What was the first final you ever went to? Technically, mine was the 1978 grand final. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to watch the game.
Instead, I was with thousands of kids clad in North Melbourne or Hawthorn t-shirts and socks. We were part of the pre-match entertainment, getting marched into the MCG clutching helium filled balloons and lining the boundary line, waiting until a man in a blue coat told us to let them fly.
I was lucky enough to provide balloon service for grand finals in 1979 and 80. It was a great thrill, standing on the boundary as the teams ran onto the ground and tore through the banner.
The first time I sat in the crowd to watch a final was the 1983 qualifier between Hawthorn and Fitzroy.
I was there with Johnny Franklin, a Fitzroy fan who lived two houses away down Willett Avenue in Oak Park. He and his brothers were the only kids at school who followed Fitzroy. That made them unique and unusual.
Johnny had red hair, freckles and wore thick glasses. That meant he got picked on occasionally, for no reason other than his appearance. He was tall and thin, gentle without fear, with plenty of cheek but never instigating a confrontation.
The one time he engaged in a fight, a grub who wasn’t involved in the fight punched Johnny from the side, breaking his glasses and cutting his eye.
We lived a minute walk from Oak Park Primary School and spent hours on the oval kicking the football or playing cricket in the nets. There were dinners at each other’s houses, trips away, places to go on our bikes and plenty of time to hang out at school.
Each Wednesday I helped him on his paper round.
Johnny had a spare ticket for the qualifying final because his older brother couldn’t go. My dad took some convincing but relented. We took the train from Oak Park to Flinders Street and walked to the MCG. We were 12 years old, without adult supervision.
It didn’t matter that North wasn’t involved. By 1983, I hated Hawthorn more than any other club. I thought Leigh Matthews, Robert Dipierdomenico and Dermot Brereton were thugs. The Hawks didn’t just play hard, they played dirty.
Besides, they’d beaten North in grand finals. And North finished on top in 1983, with Hawthorn second. I was more worried about them than any other finalist.
So I wanted Fitzroy to win.
Our seats were great, on the flank at the city end about ten rows from the fence. It was a beautiful day.
We were sitting behind a group of Hawthorn fans, men in their thirties and forties. One of them had the biggest beer gut I’d ever seen and a thick moustache. During the first quarter, when Michael Tuck kicked a goal, Johnny let his frustration show.
‘Fuck you Tuck, you Kentucky Fried Fuck,’ he yelled.
The fat man turned his ample head and growled at us. ‘Cut out the swearing boys. Don’t talk like that again.’
We didn’t swear again. To this day, I try not to swear loudly at the football. The fat man was scary.
Scores were level at quarter time. The Hawks kicked away in the second term and led by 27-points at half time. Johnny was angry. He wanted to swear.
Fitzroy won the third quarter by a goal to trail by 21-points at the last change. Johnny wanted the first goal of the last quarter.
Fitzroy fought back in the final term. Bernie Quinlan’s eighth goal put the Lions in front at the 23-minute mark. Four minutes later, Gary Pert was penalised for a soft in-the-back free by umpire Glenn James. Richard Loveridge goaled. Hawthorn won by four points.
Johnny was shattered during the train ride home. Fitzroy had been finalists in three of the previous five seasons. 1983 was their best chance to win a premiership. All they had to do was beat Hawthorn.
The following week, they lost the first semi-final to Essendon by 25-points. And those brutal bastards, Hawthorn went on to win the grand final.
Johnny’s father moved the family across town to Mordialloc in September, 1984. I stayed over for a few nights in December, meeting Johnny in the city and playing the pinnies before taking the train to Mordialloc.
We had a great time, but that was it. We never spoke again. Johnny now lived on the other side of town and was going to a different school.
A few years ago I tried finding him on Facebook but couldn’t.
I wanted to ask how he handled Fitzroy’s merger with Brisbane. If he stayed loyal to the brand and celebrated three consecutive premierships or chose another club in Melbourne to support.
I wonder why I can’t find him on Facebook. I wonder if he’s still alive. I wonder if I can use Facebook properly.
Johnny is just a memory now, one indelibly linked with football. He is just a kid I think about occasionally whenever I feel sorry for Fitzroy, or recall my first final.
When you’re a kid, whatever the reasons, mates are often expendable. Memories, though, are never expendable. Not when it comes to old mates and football.
