THE BULLDOG TRAGICIAN BLOG
  • The Bulldog Tragician Blog
  • Blog posts
    • 2016 finals collection
  • The Bulldog Tragician Blog
  • Blog posts
    • 2016 finals collection

We came, we saw, we believed

17/6/2014

7 Comments

 
Picture
The family text messages to organise our attendance at Sunday's match against the Pies weren't exactly zinging around.

'You going?'

'Umm. We probably should.'

'Yeah. It's important, right? '


'Even though we'll probably get smashed'.
 
'There's that, yes.'

'Meet you at the usual fate.' (Ooops, damn autocorrect). 'Usual gate!'

Faith and enthusiasm have dwindled among the Bulldog fans. The losses are piling up; the Catastrophe Performance Index has been in meltdown and has seeped into fan morale as well. Our future doesn't seem as bright as we thought just a few months ago, as doubts creep in from all angles. Our 'irrelevance' has become the new, fashionable talking point. Suddenly the whole footy world has a new scapegoat: us and our lack of improvement. Everyone's got an opinion on our lack of a game-plan. Everyone is questioning what's wrong with Ryan Griffen and Will Minson. Everyone's pointing to the apparent lack of progress, making doomsday scenario predictions that we could bottom out still further when some of our stalwarts call it quits. 

Yes, the team has been grinding it out; effort and commitment haven't been in question (in some ways that makes it harder to cope with). But there's an increasing lack of joy, of flare, dash, zest. Winning ugly is one thing. Losing ugly is another altogether.

And our losing form brings another form of ugliness: walking past the race at the end of our disheartening Brisbane loss, I'd felt my face flush with anger and embarrassment at seeing our players trudging off the ground, running the gauntlet of abuse from some of our own fans. There had been outbreaks of tensions and anger erupting during the match between supporters who still clapped and encouraged the team, and those who felt that as fans they had earned the right to ridicule and boo the team at this the most trying of times, and took their venom out at those who saw it differently.

There was further demoralisation in the wake of the loss. In one of Bob Murphy's saddest articles he took a gentle but pointed gibe at those fans that delighted in 'taking the players down a peg or two' and reflected on better times:

Some of my most treasured time in football has been at the top. Winning big games, winning finals, playing in front of huge crowds when you can actually feel the pride of your own supporters beaming back at you, like the warmth of the springtime sun.

His words seemed those of someone who had fallen out of love with the game, or, more chillingly, with our club. And it almost seemed he'd reached a fatalistic acceptance that those good times, when the team is playing well and we as fans bask in that winning afterglow, are beyond reach of this current group. Or at least a group that would still feature a Bob Murphy, with his sidestep, his elegance, his sublime talent. His crazy-brave passion for our club. Which right now is giving him more pain than joy.

With all the grim news swirling in the background I really couldn't even muster enthusiasm to pen this blog after our Brisbane loss. I tried a few times (but like Homer Simpson's advice to his kids: when it's all too hard,  give up). The sentiments I wanted to expressed seemed old-fashioned, trite and banal, yet they're what I believe. That you don't get to pick and choose when to barrack for your club, disappearing from their orbit in the bad years, only to reappear with suspiciously new scarves in better times. That going along every week in these hard times, even if it's an effort, form a protective fortress and a core of resilience (harden up, you young scallywags, I've been there for at least a dozen 100 point losses!) and will make our triumph one day   (- it will happen one day - won't it? -) extra poignant and unbelievably sweet.

These are all the reasons why I am trudging up LaTrobe Street on Sunday afternoon towards the stadium and what seems a certain belting against an in-form team. It's what you do, that's all.

There are few, oh so few, Dogs fans around. So few that we all keep catching each others' eyes. It feels like we should exchange some sort of grim, stoic, terse, acknowledgement. Laconic and Australian. 'You're here too?' 'Yep.' Nothing else required.


