was impossible not to feel for him – yet another Carlton man pumped up, chewed up, and spat out.
On paper, his record has not been completely terrible. He has had some rotten luck. Charlie Curnow, who looked like he could be anything, wrecked his knee in Teague’s second game. He missed nearly two seasons. Matthew Kreuzer, a No 1 draft pick and an absolute lionheart, could not get on the park. But defensively they have been a mess. They backed the wrong horses in the trade period. The nadir came against North Melbourne last month. For half an hour, the bottom-placed Roos waltzed through the middle of Marvel Stadium. There was a distinct lack of urgency on the field, and in the Carlton coaching box. Afterwards, Teague logged onto Zoom and shrugged his shoulders. The supporters bombarded radio hotlines in a highly agitated state.
For Carlton fans, that sort of despair is now almost constitutional. Optimism blooms the cheek of every footy supporter. But hope, as that Shawshank lifer reminded us, can be a dangerous thing. Carlton fans are now sick of rebuilds, sick of green shoots, sick of honourable losses, sick of messiah figures. They genuinely believed Denis Pagan would ship the place into shape, that Chris Judd would deliver premierships, that Malthouse would take them to the next level, that Steve Silvagni would successfully rebuild the list. But right now, as another season peters out, and another decent man faces the chop, there’s just sadness. They have seen it all too many times. Even the prospect of luring a monumental hard-arse like Ross Lyon or Alastair Clarkson comes with a certain ambivalence.
- Download the Guardian app from the iOS App Store on iPhones or the Google Play store on Android phones by searching for 'The Guardian'.
- If you already have the Guardian app, make sure you’re on the most recent version.
- In the Guardian app, tap the yellow button at the bottom right, then go to Settings (the gear icon), then Notifications.
- Turn on sport notifications.
Club legend John Nicholls reckons they need a “tough bastard” in charge. Mark Maclure, who’ has been prattling on about “20 years of rubbish”, seems to concur. But all that means nothing to the young kids who are completely oblivious to the glorious past, who could not care less about how many blokes Big Nick belted or how many pots The Dominator downed.
First and foremost, they need a coach who can teach them how to defend as a team. More broadly, they need a club that doesn’t get ahead of itself when it is flying, that stops deferring to the past, that doesn’t hire a coach on the strength of a hashtag, that does its due diligence, that puts the right support structures in place. Most importantly, they need a board that holds its nerve and backs its man in when the going gets tough.
They have not managed that in the 21st century. But they are so close, the Blues. They are such a puzzle. One day, they will get this right. God help the competition when they do.
