Adam Goodes is an all-time great of the AFL. The future Hall of Famer has used his combination of silky smooth skills, athleticism and smarts to lead the Swans to two premierships and himself to two Brownlow Medals.
His humility in accepting these awards – not to mention his Australian of the Year award – sets an example for his fellow athletes, Australians, the Adnyamathanha and Narungga nations, and Indigenous people in general.
Everybody knows the man can play. He’s great at what he does. And it’s for this reason that we should boo him.
I get why players need to be so sterile, between the whole 24/7 media cycle and our nation’s unwavering support of tall poppy syndrome, but the professional wrestling fan in me yearns for an old-school bad guy to run rampant throughout the competition.
I don’t want a player complimenting the other team so much that he sees his own team as an underdog; I want a player who will barge into a city, insult its supporters, and tell the world how they’re going to kick the other team’s arse.
I don’t want players shaking hands before a game, I want them posing menacingly to try intimidating the good guys, then running away when they’re about to be punched.
Instead of a post-game handshake, I want to see the losing bad guys whining to the umpire about how he miscounted the goals.
I don’t want a player to celebrate a goal by dancing in a way that honours their background, making a stand against racism and inciting otherwise-quiet racists to show their true colours; I want a player to celebrate a goal by taking a team’s flag from a kid in the cheer squad and ripping it in half.
My problem is that the supposed bad guys in recent memory are trying too hard to be good. Ryan Crowley is out for a year for using a banned substance, and all he talks about publicly is trying to work hard and get back in time for a possible grand final berth.
Really? This would be much more entertaining if he claimed that Brent Harvey spiked his water bottle, or if he openly bribed the drug testers.
Nat Fyfe performs at an AFL-best level but doesn’t get the exposure because he’s not in Melbourne. If he came out in the media and told everyone he’s the best in the world and nobody can hold a candle to him, everyone would soon know who he is.
Sam Mitchell is lambasted in the footy world for digging his knees into opponents with the intent to hurt them, so he comes out in the media and claims that he’s not trying to hurt anyone.
Please!
He should wear ‘physio approved’ knee pads, then slip a lead pipe into them when the umpire isn’t looking while standing in front of the opposing cheer squad.
Mick Malthouse gets the sack from Carlton after years of underachieving, and what does he do? He accept his firing with grace, wishes his charges and the club (who paid him millions of dollars) the best, seamlessly hands over to his trusted deputy, John Barker, and walks away from his career with his family in tow, into the sunset and a simpler existence with his legacy well and truly preserved.
(Okay, maybe not the last one.)
It’s time that footy’s bad guys embraced their reputation. It’s time for the Hayden Ballantyne, Liam Picken and even Joel Selwood and Buddy Franklin to incessantly flex their biceps and tell opposing fans that they’re all pencil-neck geeks.
It’s time for Stephen Milne to take a job as runner so he can occasionally punch an opponent in the ribs while Nick Riewoldt distracts the umpire by asking for a goal review.
Gil McLachlan: embrace the hate. Don’t tell us not to boo Adam Goodes – market him as a bad guy. His legacy as a player is undeniable, but potential as a ticket-selling supervillain has only just had its surface scratched.
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