Waiting for family members at the 'usual fate', I get talking to an elderly, rheumy-eyed man; he is wearing a Bulldogs beanie. He looks too old to be there on his own; he is hampered by a limp. We make some small talk; the weather, a few mildly jocular observations re Pies fans ( you have to, don't you?), and ticket prices. I want to ask him why he is there, about the things he'd seen. Was he there in 54? Who was the greatest Bulldog he'd seen? What does he think of our current plight? I'm sure he has a story to tell. But I hesitate to ask, and he heads off into the game with a cheery wave.

I recognise another Bulldog-supporting couple walking in. They usually sit a few rows in front of us at our home games. We've never spoken, but I've watched their joy when we win, seen them jubilantly waving their scarves and singing the song, shared their quiet resignation when we lose. I feel strangely glad to see them. To know, even though we don't exchange a word, that they're here too.

There are four members only of the Tragician Clan today. One brother, one sister, one son. One Tragician. We head towards the nosebleed section, where we are vastly outnumbered by the black and white army. The match quickly unfolds in accordance with our low expectations; yes, it seems, we will be badly outclassed. Our forward line in the first 10 minutes is a scramble of bodies; painstaking work reaps no reward. Three leisurely goals in contrast come effortlessly to the Magpies, one of them from an unattended player waltzing down the ground, bouncing the ball in carefree fashion, taking it away from our congested forward line and players lumbering after him. It would be, undoubtedly, a long afternoon.

It's a relief when we finally jag our first goal. And then, surprisingly enough, another. We hail them with over-the-top exuberance; aware that Melbourne only managed three for the whole afternoon against the Pies the week before, we want to get value for money out of each one. Hang on...we've kicked two more. We're deliriously happy to see we're in front at quarter time! In time-honoured 'acceptance of mediocrity' mode, we jump enthusiastically to our feet to give Our Boys a clap.

So low have been our expectations that we take a while to recalibrate and get a sense of what's going on as the match progresses. We're not only right in this game; we're winning it, taking it on, playing a quite different and exciting brand of football; the slow hesitant players who featured in the dismal Brisbane match mysteriously transformed into demented, frenzied running machines. Griff, our captain, is playing the inspirational footy we've been hoping for all year, hurling himself into contests, his trademark zip and burst returned. He's showing us, I think, not just how much the criticism has stung, but how much he loves this club. The other much maligned player in the media glare this week, Will Minson, who has been shouldering an insane rucking burden manfully with no support all year, has regained that nasty manic aggression that is so endearing in your own players (and totally reprehensible in others). 

And the Second Libber...I don't have the words for what he's doing out there. In his dad (the First Libber), you could see the burning will and intensity, or as Martin Flanagan memorably said:

In his prime, he was capable of recording a third of his team's tackles and year after year he led the AFL tackling count. Larger players would see this tiny 163-centimetre figure in front of them, back themselves to run over the top of him and find themselves brought crashing ignominiously to the ground.

His son is playing one of the best, most complete games I've seen in the red, white and blue. Thirteen clearances, ten tackles. His face is blanker than his dad's, the emotion is more hidden, but his actions tell us that he's inherited his fierce competitive spirit. He's powering around the ground, driving us forward again and again - there's one moment when he simply rips the ball out of his opponents' hands. Around him, a brigade of younger players are growing in confidence and more than ably supporting him. Suddenly they've gelled, and you can see the future that's been brewing in BMac's petri dish: Jackson Macrae with his elusive movement and the brilliant peripheral vision that the elite players have; Liam Jones providing a high leaping forward target (yes, you read that right) and strong counterpoint at our end of the ground for the monster Cloke; Jason Tutt putting together self-belief with his pace and long kicking; Wallis sticking doggedly to his tagging task on Pendlebury; high-leaping Easton Wood refusing to give up a contest. The wily foxes, Murph, Gia and Morris, are gracefully ceding support roles to this new breed, who are now linking up after all those hard fought inside possessions, moving the ball relentlessly forward, instead of all somehow getting in each others' way at the bottom of the pack.

