The Grand Final Part One: A New Hope

Well, good news for death and taxes. If a team that's won 42 matches out of 44 can't take the premiership, there are indeed only two certainties in life. By now, of course, the result of AFL Grand Final 2008 is universally known. The seemingly indestructible Pivotonian Empire has been defeated, its Death Star of indomitability blown to shreds by the Rebel Alliance of the Eastern Suburbs (with Chance Bateman playing the role of Chewbacca, or possibly one of the Ewoks). The guard has been changed, the torch has been passed, and the city of Melbourne is draped in brown and gold. Down the Avalon Highway, however, things are pretty grim. The ecstacy of the 2007 droughtbreaker must have seemed like an all-too distant memory to Cats fans on the Sunday morning following this year’s decider; the bitter déjà vu of all of those losses in the mid-90s would have been flooding back like an uncorked bottle of cheap Spumante.

But at the start of Grand Final week, all of that was still to come. The air was filled with the scents of spring and the glorious anticipation of an imminent battle royale. And nowhere was this more the case than the garden state of Victoria, whose populace was over the moon at the prospect of an all-Victorian Grand Final for the first time since the Almost Invincibles Bombers put the hapless Demons to the sword way back in 2000. In the years following, supporters of neutral Victorian clubs to whom an interstate side’s victory was anathema were faced with either getting behind Essendon in 2001 (unpalatable to many), or Collingwood in 2002-3 (unpalatable to all), or then picking the lesser of two evils in the three years following as both Grand Finalists hailed from the northern, southern, or western wastelands. Last year’s Grand Final at last gave neutral Victorians the opportunity to get behind a team that most were at worst ambivalent about, belting a widely despised interstate outfit in a most popular outcome. But it just hasn’t been the same without two local (or semi-local, in Geelong’s case) sides going up against each other.

And the prospect of these two sides doing battle whetted the appetite in a way that few other prospective match-ups could do. For Hawthorn and Geelong took part in one of the all-time Grand Final epics back in 1989, truly a match for the ages. Nostalgia for all-things 1989 (Tiananmen Square- bad; Seinfeld and the Simpsons begin- good; ACT Legislative Assembly established- indifferent) flooded back as memories of the great game hammered the airwaves. For those who somehow missed all the references to it, the 1989 Grand Final came after years of disappointing one-sided Grand Finals (although 1984 wasn’t too bad). It featured a Hawks side in its seventh consecutive Grand Final, up against a Cats side filled with exciting players. It featured violence from the outset, with Mark Yeates crunching Dermott Brereton who was somehow able to remain on the ground and kick a vital goal, despite vomiting profusely. Ironically, in years to come Brereton would go on to become a minor television celebrity whose contributions on a range of reality shows would cause a similar reaction from the viewing public. But no more so than his ex-Hawk team-mate Robert (Dipper) Dipierdomenico, who achieved fame post-footy career by becoming the face and voice of dodgy garment retailers Dimmeys of Richmond and Forges of Footscray. On the big day in 1989, Dipper achieved immortality for playing on despite a punctured lung which, if he had taken an hour or so longer to get medically treated, would have cost him his life (and all of those post-footy sponsorship endorsements). But the man who stood head and shoulders above all others on that fateful day way back in the ‘80s was the great man, Gary Ablett Sr, or “God” to his many followers. After the Hawks had bolted out to a seemingly insurmountable lead, it was Ablett’s sublime skill and sense of occasion that got the Cats back into it, piling on goal after goal in an unmatched individual performance. When the final siren rang with the Hawks clinging on by a single straight kick and with every player on both sides on the verge of exhaustion, few could have doubted that they had witnessed a modern day classic. Could we dare to dream that the 2008 encounter would provide a worthy sequel, a la the Godfather Part II or The Empire Strikes Back? Or were we fated to endure a Blues Brother 2000, a Ghostbusters 2, or even, god forbid, a ghastly unwanted latter day remake along the lines of Inspector Gadget, Get Smart, the Mod Squad or The Dukes of Hazzard, which would serve only to sully the memory of the original?

That question wouldn’t be answered until the Grand Final was played on the Saturday. With a whole week to fill until the big day, there was plenty of opportunity to hand out awards to the deserving. The naming of the All-Australian team always leads to a bit of controversy, selection is a highly difficult process with so many deserving the honour of gaining a gaudy jumper never to be worn on the field of battle. This year fourteen teams saw their players gain representation. The Cats not surprisingly contributed the most, although their seven players picked represented a loss of two from their astonishing nine the previous season. The two sides not represented were the hapless Demons, to no great surprise, and Essendon, which was outrageous. Surely the emergence of ruckman David Hille as a genuine star should have got him in ahead of one of the beanpole chancers from the west? Apparently not. Not quite as big an insult as that dealt to Collingwood back in 1996, when not a single Magpie was named in the AFL’s Team of the Century (don’t get Eddie McGuire started on that one), but still worthy of rancour among the Windy Hill faithful.

