The Roar
The Roar

AFL
Advertisement

For Tiger fans, 35 years of pain is gone

spook new author
Roar Rookie
22nd September, 2017
Advertisement
After 35 years, is it finally the year of the Tiger? (AAP Image/Julian Smith)
spook new author
Roar Rookie
22nd September, 2017
23
1346 Reads

For a generation of Richmond fans, whose childhoods either just caught the end of, or just missed, the Tigers’ last era of greatness, it has been 35 years of pain, false hope, and disappointment.

Not this time.

Born a few days before Richmond lost the 1972 grand final, I sat on the floor a metre from the telly to watch the 1980 grand final. Dad went to the game, I was upset he didn’t take me, but he said “next time”.

In ’81, I was dumbfounded that we could miss the finals (no David Cloke, no Richmond). In ’82, we watched the grand final at home. I was in tears when Carlton kicked away in the second quarter, excited when Maurice (to say ‘Rioli’ is unnecessary to Tigers – there is only one Maurice) led the fight back, and in tears again by the end.

In ’83, we were Lost in the Woods, Without a Cloke, When it Raines. I still remember that Collingwood banner from our match at VFL Park, when Phil Walsh tore us a new one.

In 1984, Brian Taylor led us to a 6-3 start to the season, before it all fell away. I had a footy-themed 12th birthday party, and cheered the Bombers home. As a kid, you love footballers. I loved Tim Watson, Vander, and Leon Baker (and especially Neale Daniher, on whom fate has never let up).

Then things got real bad. We won the spoon. The club nearly went under. First Fitzroy and then Geelong became my ‘September team’. From an expectation of success, we clung to anything. A 17-year-old Matty Knights bore the promise of better days. The win in the wet against Carlton in ’89 had us doing cartwheels. One of five wins for the year.

Save Our Skins. The 1990s. The laughing stock.

Advertisement

The ’93 Escort Cup grand final. 75,000 to a practice match. We won four games for the season.

Richo. Thank the gods for Matthew Richardson. He was us. All our hopes, our wishes, our dreams, our desperate need and impotent rage, personified. God, I love that man. Like a brother.

GSP Images

1995, Scotty Turner smashing the Bombers. Knighter bouncing a swathe through ’em. Brodders. Tough. Good.

False hope. Swooper gone. Walls, burnt-out. The Giesh Unleashed.

False.

9th.

Advertisement

9th.

9th.

Spud. The assistant coach of the wooden spooners was the only one we could get to take on our job.

2001. Flogged in two out of three finals, squeaked in the third against a team that would win the spoon the following year.

The most important part of list management is knowing where you are. The idiots at the wheel thought we were close, so we traded out of a superdraft. We gave up a first-round pick for four years of Greg Stafford. James Kelly was taken with that pick. Stevie J seven picks later, and Sam Mitchell the pick after we drafted David Rodan. Freo would have given us pick one for Darren Gaspar. We could have had Luke Hodge. Or Chris Judd.

So Richmond. Something went right, and we did everything wrong. We lost 48 of our next 66 matches.

Wallet. The Fraud. I never wanted him. I prayed we’d draft Buddy Franklin. We got Richard Tambling. But we got Brett ‘Lids’ Deledio, who was 17 and brilliant and our Matty Knights hope rose again. We had Batman and Robin, we were 7-2, and Robin was the best player in the comp, until the Etihad sand shifted under his feet.

Advertisement

We won three more games for the season.

9th.

9th.

Last.

By 2009 we couldn’t even lose right. Melbourne – *smile*ing Melbourne – cheated us out of one of the first two picks.

Dustin Martin

(AAP Image/Julian Smith).

But we got Dusty Martin, and we saw that it was Good. We lost the first nine in 2010 but we had hope again. Damien ‘Dimma’ Hardwick said the jumper would never hit the floor, and it didn’t for years. We beat Port in the wet and celebrated like it was Carlton in ’89. Jack Riewoldt emerged, as a superstar. In 2012, Trent Cotchin – the third iteration of 17-year-old Genius Hope – did likewise. We were Going Places.

Advertisement

2013. Storming towards the top four, we blasted eight past Carlton in the first quarter of Round 21. It was brilliant, exhilarating footy. But we lost the match. Fifth versus ninth in the elimination. 95,000. The biggest roar ever. Six goals up. Lost.

2014. 3-10. Gone. Nine in a row. Exhilarating. What a ride. A mate and I drove through the night to Adelaide. The team was more spent than us.

2015. A repeat of 2013, substituting North for Carlton.

2016. A debacle.

2017. Wow.

What a ride.

It’s been a rollercoaster. It’s been one of those ones that shoots you straight up and plummets you right back down. At times, it’s been a ghost train.

Advertisement

Now, it feels like a V8, on a newly bitumaned, open highway. Brocky’s driving. It feels smooth, and powerful, but we’re all waiting for a gasket to blow and leave us thirsty in the desert again.

Not this time. Not this *smile*ing time.

We might not win the flag. We might not win tomorrow. But we’ll get where we’re going. It’s hard for us to believe. It doesn’t feel real. That after 35 years, our childhood, our youth, our young adulthood of pain and misery, that as we reach middle age, we might finally find happiness.

But we will.

It’s hugging strangers time.

close