At three quarter time we're stunned. The scoreboard says we're six points up. It's a nervous tentative happiness, far from jubilation. Sometimes daring to win is the hardest thing of all, for fans and players alike. It's hard not to retreat into our shells, to be satisfied with a brave effort, to prepare mentally for the last quarter surge from the Pies that must surely be moments away. 

When we get the first two goals of the last quarter it first occurs to me that we could actually win. Just as I'm grasping this unlikely possibility, Liam Jones, who's been superbly accurate, must have had the same thought; he misses what should have been his fifth goal. The Pies begin an ominous charge. Their uncharacteristically subdued fans begin their famous intimidating roar, rocking the stadium, as their players click smoothly into a higher gear. Suddenly it feels like they've been toying with us, waiting for this moment when the real match will begin and they can flick us away like annoying mosquitoes. In the pressure cooker atmosphere I think of how many times the Pies have played at the MCG in blockbuster matches, with huge crowds, with so much more at stake. They're so much more at home in this screaming cauldron, when the air seems to have vanished, and the fans can barely breathe. The Dogs, surely, are about to crack. Legs look heavy. Our run is gone. The Pies, who know how to win, are steaming home, within a goal with five minutes to go. 

Here it comes. Our Usual Fate.

There's a last lunge of Bulldog defiance, a last fierce flurry of intense contests, and it's us that win them. Jason Tutt has the ball in his hands in front of goal, a set shot that's not especially difficult, yet not that easy for a player who seems always to doubt his place in the side. When he kicks truly there's a tremendous din that makes you forget there's only probably 3000 of us Dogs fans there. A roar of relief, of delight. Of amazement.

When the siren goes, our joy knows no bounds. There was something else, after all, that Murph said in his article about strength in hard times.

You suddenly find yourselves a tightly wound-together group of human beings who genuinely feel like it's you against the world.

We take a photo of the four of us, celebrating wildly, to capture forever the memory of the day that We Were There. 

I try and catch news of our game on the radio on the trip home, but they're covering the Essendon-Demons match which is still playing out. I'm not at all surprised when I hear that Daniel Cross has contributed to the last passage of play that leads to an inspiring Demons victory (well, all right, I'm quite a BIT surprised that it was apparently a perfectly weighted kick from our much loved helicopter-kicking specialist). It seems fitting that the new bearer of the number four guernsey that Crossy wore with such distinction, Marcus Bontempelli, played a superlative, breakout sixth game, earning a Rising Star nomination. It was Bonti's last quarter run and kick that found Jason Tutt, and won us the match.

The footy circle of life turns around again.

I get a text from my partner, the Footy Non Believer. 'Why can't the Dogs play like that every week for you!'

Only the Believers know the strange but true answer. It wouldn't be as much fun.


Picture
The beautiful moment when Marcus Bontempelli hugs his dad after the match. He is just 18 years old.
7 Comments
Leonie Wainwright
17/6/2014 04:59:09 pm

Your footy journey seems so in tune with my own its quite scary.
Unfortunately myself and our bulldog pack were unable to attend the game. My twin goddaughters and a nephew were making their first holy communion. To be honest, when given the date and time 3pm Sunday June 15, and I looked up the fixture, Collingwood away game, I wasn't at that time so bothered about missing the game. However, from the moment the siren sounded losing to the lions, all I could think about was how could I possible get to the game. Two of our pack were already going to be missing as they were overseas for a wedding. One is on 'leave' from attending games as she now lives in Germany studying, but never misses watching a game live. The remaining five of us had family duties. The realization came, "so none of us are going?" We each felt we were letting the boys down. But family comes first, right? The two families involved in the communion are also part of the extended pack. As we gathered at church before 3, the general consensus was, "if we lose by less than 10 goals it'll be OK." "If we can just put in a good four quarter effort"
Throughout the service I sent up a couple of quick prayers, "C'mon doggies, you can do this" I resisted the temptation to check my phone. At one point my hubby had to go outside as he thought he hadn't locked the car. "Did you check the score?" "No, why would I?" The service ended and a group photo in front of the altar was being organised. This was my chance. I had a dozen text messages and some kiks from overseas. What? We were playing OK? If the umpires weren't crucifying us!
I went to twitter, I started from the first bounce I didn't want to miss anything. My brothers were calling out to me, have you seen the score, yeah we're doing OK. We each looked at the other, silently knowing what each was thinking, 'if we go now, do we break this good fortune?' In silent agreement we knew we couldn't stay, we had to go back for the celebration. Besides, the footy would be on the telly. And, we know deep down, that our silly superstitions don't have any control over the game, right?
Once back at the house we again silently agreed that should things suddenly go pear shaped, there'd be no harm in being extra religious on this most joyous occasion and going back to sit in church a little longer.
And although there were a few tense moments, there was a lot of singing and jumping for joy of the extended family pack as the siren went. We may not have been at the game but by God, we were there in spirit.

