Patrick Dangerfield hit last week’s preliminary final like a typhoon. Early in the game, as distress signals flared up all over the field, he’d shown enough to suggest that he was sharp and engaged – a slips catch that ended in a Shannon Neale goal and a smother on Jack Ginnivan, just when Hawthorn had all the momentum.
But with a couple of minutes to go in the first half, he adopted an interventional approach. When play resumed, he was thrown into the middle and Hawthorn copped the full brunt. Any shred of malice or anger he possesses was directed at a bobbling ball. He’d see the footy, stick his bum out, put his head down and steamroll anyone in his path. I’ve never seen a footballer better at scrambling on his hands and knees, and at generating power and momentum from that position. I’ve never seen anyone better at rummaging and absconding with a ball, at bringing a dead footy to life when it seemed certain to be heading for a ball up.
Was it the best game of his career? Damien Hardwick said it was the best individual game he had seen since Dustin Martin removed every one of Geelong’s vital organs in the 2020 grand final. Dangerfield has certainly had some memorable ones. His first game in Geelong colours, against a Hawthorn team that had won the past three premierships, is hard to surpass. So too was his first half of the 2017 semi-final against Sydney. And there was another game that year, in Luke Hodge’s 300th, that was the most Dangerfield performance imaginable. At one point, it looked like he’d torn his ACL. Then he miraculously reappeared, hobbled down to full forward, suddenly morphed into Gary Ablett Sr and only blotted what would have been one of the better hours of football ever played by kicking like a busted arse.
“He was born to play at this time of year,” Cats coach Chris Scott said last Friday. But it wasn’t always that way. He’s had poor finals games too, finals where he seemed to want it too much, finals where he was the backdrop to someone else’s story. He has had his flaws. Those mad Dangerfield bursts would often end in a stray, overcooked kick. On several occasions, this played out against Richmond. Both he and Martin were at their peak at the same time. Both would have slashing home and away seasons. Both were invariably measured against one another. But it was always Martin who met the September moment. Danger was often mooching about the forward line, a peripheral, subdued figure.
I’m quibbling here. I’m talking about the difference between Hall of Fame and Legend status. Like Novak Djokovic, there was always the sense that he wanted that status and that universal love a bit too much. He’s the last footballer you’d expect to glass you in a bar, urinate on your partner or set fire to the hired entertainment. But he still seemed to rub some up the same way.
Maybe there was an element of Dangerfield fatigue. He’s given more interviews than perhaps any player in the history of the game. And by the end of the 2021 season, he was probably old news. Other champions had overtaken him – Christian Petracca, Patrick Cripps and Marcus Botempelli. Dusty was still chugging along. Even in 2022, the year was framed around Joel Selwood. Dangerfield missed a chunk of that year through injury, before catching fire at the beginning of the preliminary final.
The doubt was whether he could keep playing in such a crash and bang way. Mark Bickley, Adelaide’s midfield coach during Dangerfield’s rookie year, took one look at him and thought, “you’ll be a champion but you’ll never make it past 30.” Look at the list of those who played more than 350 games and there’s not many battering rams in there. Most of them were wiry types.
Dangerfield could easily have seen out his final years mainly as a forward, as a bit of a pinch hitter, a player reliant on craft and guile. But he’s become more of a power athlete, and more of a manic player, if that was possible. If you compare him to the tapes of his Brownlow year, he’s bigger through the chest and glutes. He generates as much torque as he ever has. It’s just that he’s utilised a bit more judiciously.
Players like that have to be saved from themselves, and he’s been managed exceptionally well. Winning makes it easier. It’s why he was sitting on the sidelines in the North Melbourne rout earlier this year munching on a kebab. That game was as close to circle work as professional football gets these days. In the past he would have attacked that game like a maniac and chased a certain three Brownlow votes.
Instead, he saved it for last Friday night. It won him a Ford Mustang as part of a Fox Footy promotion – a car worth marginally less than the annual rookie contract and with only a fraction more horsepower than its new owner. In the rooms afterwards, his work was done, the cape came off, the typhoon dissipated, and he was back to the Dangerfield we know – a bit of a strut and a bit of a dork. A repeat of that performance in the grand final would elevate him to the legend status that he’s long been on the cusp of, and that he’s long coveted.
