Spare a thought for the vanquished, but not much more. No one is forced to play football. Men chose to play, often under duress, poor form, injury and a lack of confidence. It’s better playing without those burdens. Collingwood could not and they lost the 2011 grand final. It’s okay to feel sad for the players, but some of them played in a premiership in 2010, which will briefly temper their disappointment.
We stand side by side at the MCG wearing Essendon scarves and heavy clobber against the chill. Paul is on the left, wearing a plastic poncho despite rain drifting away at half time. I’m the North Melbourne fan on the right, wearing an Essendon scarf purely for warmth, my poncho abandoned at half time. We smile for the camera, trying to look relaxed.
In the background, just inches away across a dividing fence, thousands of fans are watching the presentations as Geelong celebrated the 2011 premiership.
Moments after the photo was taken, cannons beside the stage spewed forth thousands of pieces of paper, brilliant blue and white strips into an overcast sky. The triumphant cloud of smoke and glitter rose from the same turf where Collingwood’s premiership hopes had collapsed, killed by might, simple brutality, the Cats falling, jumping and crashing into their opponents, wresting away the premiership.
Tens of thousands of Collingwood fans suffered when the final siren rang out, their spirit fragmenting as potential heroes capitulated live in front of 99,546 people.
Six months on the photo has become testament to duplicitous neutrality, in my mind anyway. It should hardly be surprising that a frozen instant taken a moment after the 2011 grand final can invoke such self-interest, narcissism is a fascinating character trait. Evidence of self love likes in the origin of the photograph. From 125 taken on the day, was the only one I didn’t take.
It was almost deleted the first time I saw it. A week later, looking at the photos again, it stood out as unique from others taken on grand final day. Our smiles could cause controversy, if only for Collingwood fans. A critic, most likely a Collingwood fan, might call the photo tasteless opportunity, a basking memory free from compassion, a hurtful example of the neutral fan’s lack of sympathy for the vanquished.
Despite the atmosphere around us, the despondent hush from Collingwood supporters, Paul and I smiled for the camera.
The photo was taken by a curly haired woman. She lined us up through thick glasses, a Collingwood jumper stretched across her girth. The woman went to the grand final alone, becoming a sad Magpie fan without hope, standing face to face with two men seemingly untroubled by her pain.
Perhaps she took the photo without qualm. Certainly she didn’t hesitate, but a frown appeared when she was asked and she reached out slowly for the camera. Why are you here, the woman might’ve wondered as she pressed the button. After looking at the screen distastefully, she handed the camera back.
Thousands of club members missed out on a ticket for the grand final, as they do each year. The woman might’ve known some. She knew Paul and I were imposters, neutral fans embedded in a Collingwood section, and, no thanks to her, the photo smacks of smug delight, we are at the MCG, when so many weren’t. It is also proof, in the absence of need, that neutral fans have rights to grand final tickets. Please don’t criticise the AFL for it.
Smiling for the camera could also be proof we’ve learned nothing from unfortunate days when Essendon and North Melbourne lost grand finals. In 1998 I felt sick watching North lose to Adelaide. Paul felt the same in 2001when Essendon lost to Brisbane.
Despite those significant losses, they were irrelevant when the photo was taken after the 2011 grand final. It looks like we were enjoying the thrill of Geelong’s triumph, ignoring scratches on the psyche of Collingwood fans, disconnected from the immediacy of defeat before that defeat had the chance to reverberate around the MCG.
On club support alone, we cannot be criticised for being at the grand final. Neutrality makes no difference to the occasion. Neutral fans, without any investment, can enjoy the moment and the atmosphere without the uplifting euphoria experienced by the winners. The result of the grand final matters not, spiritually at least, for neutral fans.
A scene from the movie Scarface is indicative of the moment Paul and I had our photo taken at the MCG. Tony Montana, played by Al Pacino, is a gangster. Montana is about to kill his boss, Frank Lopez, in front of Detective Mel Bernstein. Lopez, worried about getting shot, asks Bernstein for help.
‘It’s your tree Frank,’ Bernstein said. ‘You’re sitting in it.’ Seconds later Lopez was killed, shot to death. Detective Bernstein, who figured he was neutral to the situation, didn’t care until he was shot to death, too.
Neutrality doesn’t always provide comfort…
Somewhere in infancy, perhaps because of a father, grandfather, brother or football clinic, children lose their neutrality. Each AFL fan, however young, chooses to support their club. Collingwood and Geelong fans are no different.
There can be no sympathy for vanquished supporters because of their choice, which the photo of Paul and I adequately depicts. We did not choose to follow Collingwood or Geelong, but we chose to be at the MCG.
Photographs are often invasive. There are moments when photos shouldn’t be taken. No one wants to be in a picture if they’re crying, angry or tired, so most photos are staged, following a simple formula, stand there, smile, pout, exaggerate a sneer, all for the camera. People smile in photographs no matter how they’re feeling, to look their best.
Smiles, though, often misrepresent situations of great emotion or disinterest. People smile for the camera when swearing or gritted teeth seem better options. Smiles may look good in photos, but they often mask true emotions and intent.
Simply, photographs can’t truly be trusted.
You may not be able to tell, but I wasn’t happy when the photo was taken. I will explain with great accuracy.
Most people can’t be selective when they’re photographed, hence the smiles. In the aftermath of the 2011 grand final few Collingwood fans would’ve smiled for the camera. It’s debateable whether Paul and I could’ve appeared in a better photo taken before the game. It would’ve contained the same vainglorious air, I was here, where were you, but it wouldn’t have carried such a sense of opportunism.
The photo of Paul and I does not contribute to the drama of grand final day. On a shallow level, it is nothing but two men smiling. There are thousands of photos taken by professionals and other amateurs that better capture the thrills, horror, futility and splendour of that day.
