The circle of life

​August 21, Round 21, 2004. Colonial Stadium.

The Tragician family were out in force, occupying two rows of seats. Brothers, sisters, cousins, friends. Kids who cried whenever the Dogs lost. The youngest member present was just a toddler.

It's the only match from yet another forgettable season, that I can actually still recall.

It wasn't because this was a cut-throat, blockbuster match. The Bulldogs languished three places from the bottom of the ladder. There were no jangling nerves, no finals spot on the line. We'd struggled to win just four matches; as we limped to the end of the year, coach Peter Rohde had already been sacked.

No, we were there for other reasons. One of our most beloved players was pulling on his red, white and blue jumper for the last time. Matthew Croft, 31 years old, the 820th player to play for the Dogs, was finishing a career which spanned back to a debut, aged 18, at the Western Oval, for a club still called Footscray.

For Matthew Croft, there were no Charles Sutton medals, no premiership medallion. I can't recall any best-on-ground accolades or performances where he single-handedly won us the game. Yet Crofty (there could be no other nickname) was especially adored by our family, though it was hard in some ways to explain exactly why.

Perhaps it was the injury challenges he'd fought so hard to overcome; when he reached his 50th match milestone, he ruefully noted that he'd also played 50 games in the reserves and missed a further 50 through injury. Mainly these were hamstrings strains, which was why he was also known for his 'mattress thighs', flesh-coloured padding worn to protect those troublesome tendons. 

Maybe it was that in an era of superstar full forwards, there was something honest, brave and straightforward in his every performance, the challenge he took on as a key defender in an era of one-on-one contests rather than total team defence. There was a wry smile on his face - or so I imagined - as he strode out, in his slightly ungainly way, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder against hulking figures like Wayne Carey, David Neitz, Gary Ablett Senior or Matthew Lloyd.

But mostly I think it was because inside Matthew Croft, we detected a flamboyant spirit just barely suppressed. You could never be sure when, somehow mixed in with his disciplined punches from behind, or the manful jostling for front spot against the titans, Crofty might decide to take off on a daring run. Our hearts were in our throats when Crofty got that glint in his eye and embarked in a dash from defence, or even, Krakoueur-brother-like, attempted a baulk. When they came off, we applauded the audacity with laughter (and a degree of relief). "Football genius!" my brother Brendan once proclaimed. If instead he was brought down in a slow-motion train-wreck tackle - and I won't say which outcome was the most frequent - we loved him all the same.

We scoffed when the commentators fawned over the so-called 'King' Wayne Carey. (Somehow you knew he was a scumbag even then). WE had Crofty, in his unglamorous support garments- the People's Champion!

Crofty kicked five goals in his last match, three of them in the third quarter. All of them were jubilantly celebrated by our clan. He must have thought how easy this forward caper was, if only he'd been given more of a chance up front, instead of wrestling with the gorillas. He even got a Brownlow vote! Confirming my theory that he was a secret lair at heart, his last shot at goal, with a win well in hand, was a banana from only five metres out.

August 17, Round 23, 2025. Moonee Ponds.

The Tragician family are out in force, occupying two rows of seats. Brothers, sisters, cousins, friends. Kids who used to cry when the Dogs lost are adults, with partners. We've all seen a premiership - yes, a premiership! The youngest member present is now a trainee nurse and just back from a trip to Europe. She sits on the couch next to my mother, who is now 88 years old.

We're not at Docklands stadium though. We're at Brendan's family's home. It would have been, should have been, his 63rd birthday. We've raised a glass, eaten party pies and sausage rolls. We silently remember and grieve, always, for him.

How he would have loved the romance of this match! For Matthew Croft's son, Jordan, is debuting, wearing the same number 16 jumper, almost exactly 21 years since his dad's final game at the same venue.

