We St Kilda Saints fans thought we knew failure when we watched our inept team repeatedly dodge death during the 1980s, but that was nothing compared to the morale-crushing losses in the 1997 and 2009 Grand Finals.
At least when I sat in the late September rain last year staring into the MCG stands as Geelong fans celebrated around me, I’d only had to travel from Brunswick. On the same day twelve years earlier, the tragedy came at the end of a 10,000km odyssey.
It was late in the second quarter of the 1997 Grand Final as dead-eyed Jason Heatley ran towards goal, about to put my Saints 22 points up. Barry Hall was on fire, and the underdog Adelaide Crows looked finished. I was rising from my seat, ecstatic, when the ball cannoned into the post, and somehow there it ended.
Ninety minutes later, deep in the final quarter, I sat cradling my head in my hands, hiding from a vision that will haunt me forever: Darren Jarman, the mercurial Adelaide forward with a history of choking on big occasions, maniacally celebrating his fifth last-quarter goal and Adelaide’s inevitable Premiership. All I wanted was to be back in Africa.
Nine days earlier, I’d checked my watch as the dilapidated bus sputtered into the sleepy Zimbabwean town of Masvingo. It was nearing 10pm Thursday back in Melbourne, where my family would be gathered for dinner, waiting for the announcement of the Saints team to play the reigning premiers, North Melbourne, the next night for a spot in the Grand Final.
As I hopped off the bus, I wondered again why St Kilda was doing this now, midway through my six-month African journey. Since I’d left in July, we had not lost a game and this brilliant streak – eight games and counting – had stalked me through Africa: the rolling surf of Jeffrey’s Bay was our come-from-behind win over Sydney; the desert fog of Swakopmund was our thumping of Richmond; and the haunting, bone-dry expanse of Etosha National Park marked our jubilant victory over Port Adelaide to clinch the Minor Premiership. My departure from the country had only spurred the Saints on.
I found a phone box in Masvingo and called home. My father answered and immediately advised me to be at Johannesburg airport – almost a thousand kilometres away – for a flight home on Monday.
He and my three brothers had reserved a ticket on the once-weekly flight, to be bought only if St Kilda won. The travel agent, who had no interest in football, was bamboozled by the concept, but it made sense to me. The seed of a stupid idea had been planted. I hung up and wandered, distracted, back into the dusty street.
When I called the next day, my mother heard my voice and said simply, “They won”.
Over the previous 24 hours, I’d found myself wondering why I’d be mad enough to interrupt the trip of a lifetime to attend a game of football.
I reflected on my dad, and how he’d been studying for his final university exams on that glorious day in 1966 when we won our only flag. He’d watched us lose the year before, and it must have seemed that we’d be in grand finals every second year.
In contrast, my formative years had been spent following a debt-riddled team that always seemed a breath away from extinction. I recalled great moments from my childhood: Winmar’s screamer over Tuck, Plugger’s Brownlow, beating Carlton at Moorabbin in 1989, and hugging my father and brothers in 1992 when we won a final for the first time in 19 years.
I’d survived as a Saints fan on those little moments, and I wasn’t going to miss the best one of all. “OK,” I told Mum. “I’m coming back.”
As the minibus rattled through the darkness on the Sunday night, it sputtered to a stop in the middle of the bush. I spent the next 12 frantic hours trying to hitch a ride, and by the time a middle-aged Zimbabwean couple picked me up, I had admitted the dream was over. They sped the 600km to the airport but got there an hour after departure time.
As I trudged into the terminal, I looked at the board and saw a little miracle: my flight was delayed three hours. At that moment, I felt certain we were going to win. But now I know that God just wanted me to endure the heartbreak.
The gathering at my parents’ house after the game began as a wake and finished as a sort of crazed party in a parallel universe where the Saints had won. We replayed the game and turned it off when Heatley hit the post.
Late in the night, my brother Jeremy asked if I was glad I’d come back. I thought of Robert Harvey waving at us during the Grand Final Parade, of joyous catch-ups with friends, and of reading about myself – the Saints freak who’d flown halfway across the world – in the paper.
But most of all I thought of the balloons they’d released in the team colours just before the game. It was a traditional part of the Grand Final build-up and as a child I’d always dreamed that one day those balloons would be the colours of my obsession.
Was I glad I’d come back to witness the ultimate football heartbreak?
“Absolutely,” I told Jeremy. “I couldn’t have missed it.”
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