Reply
Kate C
18/6/2014 02:48:48 am

I think we all felt a bit like Bonti's dad this week -- just wanting to wrap our arms around the boys -- a little bit teary, but oh so proud.

Reply
Neil Anderson
18/6/2014 03:58:52 am

Well done Kerrie and family to get your reward for attending each week while some of us hope we just don't get beaten by ten goals or more and don't look forward to even watching on TV.
Because I had visitors on the Sunday afternoon, I gave myself the perfect excuse for recording the match rather than being glued to the screen well before the match starts. As soon as the visitors left I raced to the TV ready to watch the replay thinking the match would be finished at 5 to 6. It wasn't. I didn't deserve my reward because I was a doubting Thomas, but I got it because at that moment Bonty had just kicked the ball to Tutt and the Bulldogs were in front anyway. Bruce and Co were raving on about a kid called Bontempelli as I tried to take it all in, cursing I hadn't watched every minute of it and torn between watching the celebrations or watching the replay from the start. So I had the joy of seeing the final result and I can only imagine what it was like to actually be there amongst the faithful. How good will the team feel about themselves now, knowing they can produce that sort of form, whoever they play.

Reply
Bulldog Tragician
18/6/2014 02:08:31 pm

Yes Leonie, our lives have eerie similarities. How familiar that sounded, the family occasions where you're trying hard not to be rude and sneak out the back for "just one update." Our clan are all mad Dogs so a check of the fixture is mandatory before we all get together. On those unfortunate occasions where schools schedule events, we are all shifting around in our seats during the Communion, wishing the priest would hurry up so we can find out what's going on in our other family. (Yes, catholics as well!)

Neil, we were all doubting Thomases on Sunday, so I'm a bit cheeky to call myself a believer.. More of a believer that you can't drop off just because the boys aren't playing well... In fact like you Leonie, when times are tough, I'm more determined to go because I feel they need my support!

Thanks to you both for your comments. It was a really special day, and I still can't look at the magnificent photo of Bonti and his dad without shedding a tear (Neil, am I being disloyal to Crossy too soon??)

Reply
Neil Anderson
18/6/2014 04:18:14 pm

Dear Torn Between two Lovers, I think you are being disloyal far too soon. I can understand you being attracted to a younger man, especially when you see that number four on his back which brings back so many fond memories. But from what you tell me, the older man has given you so much for over a decade, always faithful, never letting you down. Ask yourself, how will you feel when he returns in two year's time as a fitness guru and finds you waiting outside the changerooms.for.... someone else?

Reply
MsKatieKatieKay
18/6/2014 02:43:36 pm

I wasn't there for the Brisbane game, as I was overseas. I'm glad I missed that game, as it always breaks my heart when supporters turn on the boys. The role of a supporter is a simple, yet hard one - it's in the name - we support. We are not consumers, "buying" wins. Our role is to support. We may ask questions, keep the Club accountable, but at the end of the day, we support.

I was back in Melbourne on the weekend, so there was no question I would be at the game. I went with a friend and his two young children - all Pies supporters. The ribbing started early, but it didn't matter much to me because I knew we'd lose. I figured it would be a chance to catch up on my knitting. I just hoped we could play a full four quarters this time.

