My Heart Beats True

An email came last week from the MFC inviting members to write about why they barrack for the Demons or a facet of their affection for the club and players over time, something like that. It was a competition of some sort but I can't recall the prize or the e address it was supposed to be sent to as the email was deleted from the inbox and then from deleted items. The bad weather on the weekend gave me the opportunity to write a piece and I include it here. I like it. I sent it to the club to their general info address but I know not if it will get to the person coordinating the competition. I forgot to include my name, but I guess they have my return e address if they feel the need.

MY HEART BEATS TRUE


I was 12 years old in 1964 when my best mate Bubs and I somehow managed to get standing room tickets to the Grand Final. We caught the first train from Mt. Waverley and queued till the gates opened. Some people had camped overnight to get a good possy at the front, right up against the cyclone wire in the southern stand. We rushed in and started our long wait as the crowd built behind us to a frightening monster.

In the seating in front of the wire there were plenty of red and blue scarves, blankets on laps, steaming thermoses and picnic baskets. The standing room area was largely a Collingwood stronghold. We dared not leave our place at the front for any reason or we'd be unable to see. When Gabelich ran down the ground bouncing and fumbling the ball to kick a goal that put Collingwood in front late in the last quarter the monster, erupting with the most deafening roar I've ever heard, surged forward. Bubs and I thought we'd be crushed to death against the fence. I truly feared for my life.

When 'Froggy' Crompton snapped the famous goal that regained the lead, the monster behind became an angry seething mass wanting to fight itself, but there was no elbow room. Fear and tension gripped right to the end. I think it was Barry Bourke, moved from full forward to stack the backline in the dying seconds, who took a saving mark. The final siren brought euphoric relief, but in fear of the angry mob dispersing we remained at the wire fence for some time.

The twenty men in red and blue that day became my lifelong heroes. Barass left the next year, we were OK early in '65, till a showdown with Bubsy's team, the Bombers, who went on to win the flag. Little did I know, we wouldn't make the finals again till 1987. I kept following Hassa and his men. New champs came; Stan Alves, Gary Hardiman, Greg Wells and Robbie Flower were great footballers. ‘Tiger’ Ridley and ‘Skilts’ gave us hope in the seventies. Big Carl was...Big Carl, Barass came home. Gerrard Healy was a beauty who got away. The Northey class of '87 let us dream. Balmy and Danners had a crack. Garry, Todd, Big Jimmy, Schwarter, Neita, Stinga, Febes, Wizard, Robbo, Jimmy Mac, they went close. Shwarter's knees, Garry's back, Prymke’s back, merger drama, financial crisis, wooden spoons, Big Jim's cancer; a rocky road.

I caught up with Bubs recently after a 30 year gap. He’s on the Gold Coast. We're closing on sixty now. His Bombers have won five flags since '64, he reminded me. I hope Bails and the new generation of young guns can give my sons lifelong heroes like the gladiators of '64 did for me. Wife Libby was eight years old then. She says she and her sisters chanted in the streets of Wangaratta, "We won the war, in 1964."