Don't smile if you want to win a premiership

‘The Encyclopedia of AFL Footballers’ described Leigh Matthews as “squat, short-legged and barrel-chested”. They didn’t mention he could also be a little scary. I still remember the day clearly, as would Andrew Demetriou who, if I’m not mistaken, was playing in the same match.

It was Round 13 of the 1987 season during the reserves match between my team Collingwood and North Melbourne. It was also the worst weather I’ve ever played in.

VFL Park was situated in a rain belt so if there was ever going to be a downpour in Melbourne this is where it was going to happen.

With the ground underwater and polar winds moaning and whistling around us, a teammate made a comical quip. Smirking only slightly, I turned to see Matthews standing near the players’ race. With his black eyes and unnerving combination of jolly red cheeks and dark moustache (Santa Claus and Stalin) he was looking, leering …at me.

During the next training session at 6am on a Sunday – the price of losing – Matthews drew attention to the poisonous presence in “one of our young players” of a lack of commitment.

I thought it was a bit harsh but Matthews did lead Collingwood to a famous premiership three years later, and the ruthless Brisbane Lions to a triple after that. I learnt not to smile in front of a coach, especially if you wanted to play in a grand final.

It doesn’t do to smile if you want to be a premiership coach either.

Todd Viney was never going to be appointed the permanent coach of Melbourne because he’s a natural grinner; can’t help himself.

No, Melbourne president Jim Stynes will be on the lookout for a bloke with ‘a presence’: an ability to generate both fear and awe. It comes from a serious demeanour, a reputation from one’s playing days for being tough, and an awe-inspiring premiership pedigree.

The Demons have only had one great coach. Norm Smith was described by his own son as “a football tyrant who ruled his teams with an iron fist.”

Ron Barassi followed his mentor’s example, as confirmed by one of his star players Brent Crosswell: “We were a team driven by fear”.

Hawthorn’s dominant eras were overseen by John Kennedy, a dour school principal in a brown overcoat, and Allan Jeans, a grim-faced police officer who got his players to “bash the hell out of one another at training”.

Admittedly, many premiership coaches also had a small paternal streak. When he wasn’t throwing the young Robert Walls against the change room walls, Barassi would drive him to his house in Heathmont for family barbecues and games of billiards. Even Leigh Matthews was seen giving his players a little cuddle after the 1990 Grand Final.

In the past, great coaches were renowned for their oratory skills – the mesmerising speeches before, during and
after games (Barassi’s “Handball! Handball! Handball! during the 1970 Grand Final is perhaps a little overrated)
that inspired unlikely victories or changed the nature of the game forever. But like their military equivalents they
were all so earnest.

Churchill’s “to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime” is a masterpiece but so is this call to arms by a Russian general, penned by Woody Allen, against the
threat of Napoleon: “Imagine your loved ones conquered and forced to live under French rule! Do you want them to eat that rich food and those heavy sauces?!”

Football is war, I suppose, and you don’t really want a clown leading the charge but if I could have chosen a coach it would have been Kevin Bartlett.

I could relate to him. He was a wispy rover/forward who didn’t believe in tackling and was not intimidating. His
look (John Howard in his days as Treasurer – boyish but with a comb-over) was more weird than scary.

He also had a son who was a writer and not a draft pick – the same son who referred to his father’s coaching as “not so good”.

More importantly Bartlett was a wit, a genuine smartarse. I wouldn’t have won a premiership with him, of course, but I would have had a lot of laughs.