A full four quarters. It became my mantra for the game. At each break, all I could think (and tweet!) was that we'd played well that quarter, but we needed to show we could do it for four quarters.

My little friend kept chiding me for yelling when we kicked a goal; I had to explain to the young Pie that, when you're a Dog, you don't know when your next goal will be, so you have to celebrate while you can. By three quarter time, my little friend was telling me we were going to win. Again, I had to explain to him what it's like being a Dog - there's no such thing as a sure win.

We had blended families (Pies and Dogs) all around us. The old bloke in front of me, a Dogs supporter with his radio who reminded me of my dad, calling out the bad news at regular intervals: "Williams is out again because of injury" "Cooney's done a hammy" At the end of the first quarter, he gave that familiar Bulldog refrain: "Quick, blow the siren now and we can all go home."

When Tutty kicked that goal, I lost the plot. Screaming and yelling, the four quarter mantra was everywhere - I tweeted it, yelled it, prayed it. My little Pies friends were forgotten about as I stared at my Dogs, willing them to keep it up until the siren. When the siren came, we all screamed, not in joy, but the sheer relief that, for once, the Dogs had done it. Four quarters, leading at the breaks, we didn't succumb to the final surge from the Pies. It was magnificent. I was so hoarse, I sang the song completely off key.

As we walked out, I exchanged congratulations and glances with fellow supporters. We knew this was our little reward for the sometimes bewildering task of being a supporter and turning up week after week. Our reward for keeping the faith.

I was later told that the win was our first against Collingwood since the last round of 2009, in the middle of our run of preliminary finals, before we got Barry Hall. A lot has changed in 5 years. I'm excited for the next 5.

Reply
Uncle
18/6/2014 03:23:06 pm

Your father created the WWT (we were there) Club in 1978 when we kicked 30 goals against St Kilda and Kelvin kicked 15.
I was there that day but not this one. I was far more demanding than some others - anything under 8 goals was going to be acceptable!!
Love to read your take on each game.
Uncle

Reply

Your comment will be posted after it is approved.


Leave a Reply.

    subscribe to

    ​this blog

    About the Bulldog Tragician

    The Tragician blog began in 2013 as a way of recording what it is like to barrack for a perennially unsuccessful team - the AFL team, the Western Bulldogs.

    The team, based in Melbourne's west, had only won one premiership, back in 1954, and had only made one grand final since then.

    The Tragician blog explored all the other reasons - family, belonging, history and a
    sense of place - that makes even unsuccessful clubs dear to the hearts of their fans.

    ​However, an unexpected twist awaited the long-suffering Tragician: the Bulldogs pulled off an extraordinary fairytale premiership in 2016.

    The story of the unexpected and emotional triumph was captured in weekly blogs and later collated in the book: 'The Mighty West' by the Tragician Blog author Kerrie Soraghan.


    ​Go to BlackInc books to order


    Picture
    subscribe now

    Categories

    All
    2016 Finals
    2016 Season
    2017
    2018
    2019
    2020
    2020 Season
    2021
    2022
    Adam Treloar
    Bob Murphy
    Clay Smith
    Cody Weightman
    Cordy
    Daniel Cross
    Easton Wood
    Jackson Macrae
    Jake 'The Lair' Stringer
    Jamarrah
    Liam Picken
    Libba Sisters
    Luke Beveridge
    Marcus Bontempelli
    Mitch Wallis
    Season 2013
    Tom Boyd
    Tom Liberatore
    Vs Adelaide Crows
    Vs Collingwood
    Vs Essendon
    Vs Fremantle
    Vs Geelong
    Vs GWS
    Vs Hawthorn
    Vs North Melb
    Vs St Kilda
    Vs Sydney
    Vs West Coast Eagles

    Tweets by @Bulldogstragic

    Archives

    August 2023
    May 2023
    April 2023
    September 2022
    August 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    March 2022
    September 2021
    August 2021
    June 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    December 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    November 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    October 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    January 2015
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013

    RSS Feed

Proudly powered by Weebly