Six thousand, two hundred and four days. As of Monday morning it had been 6,204 days since Essendon last won a final. For 6,204 days they have been a footballing empire on the skids, a cautionary tale, a fount of schadenfreude. They were sickeningly successful for so long, and they botched it.
Sunday was their chance to end all that. Their shot at redemption came off-Broadway, and off the mainland. In normal times, the MCG would have been heaving. But these days, you make do, and you go where you’re told. For most of us, that means not straying beyond our postcode. For the Bombers and Bulldogs, it meant a trip to Tasmania, to a ground where Australian football has been played for 100 years, a ground that 24 hours earlier had hosted a brutal, buttock-clenching Sydney derby.
In the opening half – unlike nearly all their recent finals – the Bombers at least had a proper crack. Under temperamental skies, in an old-school sodden slog, they out-tackled the Dogs and mauled them in the ruck. But they were sloppy by foot. They blazed away. They had 10 players playing their first final and the longer it dragged on, and the heavier it rained, the more those 10 were exposed. They were certainly stiff at times. All four of Cody Weightman’s goals came from line-ball free kicks, and at least one of them was criminal.
Of the eight finalists, the Western Bulldogs and Luke Beveridge probably had the most to lose. A loss would have been their third elimination defeat in a row. Since their 2016 premiership they have been a decidedly weird, occasionally astonishing, frequently infuriating side. This year, they won nine of their first 10 games. They were still on top of the ladder just over a month ago. They had a midfield laden with talent. They played manic, highly watchable football. They knocked off Melbourne. But no team can play like that for 24 weeks. And in the space of a month, the air went out of their tyres. Their luck ran out. Statistically, they went from the premier midfield in the competition to pretty much the worst. Even Marcus Bontempelli, who normally plays with a leisurely economy, suddenly looked rushed and frustrated.
They also had all sorts of problems with their ruck stocks. Stefan Martin’s body had not held up. Tim English, who looks like he should be solving mysteries in an Enid Blyton book, had been sent forward. Lewis Young, who has played 22 games in five seasons, was shouldering the bulk of ruck duties. He was comprehensively outplayed yesterday by Sam Draper, whose haircut would be grounds for arrest in many jurisdictions. It is the rudest of ‘dos, but he is a hell of a player.
The great Essendon sides of the 1980s always had a touch of menace about them. They were habitual line-crossers. They were tradies and farmers. They were Sheedy men. A lot of the current crop present like an intake of articled clerks. They were outhunted and out-mongreled by a Bulldogs midfield that rediscovered its mojo. The Dogs’ ballistic brand was never going to cut it in Sunday’s conditions. Instead, they played for territory. They were smarter with the ball than Essendon. They were harder at the contest. They had the best of the umpiring. Bontempelli, Tom Liberatore and Aaron Naughton found some form.
For all the Dogs’ good work, the story was Essendon. Their last finals win was against Melbourne in 2004. That game finished with James Hird, who was unimpeachable back then, edging out the late Troy Broadbridge with a one-handed mark on the siren. That week, Mark Latham was ahead in the polls to become our next prime minister. Latham’s subsequent decade and a half mirrored Essendon’s. Like Latham, most of Essendon’s woes were self-inflicted, and utterly uninventable. Unlike him, they clawed back their credibility.
When I was growing up, it was Essendon’s competition. Every second kid I went to school with seemed to barrack for them. I look back at old primary school photos, back when kids used to wear footy jumpers on photo day, and they are peppered with red and black. But the club did not quite cash in on what should have been a golden era. They stalled, and then self-destructed. Kevin Sheedy was finally pensioned off. Hird retired. Matthew Knights never had a prayer. A biochemist waddled in and Molotov-cocktailed the entire place. The AFL screwed them. Wada screwed them. They screwed themselves. Jobe Watson lost his Brownlow. Mark Thompson spent the next few years in and out of the Melbourne magistrates court. Many of their more vocal supporters on social media embarrassed themselves. They have been a running joke ever since. People really seem to have it in for Essendon. Twitter is rarely renowned for its reverie, but there appears to be a special dose of venom reserved for Bombers fans.
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Even at their worst, even when most of their best players were banned and they were running with recycles, they were always a good side to watch. Even at their lowest, you could sort of see the future. In an era characterised by congestion and chaos, the Bombers free-wheeled. It was pleasing to the eye, but all too easy to counter. And they really tested the patience last year. One afternoon, they were stuck on a Queensland bus for hours, played accordingly and the supporter base went the full RoCo. “In 50 years of following Essendon, I can’t remember too many times I’ve felt more disillusioned,” footy scribe Rohan Connolly tweeted. “Just entrenched mediocrity.” They finished 13th, which probably flattered them. A swag of key players were itching to leave. Jake Stringer, who came with a 10-page disclosure, had not yet really delivered. The coach, who was not even officially the coach yet, was being panned. They had three high picks in a national draft loaded with risk, given most of the leading chances had spent the winter on the couch.
But against all prevailing opinion, it clicked this year. The coach was as low-key as they come. But there was a synergy and an energy that had been lacking for so long. “They’re the party you want to be at,” Justin Leppitsch said.
Yesterday, that party was gate-crashed. The Dogs booked a date at the Gabba. The haters had a field day. Essendon can take so many positives from 2021. But every day, all through summer, and all through the 2022 season, the number of days without a finals win will keep ticking over – taunting and, in many ways, defining this proudest of clubs.
