Paul Little blames the Hird Camp. Tania Hird blames Andrew Demetriou. James Hird blames everyone but himself. Ian Hanke blames whoever isn’t paying him. Everyone blames Stephen Dank, who blames everyone back.
Melbourne’s new coach, Paul Roos, blames a lack of self-belief for his side capitulating so lifelsessly. On the quite bizarre flipside, if post-match talkback radio was any guide, St Kilda was to blame for picking Nick Riewoldt, because without him the Saints wouldn’t have won.
Collingwood blames Nathan Buckley – too ego-driven, still too green – while Carlton blames his defecting mentor, Mick Malthouse – too overbearing, too unwilling to delegate, too set in his ways.
Richmond blames Jack Riewoldt. How dare he succumb to Matthew Warnock?
The football world blames Sydney, whose media is blaming Buddy Franklin. ‘Ten years’ rings a deathly toll in most ears. Not at the Swans. According to them, Buddy is settling in just fine. His form isn’t patchy. He’s just finding his feet. Dan Hannebery isn’t off the rails. There’s been no fallings-out with Ryan O’Keefe. Everything’s tickety-boo.
So who do the Swans blame? Why tabloid scuttlebutt, of course.
Against all this, when a player like now-former Hawk Dayle Garlett forgoes an opportunity to compete within the AFL’s strict elitist parameters for a quieter life nearer to home, he’s somehow cast as wasteful, selfish and unpalatable.
That’s all in just one round of football. And I haven’t even mentioned umpires.
This constant spinning cycle of self-righteousness; of unwillingness to concede an inch; of frailty patched with bluster. One wonders how it all started.
As the sun sets on Andrew Demetriou’s reign, we could probably do worse than look at where the buck ultimately stops.
For all the financial successes enjoyed by the AFL, rarely – if ever – has there been a single apologetic utterance. No quarter given. None taken. Just a steady flow of might is right.
I often recall a moment I observed on an escalator after the Suns’ first ever game at Metricon. Andrew Demetriou and all his shadows were heading up to a function room to bathe in the glory of their code-expanding success. We were heading the other way.
As we passed the AFL entourage, we overheard Demetriou offer warm and genuine praise for a job well done to one of his young, young suited staffers. The kid was jelly-legged, almost struck dumb. It was as if he’d won a lottery. It was funny as hell. It was also a little weird.
But that is the culture now. It’s aspirational. Rungs on the ladder are fought for, on and off the paddock. People everywhere striving to be faultless. To never, ever err, lest their CV inherit an indelible black mark. To be desirably mechanical.
And yet here we sit, our AFL dominant, nationalised, successfully expanded, its coffers full to the brim and some. Still, one wonders what an injection of base-level humility into modern football’s corporate mire might offer.
If, for example, Michael Voss, Scott Watters and Mark Neeld conceded it was all too much too soon and they needed help.
If financially-powerful clubs conceded a broader responsibility to the maintenance and welfare of an 18-team competition.
If financially weak clubs conceded that relocation might mean survival and not demoralising death.
If everyone conceded that winning isn’t necessarily the main objective when finals are out of reach.
If the AFL confessed to being unprepared and answerless when the Essendon bombshell dropped.
If – perhaps – James Hird conceded early that the appeal of a cut corner was a step too far that quickly spiralled out of control.
If Tania Hird had thought better of supplying dodgy, recidivist filler on a slow news day.
The AFL sets an ultra-competitive benchmark for its participants. Faultlessness is the unspoken objective.
Perhaps if we can spot a weakness in the modern code, it’s where mistakes are hidden for fear of consequence.
Gillon McLachlan might be well-advised to ponder the ramifications of all this when shifting into his new corner office in a few short months.
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Things heating up in Canberra!
Diplomatically answered, Darcy!
For all the pomp and circumstance that surrounds the now-traditional Anzac Day clash at the MCG, there has been one thing conspicuously lacking over…
Old mate summing it up better than anyone possibly could!
