After a few days of trade period, a fortnight of Trade Radio, 11 months of trade speculation, and a few thousand variations of the phrase “it’s an interesting one”, I’d reached the point where I genuinely believed that I was about to be traded to Essendon. My internal monologue thrummed with trade-speak – the hedging, padding, euphemistic language that’s used to buy time and fill space. Even when walking the dog or purchasing a hammer, I was exercising my options, in good dialogue and monitoring the situation.
For a few years, trade period was like that old Del Amriti song Nothing Ever Happens. But this year there were captains, club champions, Coleman and Norm Smith medallists up for grabs. Still, very little of interest was confirmed until the final 15 minutes. It was like one of those Olympic track cycling races where everyone was sizing one another up, biding their time, looking over their shoulder and working their angles, before one mad, final flurry.
In this era of player empowerment, most of the disgruntled players were expected to get their way. Charlie Curnow certainly did. He’s never presented as the kind of footballer who takes the pressures of the job home. At this time of year, everyone in football seems to operate in a state of anxiety. The journalists are pulling 16-hour shifts. The managers, if Tom Petroro is any indication, are pacing, texting and fulminating. The fringe players are being shopped around like a pair of old sneakers. The middle ring players are on the other side of the equator, their phones fully charged, their futures uncertain.
But Charlie just breezed into Sydney like he was off to the pub. Curnow, his manager, his former club and his new club all seemed to get what they wanted. His now former fans are entitled to be a bit more sour however. He was an important player to Carlton. When that Blues crowd was really humming, it was usually Charlie who was the conductor. He was a key pillar in their most important draft haul. He was prominent in all their marketing. He was popular with fans, and especially with kids. But he let Carlton down in big games. He feasted on undersized and undermanned backlines. When the rot set in this year, he went goalless for a month. And when things got really hard, he couldn’t hack it, and he wanted out.
Zach Merrett was also desperate to leave. Unlike Curnow, he’d spilled his guts for his club. From the moment Stephen Dank first waddled in, it’s been a tough time to be a Bombers supporter. In the ensuing years, on and off the field, there were a lot of visitors at Essendon – blokes who took the money, didn’t offer much, nicked off or didn’t work out. But Merrett was a player to be proud of. He fronted up week after week, season after season. He was remarkably durable and reliable. It’s what made the last few months so unedifying. He and his management were trafficking in the dark arts of trading – the strategic leaks, the careful cultivation of journalists, the clandestine meetings, the subtle shifts in messaging, the brinkmanship.
New club president Andrew Welsh talked tough. New presidents always do. And words are usually rendered redundant in trade period anyway. Much more can be gleaned from reading the body language of a manager who’s having a nervous breakdown with two minutes to go until the trade deadline. But when the clock was ticking last night, something unexpected happened. Essendon didn’t blink. They’ve been jumping at shadows and making calamitous decisions for the best part of a quarter of a century. This time they held their nerve, their ground and their man.
In doing so, it represented a shift. It showed that gun players can’t always simply jump ship when the team’s no good. It showed that managers aren’t the rock stars they often think they are. It showed that contracts actually mean something. And it showed that if clubs like Hawthorn want a player of Merrett’s calibre, they actually have to stump up some decent players and make a genuine offer.
For Welsh, a property mogul said to be worth nearly half a billion dollars, measuring success in business is easy. But in footy, and especially in trade period, success is a little more murky. Essendon retained their captain, kept their word, and got one over a bitter rival. But to what end? Merrett couldn’t be more desperate to get out of the place. He couldn’t be more contemptuous of the standards and the prospects of success. Essendon and its president are being hailed for standing their ground, for tilting the balance of power back from player to club, and for finally being a serious organisation again. But their list manager was far from triumphant. “It’s not ideal,” he said three times in half a minute. It was a succinct summary of trade period generally, and of a club that had just won the battle, but is losing the war.
