In 2008 I lost my job and it was three months before I got another one. I spent the winter at home caring for my daughter while my wife went to work and three great things happened to me in this time.
Firstly, I took my daughter to her first day at kindergarten and she loved it. If you’re contemplating whether or not to have children, for this experience alone, have them.
Second, Michael Tuck knocked on my door and introduced himself. He asked about a car parked in the street where he wanted a rubbish skip placed.
Michael Tuck thinking he had to introduce himself; that made me laugh. After that I knew the rumours were true about his son Shane Tuck moving in across the road.
The third great thing that happened when I was unemployed was I met Shane Tuck.
Meg, lawyer, el presidente of our local primary school and lucky Hawthorn supporter told me she was awestruck when she first saw Michael Tuck down the street.
When she was girl, he was a superstar. I barrack for Richmond and having Shane across the road had a similar effect on me early on.
I’ve always flipped newspapers over to the good news on the back. It’s mostly good, not always.
Murders, corruption and all forms of madness are usually reserved for the front. But lately the footy section of my preferred newspaper is reporting a disproportionate amount of sin. Bikies, drugs, violence and criminal convictions.
I want to read more about footy players and the good things they do on the field, and off it. Which brings me back to Tucky.
Not long after I first met Tucky, his family became part of our little community. We did stuff together that neighbours do and I thought I’d share some of it.
None of our experiences made the newspapers.
He retired from footy this year and he and his family were leaving our little hub in Richmond, so we were gathered at Burnley park on a warm Sunday in November for a farewell to Tucky and his family.
Tucky kicked the little yellow footy back and forth across the park with a group of local kids.
My neighbour Chris quipped, “These kids have no sense of how lucky they are to kick a ball around with an AFL player.”
The park was quite busy with folks walking dogs, kids on bikes and parents pushing prams. I wondered whether they recognised Tucky, out there on the oval delivering perfect drop punts and handballs.
I ran around, took a few handballs and delivered a few short passes and so did some of the other dads. Our shabby skills were further degraded by a few beers each but Tucky hit every target. Dads glided in and out of the game as they tended to calls from their children and wives.
Tucky was into the beers and bbq, relishing a November without a pre-season for the first time in a dozen years. Just a few months before I’d watched him eat grilled fish and no chips while the rest of us didn’t hold back on the battered flake, chips and dimmies.
My youngest brother Matt had just turned 40 when I got tickets for the Richmond change rooms at the MCG.
Before the game we sat on the floor in the rooms like gleeful children. I sent a text to 10 Richmond-tragic mates to boast about where we were.
I was like a teenage boy who’d received an unexpected kiss from a pretty girl, barely able to enjoy the moment, so keen was I to tell everyone about it.
Tucky had come through with the tickets as promised. All I had to do he said was: “Knock on me [sic] door one day and ask for some tickets, it’ll be sweet mate.”
One day I did knock on his door and was invited in for coffee and sat on his couch to watch a bit of American basketball. Footy tickets, coffee and basketball – he was right, it was sweet.
The Tiges had a win, so Matt and I joined the change room queue, dreaming of singing the song with the team.
Brett O’Hanlan was a new recruit who played that day. While we waited we met Brett’s mum, dad, young son and daughter.
Matt asked, “Does it sting a little switching from Collingwood to the Tiges?”
“Not when you son is playing,” came the reply from Dad O’Hanlan. Matt and I bristled with a deep love of our own fatherhood and for our game.
I used to ask Tucky about footy, but not so much that I annoyed him. He told me about his broken noses, broken ears (that affected his balance) and broken seasons playing in the reserves.
I told him every bloke I knew who followed the Tiges bled and cursed when he wasn’t picked in the senior team.
“Why was Tucky in the twos?” they’d say. “He gets 25 touches a game!”
Tucky shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s footy mate.”
Tucky made the newspapers for footy news and not for drugs, drunkenness or for being a peanut. His job finished, but he got another one. He’s taken his family to a new home too, where he has old friends, close family and a brother.
I sent him a text recently about Melbourne being 44 degrees and the Tiges were training.
He replied with “Hey Timbo, good to hear from ya. Not missing footy one bit. Come and visit.”
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