Melbourne is known for its many quirks. Coffee snobs and trams, laneway bars and festivals, multiculturalism and confused weather. Stereotypes aside, though, it is also a city famous for its love of a football code born and bred in the southern state.
There are magical days in Melbourne’s colder months where a frosty morning is overwhelmed by clear blue skies and the glow of a radiant sun. The best use of these stunning days is to head to an early afternoon start at the MCG. The walk from Richmond Station up a closed-to-cars Brunton Avenue, the bustle past boisterous record sellers and irritating bagpipe players, the smell of overpriced chips, undercooked pies and watered-down beers, and the roar that accompanies the ringing of the opening siren.
These were the distant dreams of 2020 in locked-down Melbourne. There were no footy trains, no cries of “ball” or “high”, no boos or spit flying at umpires. Melbourne was, for 112 days between July and October, as sterile as it was still.
Melbourne’s nicer days were wasted indoors. There were no brunch dates or laneway expeditions. No shows, no gigs and no sport. For one extraordinary season, there were no crowds at the footy in Victoria. After a handful of rounds, there was no footy at all.
Melbourne, ordinarily a vibrant, had the life sucked out of it by a raging pandemic and a seemingly endless lockdown. Our fix of entertainment was a daily press conference. The contest was between hostile reporters and a defiant premier.
We weren’t just bored, and sad, and isolated, we were humbled. We endured not just lockdown but its relentless politicisation. We suffered the mockery of Sydney shock jocks and the criticism of Canberra. And we watched the game we love pack up to play elsewhere. Crowds cheered on in Covid-free Queensland, Perth, Adelaide, even the NT, but our footy was not to return home.
Hubs became the new home turf of 10 Victorian clubs. There was no packed house on Anzac Day or Easter Monday. No closed-roof atmosphere on a wet day in the Docklands. No hostile trips across the Westgate to Kardinia Park. Not even a half-empty house when Fremantle or GWS came to town.
There was just our couches and TVs. Those televised games of footy – some weeks on every night – were as much our salvation as a reminder of our torment. For four shortened quarters, we had a real, live, competitive sporting contest to enjoy. We couldn’t yell from the grandstands, though we could disturb our neighbours. But we were readily reminded that while our club’s fans – and neutrals – in Adelaide or Brisbane could be there, we could not.
We were stuck on a long crawl towards freedom. Slowly but steadily, the numbers came down. When the end finally arrived, it was jubilation. Our cafes reopened, the pubs turned their taps back on. But for footy, it was too late. For the first time in VFL/AFL history, the grand final would be played outside Melbourne.
Grand final weeks bring out Melbourne at its best. Pubs are packed, barbecue invitations abound. Wherever you are on Saturday afternoon, odds are you are glued to the game.
My first grand final week was a blur. Unlike my anxious dad and uncles, I wasn’t old enough to remember Geelong’s four losing deciders in the 1980s and 90s. I was excited, but hardly nervous. Geelong were clearly the best team in 2007 and on Saturday, I was going to the MCG to watch them win a premiership. And win it they did. It was an amazing day.
I’ve been lucky enough to be in the grandstands for eight grand finals. Some with friends, others with family. In four, I watched my own Cats – three wins, one loss. The rest, I went as a neutral. Some were classics, others forgettably one-sided. When the Cats were not there, I only wished they were.
In the meantime, I left a few prelims shattered. Hopes that Geelong were bound for another granny were dashed. Our finals performances were lame imitations of the high-flying home-and-away seasons. We became mocked as chokers. We were labelled flat-track bullies who could not win on the big stage anymore. Chris Scott was called a lucky coach who had fluked a flag with a list he hadn’t built. Our hopes were dashed year after year.
So how cruel the universe seemed that the year we would break those curses, we would spend the season in lockdown. Geelong’s unlikely run to the 2020 grand final brought me both an escape and a newfound feeling of emptiness. A cruel twist of fate that I should be there every time we missed out, but shuttered in at home when we finally made it back.
On those nicest of sunny days, I allowed myself to entertain fantasies. I suspect we all did in lockdown. I yearned to catch a train to Richmond and walk up Brunton Avenue to take our seats in the Great Southern Stand. I dreamed while awake of seeing the Cats in action again, with the extended family clan. We would yell, we would cheer.
We would feel a little tingly as the roar of the crowd celebrated that first Dangerfield clearance, that first Hawkins goal. I’m sure I was not the only one in sad, isolated Melbourne dreaming of a return to life as it once was.
This week, those dreams become realities. The MCG will roar again. The women’s competition is already back and Melbourne’s recovery has been slow but steady. We endured, but we overcame.
Follow the 2021 season opener between Richmond and Carlton on Thursday with Guardian Australia’s liveblog. Play at the MCG starts at 7:25pm AEDT
