AFL Grand Final 2009: Gone but not forgotten

Grand Final Wrap
Nearly three months have passed since the 2009 Grand Final, and my heart rate has only now gotten back to something approaching normal. And I was a neutral, disinterested observer! I can only imagine what it must have been like to have had a horse in that race, it’s a wonder that the nation’s coronary rate didn’t spike in the latter stages of the final quarter. It was an absolute belter of a Grand Final, a worthy finish to a season which offered more classic encounters than any season in living memory. It’s just a pity that there had to be a loser on the day, because neither team deserved to go away empty handed.

But to begin at the beginning, the eagerly anticipated Grand Final prematch show. This rarely fails to disappoint, if only because the AFL goes to so much trouble these days to ensure that there is something for everyone and that the premiership cup is delivered into the stadium in as novel a manner possible. In recent years we’ve seen the cup dangled from a high-wire trapeze by a team of acrobats, and launched on a flying fox from the top deck of the stadium, showering sparks on the fans far below. This time around the cup was abseiled down to the stadium attached to nervous 2003 co-Brownlow Medallist Mark Riccuito, who presumably drew the short straw backstage before the ceremony began. Given the wet and windy conditions, abseiling probably wasn’t something Roo would ideally have spent time doing on Grand Final day.

And the weather cast a bit of a pall over the entertainment itself, with the AFL unable to utilize its customary stage in the middle of the ground. Instead, enjoyment of the entertainment was largely confined to a small section of the crowd, with the stage erected way out on the Members wing. Presumably the theme of the entertainment this year was “Celebrating the best of fresh Australian talent”, which would explain why septuagenarians Jimmy Barnes and John Farnham were involved. It was as if the crew from Hey Hey had been put in charge of booking the acts, although mercifully the blackface antics of Jackson Jive were nowhere in evidence. The National Anthem this year was performed a cappella by the crew from the stage show Jersey Boys, and was probably the gayest (in a completely non-pejorative sense of the word) version we’ve heard since the year suspiciously well-groomed four piece Human Nature belted it out.

But all too soon, the groundskeepers were wheeling off various bits of stage and the odd stray Jersey Boy, and the two teams were running out on to the arena for the most eagerly awaited Grand Final since last year. Having met just once in 2009, for a game decided by a single kick, hopes were high that this wouldn’t end up being a blow-out of the kind experienced far too often on Grand Final day, frequently when Geelong were involved. And right from the beginning it was clear that neither St Kilda nor Geelong was going to be a race away winner on Grand Final day 2009. The intensity was extraordinary, and the inclement conditions played their part in keeping things tight. The Cats stuck the first blow, after a foolhardy attempt by a Saints player to run out of defence, but St Kilda were able to keep things tight and there was nothing in it at quarter time.

In so many Grand Finals in recent years, the second quarter has proven pivotal. It did in 1998, when North Melbourne dominated the Crows but kicked a lamentable 2.12, and it did again last year when Geelong played all over the Hawks but just couldn’t make it count on the scoreboard. This time it was the Cats who were on the receiving end, grimly soaking up wave after wave of red, white and black forays forward. But despite the Saints having the ball on a string for much of the quarter, converting six pointers was largely beyond them. Goalsneak Stephen Milne had one particularly lamentable attempt, running into an open goal but attempting to dribble it through from 40 metres, only to see it come to a complete stop. Two potentially game-changing umpiring decisions took place in the latter stages of the second stanza, both resulted in goals but fortunately they were at different ends of the field. The first occurred when a dismal clearance from the Saints back Zac Dawson went straight to lumbering Cats forward Tom “Tomahawk” Hawkins, who promptly belted it back over the despairing Dawson’s head for a goal…or was it? Although the goal umpire had no hesitation in waving his twin flags, replays clearly indicated that Hawkins’ snap had brushed the behind post, a fact that the Saints cheer squad sitting behind the goal no doubt pointed out to the umpire in no uncertain and most likely defamatory terms. It looked as though the Cats, despite being roundly outplayed for the bulk of the quarter, were going to go into the long break ahead. But with only minutes remaining their veteran defender Darren Milburn suffered a rush of blood to the head. A desperate Saints’ snap at goal bounced through, despite Milburn’s desperate lunge. An irate Milburn insisted to the umpire that he had gotten a finger to it (replays indicated that he had not). Unfortunately the finger that Darren chose to display to the umpire was the one customarily associated with saluting truck drivers, and the affronted field umpire had no hesitation in ordering a St Kilda free kick on the goal line- a twelve point play. Saints up at the half.

As the two teams disappeared up the race to the change rooms, Milburn no doubt on the phone to his proctologist to get a quote on the cost of having his coach’s shoe extracted from around the back, the Auskickers were delayed in their chance for a kick by the necessity of the Grand Final sprint. There had at one point been a whisper that Jamaican speedster Usain Bolt was going to make an appearance at the Grand Final, but unless he was the bloke in the Gold Coast Whatevers guernsey, Usain was a no-show. I think the Richmond guy got up, nice for Tiger fans to have some small glory on Grand Final day.

Around about this time, I took an unexpected phone call from an old Cairo buddy, the cockney chef. These days he’s plying his trade in Dubai, although no doubt with a bag sitting packed and ready to go as the economy goes south and Dubai’s ridiculous vanity projects, including the ludicrous indoor ski slope, melt away into the desert sand. As ever it was great to hear from him, although a touch surreal hearing his cheery apples-and-pears Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels accent employed in the discussion of Aussie Rules – “Ullo mate! What’s goin’ on wiv this fackin’ game, can’t understand a fackin’ thing! They’re righ’ indu it, but!” He’d evidently made it to an early opening pub which happened to be showing the game and had hooked up with some Australian companions who were failing in their duty to educate him as to the ins and outs of proceedings. I gave it my best shot in the three minutes I had, but I’m not sure I helped either. I just hope he kept watching until the end of the game, and didn't abandon it for Scunthorpe vs Sheffield Wednesday or some other dire fixture.