Yet, two men smiling in the face of defeat defines the neutral fan, those distanced from the result, careless, and that remains its meagre strength, for it is just an untrustworthy photo.
Pain has hierarchy when one has invested emotion and love. Without the investment, pain is nothing. Paul and I made no investment, spiritually, and we tried being nice afterwards. Compassion, though, following a grand final defeat, needs to be fed. In the aftermath, it was best offered by Collingwood fans. Everyone else seemed contrite, because, as cliché suggests, no one likes Collingwood except for Collingwood fans.
Without compassionate attachment, the photograph is an artful reminder that people will smile when a camera is pointed at them. It is not just an egotistical reminder of two men at the MCG revelling in the midst of despair, it is proof of learned behaviour.
Don’t believe the image represents something it can’t. Our smiles are not an embrace of Geelong’s heroics, to rally when down and win going away. Why we are smiling has nothing to do with victory or elation. It remains a photograph of neutrality, the aftermath of the grand final, without competitive context. It provides a memory, of a dreadful day in sporting terms, for Collingwood and all their fans.
Spare a thought for the woman who played photographer, chosen by virtue of proximity. She was there, she was asked, she took the photo, performing a simple task, point and shoot, but she had options, because I interrupted her disappointed chatter about Collingwood. She was downloading sadness and I cut her off…
A scene from the 1980 iconic Australian movie The Club comes to mind. The film depicts the pressure felt by rookie Geoff Hayward, (played by John Howard, the actor, not our former Prime Minister) during his first season at Collingwood.
Hayward, a star recruit from Tasmania, was having trouble assimilating at Victoria Park. He’s playing for the money, football shits me, he says during one scene. As the highest paid player in the team, he’s flawed, fond of marijuana and can barely get a kick. The coach, Laurie Holden (played by Jack Thompson) is unsure how to handle his star.
One night Hayward is late for training.
‘Where have you been,’ Holden asked.
‘Get stuffed,’ Hayward replied.
Holden took Hayward into the change rooms. There is a physical confrontation…
The woman who captured the image of Paul and I at the MCG, while half the crowd sung Geelong’s theme song, could’ve said get stuffed. I would’ve understood. The first grand final she’d been to ended in a loss, leaving her on the edge of calamity, the ruination of what could’ve been a great day. She wasn’t forced to be there, but she wasn’t compelled to play photographer either.
As the woman discussed her pain, she was asked to take a picture of two men smiling, because they’d been at the MCG on grand final day.
History is written for the victors. Geelong, with their third premiership in five years, is a great side and deserved of the accolades. On grand final day, they left the woman badly hurt. She was stunned afterwards, morose, speaking in mournful tones, mentioning players who didn’t perform and the second quarter lead let slip. She would’ve fretted for days afterwards. Such a shame her first grand final was a loss. At least she was there, but that will never be any consolation.
The woman will recall the pain easily but never exactly as it happened. She will remember snippets of the grand final, certainly the instant she knew it was lost, one she would’ve discussed many times since. Perhaps she can’t remember taking the photo, it was a tough day, or maybe she recalls that picture and wonders why she didn’t say no, my team just lost a grand final, ask someone else.
the photo cannot be trusted, because my smile masks true emotion and intent, my neutrality not without investment. I remember the shock of Collingwood’s crumbling resolve, can recall the swirl of emotions as Magpie fans in the rich seats turned on each other when Geelong led by four goals in the final quarter, old men threatening violence on other old men.
I do not hate Geelong as much as I hate other clubs, and though I love North Melbourne, I didn’t like what happened to Collingwood on grand final day. During the last quarter I sent angry texts, this is fucked, and willed Collingwood to win.
The loss, though, didn’t hurt me like North did in 1998. There is no way I wanted my photo taken in a smile after that grand final. That was the worst day of my life. I had nightmares about that game in the ensuing months. It seemed everything I believed in was attacked and wrecked, a reminder how cruel football, and by extension, life can be.
Arguments about the defeat were pointless, and though North won the grand final in 1999, nothing has ever erased the bitter memories of that stunning smashup in 1998. Collingwood might win the premiership this year, but they will never be free from 2011.
The strength in the woman’s photo is in the background. As a distraught Collingwood fan, she captured thousands of people in despair and raptures. Geelong supporters are clapping, some belting out the club song. Respectful Collingwood fans watch the presentations dispassionately. The head of a Magpie tragic walking up the isle is frozen neatly between our heads. Another Collingwood lover is gazing away from the celebrations, unable to watch any longer.
Paul and I are the only two posing for a camera, a simple mistake of timing, perhaps, when thousands of people were hurting.
The grand final is history now, but when I open the photo, I’m back at the MCG, smiling despite the loss, goddamn Collingwood, again.
Watching the grand final reproduces the angst I felt midway through the last quarter. I’m still yet to watch it all, no matter how good it was. It is painfully clear that neutral fans can invest too much unexplainable energy on a club they do not support.
I’m smiling for the camera because that’s what people do, during disasters or not. We are programmed from a young age to smile for the camera. That’s why I smiled after asking the woman to take a photograph, to hopefully look nice in a photo. My smile is taut and strained, an attempt at masking true emotion and intent.
Paul’s smile looks much more natural, a true neutral fan with no emotional attachment. All he wanted was a great game, he got it, I didn’t and I smiled anyway.
When I looked at the photo for the first time, that illusion was the reason it was almost deleted. I was angry when the photo was taken, and it didn’t represent my thoughts and feelings.
Changing emotions, though, is what people do, especially when in front of a camera. Paul and I were at the MCG on grand final day, showing off in a smile, and that is the reason I didn’t delete it.