The elder Croft had presented Jordan with his jumper. His words were beautiful, alive with the sense of our club's lineage, of the glowing shadows of those who've worn it previously. After citing the names Darcy, Griffen, and premiership player Toby McLean, Matthew, showing the self-deprecation you might expect of a man of his calibre, said of his own career: 'There was also a bit of a foot soldier backman somewhere there.' I silently corrected his humble words as I watched the video. No, Crofty. You were a football genius!

The match isn't one where even a Bulldog Tragician can get too jittery. The feared, powerhouse Eagles have astonishingly become competition easybeats. As the Dogs stroll away to ever-increasing margins, though, we can still spot free kicks missed, groan at turnovers, fret at easy goals conceded.

Most of all though, we cheer for Crofty of the junior variety. The kid has a dream debut. He's tall - not far off Sam Darcy's height - gangly of course, and ferocious at the contest. We are naturally hoping for a vintage baulk, but instead he takes a screamer. We instantly decide we love everything about him!

Our special cheers are reserved for the moments when he links up with the other three father-sons. Passages of play featuring the names Darcy, West, Liberatore and now Croft lead to full-throated roars. And when an Eagles player gets ambushed in a crunching tackle, with Rhylee West and Jordan Croft combining, we immediately dub it a Crofty-Westy sandwich.

These carefree moments, where every glittering possibility is still open to a debutant, where footy must seem like a lark, are precious for us to watch as fans. We join in their dream of what could be. And yet I remember footy's darker possibilities are always close too; one of Jordan's fellow recruits in 2023 Aidan O'Driscoll retired within a few months of arriving at the club. He was aged 18, and had suffered a sickening head-knock in an innocuous pre-season training session. He will never play AFL again.

At the end of the match the four Sons of Guns pose for a photo together. Tom Liberatore, Sam Darcy, Rhylee West. Jordan Croft. I gaze at these young men (...and Libba, of course) and feel there is something pure and wonderful and even innocent about the notion of a lineage. 

They are the holders of our future dreams, connectors to our past.

Sometimes lately the Tragician is jaded about the football 'product.' Mainly because it's even called a product. The AFL these days makes itself hard to love. Blaring music, incessant gambling promotions, contrived and blatantly unfair fixturing, trade rules favouring constant player movement, a violent, misogynistic rapper selected to sing at the Grand Final. But the father-son tradition isn't one of those many missteps.

How special it is to see Luke Darcy and Matthew Croft standing on the sidelines - fathers, and fans -  as their boys sing our song. I can dream that maybe one day I will see Oscar Liberatore - grandson of Tony, son of Tom - run out for our club, just as my mother has lived to see three generations of Darcys - David, Luke and Sam - representing the red, white and blue.

It got me thinking about the past, though. (Uh-oh I hear you say). About the career of a 'footsoldier' like Matthew Croft and what constitutes success.  After all, he played in nine finals, for just two wins. In fact, (c'mon, do you really need to go there again Tragician?) he was a member of the besieged defence in The Preliminary Final That Must Not Be Named.

In that dreadful last quarter, the chance of a fairytale 1997 grand final appearance evaporated in a mishmash of panic and mistakes as we squandered a solid lead. Yet in the frenetic last minutes, we were still two points up, hanging on by the skin of our teeth, when Crofty took a fine intercept mark. He could have played it safe. Settled for time, and the slow play. Instead our hero whirled around and played on. It was the right call, I think, but we'll never know. Crofty launched the ball forward, where Dogs players were free: Mark West grabbed the ball and ran into an open goal. His shot faded away. We kicked 0.6 for the quarter to lose by two points.

For Matthew Croft, a grand final was never that close again.

I hadn't realised it, but the four dads of the Sons of Guns - Tony Liberatore, Scott West, Luke Darcy, and Matthew Croft - were in the team together on that most heartbreaking of days. 

I feel an ache in my heart. It could be that I overdid the party pies and sausage rolls. But I know it's about something else. The bewildering speed of the passage of time, tiny moments and yawning chasms of possibilities, life's joys and sorrows. Beginnings, and endings.