If the first two quarters had been tough footy, the third stanza took it to an all new level. Even spectators not actually present at the game found themselves covered in mysterious bruises in days following. Goals for both sides were at an absolute premium, and the scores were deadlocked for one particularly grueling ten minute period. Deep in the quarter ex-Cats ruckman Steven “The Frighteners” King got his fist to a throw-in and Leigh Montagna snapped a major to give the Saints a seven point lead at the final change for season 2009. As the near-delirious commentary team pointed out, the last time a side up at three quarter time had failed to bring home the cup was 1984 – a glorious day, incidentally – surely the Saints’ long wait for a second title was almost over?

Not if Geelong had anything to say about it. Paul Chapman, one third of the Cats’ balding triumvirate –the others being skipper Tom Harley and superstar Gary Ablett Jr – got the Cats fans out of their seats in just the second minute with a pass to young gun Tom Hawkins, which the latter duly converted. It then took an amazing 21 minutes for the next goal to be registered, and it was incredibly difficult to watch – not because the standard of footy was low, but because it was the intensity of effort was beyond belief. The umpires put their whistles away, resulting in much frustration in the stands as free kick after free kick went unrewarded. Five behinds were logged, making the scores dead-level. You could almost imagine the ghosts of Ted Whitten Sr and Mike Williamson (I’m presuming he’s dead?) hyperventilating in the commentary box and revisiting their classic call from 1966 – “We could be back here next week!” “I tipped this!” “I think I just had a heart attack!” “I’ve had three already!”

Then, in the 24th minute, came the moment that decided the match and the title for 2009. An errant pass from Saint Clinton Jones missed his skipper Nick Riedwoldt and Cats backman Harry Taylor was able to clear to Corey Enright. Enright duly passed to 2007 Norm Smith Medallist Steve Johnson, who up to this point had had a dirty day. It looked as though Johnson’s reverse Midas afternoon was continuing, as his attempted pass to Ablett floated just long enough to allow much maligned Saints defender Zac Dawson, who had made a villain of himself simply by being picked in the side ahead of beloved Saints icon Max Hudghton, to get a fist to it. Would this punch give Dawson a place in the pantheon of Sainthood, alongside Barry Breen’s wobbly punt back in ’66? Alas, no. Dawson’s punch went straight to the feet of gritty Cats fullback Matthew Scarlett, who instinctively stuck out his boot and punted the ball back to the now unmanned Ablett, Dawson having followed through after his punch. Ablett booted the ball into the goal square, where after a series of desperate handballs it wound up in the hands of Chapman, who snapped a goal to put the Cats up by a goal.

Two behinds followed, one to each side, keeping the margin at a single major score. With only seconds left on the clock, the Saints had the ball in their forward line as they made their last desperate roll of the dice. But cometh the hour, cometh the man, and like Swans hero Leo Barry in 2005, Cats backman Harry Taylor took a fantastically courageous grab with what was later revealed to be a broken hand. Even the most diehard of diehard St Kilda people must have surely known that the jig was up at that point. The Cats rushed the ball away from the danger zone and the final siren sounded with the ball in the hands of perennially disheveled Cats hard man Max “Don’t call me Jarred!” Rooke. As Saints players slumped to the ground in the numb realization that a season in which they’d lost only two home and away matches, both by less than a kick, had ended without the prize, Rooke dribbled the ball through the untended goal to bring the final margin to a most unrepresentative twelve points. Almost a shame, really.

Saints fan Molly Meldrum famously passed out in the final minutes of the Saints’ iconic 1966 flag, thus missing seeing his team’s only triumph. It hasn’t been recorded yet whether he managed to keep his wits about him this time around. Molly has probably been surpassed by Eric “Chopper/The Incredible Hulk/ That Bloke in Troy” Bana as St Kilda’s most famous fan, Eric was reportedly “too upset to talk” after the final siren blew this year. He wouldn’t have been the lone ranger there, it must have been gut-wrenching for Saints fans to come so close and just miss out, particularly after they dominated this year’s home and away season. The immediate reaction from Cats fans seemed to be one of abject relief, after blowing last year’s decider it would have been nothing short of catastrophic to have gone down again. There was little triumphalism from the winners, which was nice. It would be hard to begrudge the Cats their title, hardly anyone has gotten anywhere near them over the last three seasons and they play a great brand of footy. Deservedly, Paul Chapman got the Norm Smith, which made it a clean sweep for the balding triumvirate- premiership cup, Brownlow Medal and Norm Smith.
As I said earlier, it was a match worthy of the occasion. We’ve really been spoiled on Grand Final day in recent years, there’ve been some belters. Back when I was growing up, in the ‘80s and ‘90s, every Grand Final was decided by half time and the only interest was in seeing how big the final margin would be and who’d win the inevitable halftime brawl. Part of the reason the ’89 Grand Final classic is so fondly remembered is because it was sandwiched between two forgettable arsekickings.

So a classic match to end a classic year and, indeed, a classic decade. What will we see in 2010 and the years ahead? Will all the clubs survive? Can the Saints achieve the breakthrough? Will any Carlton players manage to survive the Crown Casino blacklist? We can but wait and see.
PS- my apologies for the ridiculous length of time this Wrap has taken. A great Grand Final deserved better. I’m not yet sure whether I’ll be in a position to continue the Wrap, I’d rather not if I can’t do it properly. If not, thanks for all who’ve enjoyed it and let me know, it’s been a fun thing to do. Enjoy your footy.