No time to dwell on such matters, as the eagerly awaited Brownlow Medal count needs addressing. As detailed in my last Wrap, which went up about a month or so ago, the Brownlow Medal has been severely criticised for its many structural faults. However, it remains the only opportunity for viewers at home to tune in and pick faults with the outfits worn by the players’ WAGs, and to enjoy the sight of those not in the running becoming progressively inebriated as the evening wears on. I myself many years back made the unwise decision to join in a drinking game based on the votes received by various players. Unfortunately I drew James Hird’s name out of the hat and can’t recall anything about the count beyond about Round 12. I believe he actually went on to win that year. This year Hird wasn’t going to feature, and the count wasn’t being broadcast in the ACT anyway, so I was in no personal danger. It was felt to be a fairly open field this year, plenty of players were strong possibilities but there was no outright runaway favourite. For the second year in a row the great Gary Ablett Sr’s son Gary Ablett Jr was widely fancied, as was diminutive Roo Brent Harvey. The long-suffering champion of the long-suffering supporters of a long-suffering team, Tiger Matthew Richardson, was the sentimental favourite. Some felt that Cat Jimmy Bartel was a show at going back to back, while others thought Bulldog Adam Cooney might become the first AFL Number 1 draft pick to win the coveted medal. But before we got to that point, there were 22 rounds to count through, as well as untold hours of red carpet footage of players arriving with WAGs in tow. Truth be told, many tune in just for this alone. There have been some absolute fashion disasters in the past. Who could forget Nathan Buckley’s partner’s diamond encrusted G-string? Or Andrew McLeod’s wife painting his number (23) on her back with glitter – she was lucky none of the Mad Monday-affected opposition players got confused and tackled her to the ground! I am reliably informed that there were no such catastrophes this year, at least among the female contingent. There haven’t been that many historical fashion faux pas’s among the men, mainly because it’s pretty difficult to get a tuxedo wrong unless the lengths are done wrong Mr Bean-style. The two that are probably most memorable were both worn by winners: Graham Teasdale’s luridly coloured velvet tuxedo in 1977; and psychotic dwarf Tony Liberatore’s appalling Nagee tie in 1990. Nagee (I have no idea about the spelling) was a poor man’s version of Dimmeys of Richmond and Forges of Footscray which is evidently no longer in business, it’s possible that the publicity generated by Libba’s tie was the final nail in their coffin. This year, for reasons known only to himself, Saints skipper Nick Riedwoldt paid tribute to Teasdale by wearing a velvet suit himself, but fortunately Riedwoldt’s version was at least black. The real fashion atrocities were committed by the barbers – how bad are Generation Y haircuts? Dermott Brereton’s 1989 permed mullet was a better look than some of the dog’s breakfasts going around these days!

Once the spectacularly attired lads and lasses were finally off the red carpet and seated, the count at last got under way. And in a move that finally proved the Wrap’s theory that the AFL has been operating all year in a time-space continuum variant to that experienced by the rest of the human race, AFL CEO Andrew Demetriou kicked off by reading the votes for Round 2 ahead of Round 1. Once he’d sorted himself out and got into some sort of order it was a former winner, Simon Black of Brisbane who’d saluted in 2002, who got off to a flyer. Black polled four best on grounds in the opening eight rounds, but was closely shadowed by Cooney, Richo, and Hawk Brad Sewell. The AFL would have been stressing in the middle rounds that one three ineligible players – dual ex-winner Adam Goodes, or Hawks pair Buddy Franklin and Sam Mitchell – would cause embarrassment by “winning” the award, but fortunately they fell off the pace in later rounds. Young Ablett made his move in Rounds 10-13, picking up 11 from a possible 12 votes, but still trailed Black by a single vote going into Round 15. Popular favourite Richo was eliciting roars of approval with every vote received. Black moved to 23 votes after Round 16, but failed to receive another vote for the night. Richo and Ablett both got to 22 after Round 20, with Cooney one vote behind. The tension could have been cut with a knife as the counting for the final two rounds got under way. Richo was clearly loving the attention, mugging to the cameras like a ham actor playing a minor role in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical. Ablett, on the other hand, was grimacing with pain when votes didn’t go his way – he clearly wanted to be taking the medal home at the end of the evening.

Black, Richo and Ablett all failed to poll a vote in Round 21, but Cooney polled a perfect 3 to move into the lead for the first time all evening. When none of the leaders were able to trouble the scorer in Round 22 it was Adam Cooney of the Western Bulldogs, the No 1 pick of the 2003 draft, who had won the honour of the 2008 Brownlow Medal at the end of a thrilling count. It transpired during his post-award interview that: Cooney had spent the bulk of the day enjoying “Mad Monday” with his Bulldog teammates, many of whom turned up en masse to congratulate him dressed in an array of inappropriate costumes (although thankfully nobody took a leaf out of Fev’s book); he had been locked out of the venue during the counting of several votes after a door had locked behind him while taking a nervous but necessary pitstop; he had recently proposed to his girlfriend, utilising a Burger Ring as an impromptu engagement ring. Clearly a man with a future in post-footy entertainment, he could easily become the next face of Dimmeys of Richmond and Forges of Footscray.
More to follow.