Tommy Hafey was some man. His face seemed etched from granite. His body seemed carved from a boulder. He wore t-shirts no matter the weather. He was all for his men. They endured cold and wet, Hafey would too.
A wise man recently stated that the coach you grew up with was your coach for life. Tommy Hafey, who died on Monday from cancer, is coach to thousands.
I missed all his premierships at Richmond, either not born or too young to remember. One of those premierships came against North Melbourne in 1974. I’ve never been able to watch the game.
I’m going to forget my allegiance and watch the 1974 grand final, whenever it is next replayed. That will be my tribute to Hafey.
Besides, he deserves it. He gave me a tribute once, 34-years-ago.
On April 5, 1980 I was with my family outside the gates at Arden Street, waiting for the grandparents. When Peter Landy and Lou Richards walked into the ground, I knew things were serious. Channel Seven had appointed its A-list commentators for the game.
Minutes later, my mother Patsy pointed out Tommy Hafey as he strolled to the ground. He’d obviously parked somewhere in the nearby streets. Collingwood players and officials probably weren’t allowed to park inside Arden Street.
‘Go and ask him to sign your footy record,’ Patsy said. I hesitated before she thrust a pen at me and told me to go.
I looked at three old men on the footpath, walking towards us. I asked Patsy which one was Hafey.
‘He’s wearing jeans and t-shirt,’ Patsy said.
I ran to the men and asked the right one a silly question. ‘Are you Tom Hafey?’
Hafey laughed. ‘I might be.’
‘Can you sign my record please?’
Hafey looked at me, surprised, confused perhaps by the North Melbourne jumper and scarf. Maybe he thought I’d offer some basic nine-year-old cheek and tell him Collingwood were hopeless and would lose.
He grinned and asked my name as he signed the footy record on the back, over an advertisement for Winfield cigarettes featuring Paul Hogan in a tuxedo.
‘Good luck’ Hafey said and walked on with his men, leaving me standing on the footpath, staring at his signature.
It was simple and elegant, the letters curled with extravagant loops on the f and y. It was the autograph of a happy man, written over an ad for a product he abhorred.
In perfect conditions, North played like losers all day, trailing by 22 points at half time and losing by five points. Collingwood kicked 7:19:61 to our 7:14:56.
One of Xavier Tanner’s eyes swelled shut midway through the game. The swelling would’ve stopped a boxing match but Tanner bravely played on. In the last term he had a chance to snap a goal from the pocket, an easy kick, and managed a point. It was a crucial miss.
Somewhere during the game Gary Dempsey and Peter Moore flew for a mark. Moorewas in front and took the mark. Dempsey belted him on the back of the head in attempting to spoil. Moore’s blonde hair jittered with the force of the errant punch. The crowd laughed asMoorecompletely ignored it, spun around and took his kick. The blow wasn’t deliberate, out of character for Dempsey. Mooreknew that.
After the game, as we left our seats an old North supporter stopped Pa, asking him who won.
‘Collingwood,’ Pa said.
The supporter, too pissed to remember the game or read the scoreboard, hung his head sadly and tried to wander off. It’s hard to forget losses. That old fan probably didn’t remember being atArden Streetthat day, something to be envious of.
I still have that footy record. I respect Hafey for signing it. I was an opposition supporter, a breed of fan who would’ve abused Hafey during his coaching career. He was on the way to coach too, thinking busy thoughts. Signing another autograph for a kid would’ve been a slight imposition, especially one for a North fan.
Yet he did it without fuss. Hafey was all class.
When Collingwood lost the grand final to Richmond in 1980 and to Carlton in 1981, I felt immense sympathy for Hafey. It didn’t seem fair that he kept losing premierships. My juvenile brain figured a man like Hafey deserved a fifth premiership.
When he was sacked in 1982, there were rumours that he’d lost the players. That must’ve been a devastating blow to his psyche, given how much he loved his players.
History remembers the winners. Premiership coaches are rightly feted. Yet Hafey presided over a great era for Collingwood. He took them from a wooden spoon to a grand final in his first year. Under Hafey, the Magpies played in five grand finals, including the draw, in five years.
Such a shame Hafey didn’t get lucky at Collingwood, but there is no doubt they were underdogs leading into all those grand finals.
In 16 seasons from 1966 to 1981, Hafey coached ten grand finals, including the draw. That is an extraordinary record.
Hafey should be better remembered at Collingwood for his work. Instead he is remembered as a Richmond man, and that is no slight, but clubs should do more to recognise those men who led them to a grand final.
As he aged, he found his voice on ABC radio. An elder statesman, the link to the past, his observations weren’t dated. Hafey had watched footy for decades. He evolved with the game.
Occasionally his frustration crept into his commentary whenever there was a turnover, they’re over-finessing, he’d growl. It was a pleasure to listen to.
When I found out he died, I unlocked the cupboard and lifted the footy record out. I looked at the autograph for a while. I remembered the grin on Hafey’s face as he took the footy record and pen, how he wished me luck.
I put the record back and found Kristine in the kitchen.
‘Tommy Hafey is dead,’ I said.
Kristine made a sad face. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said.
‘I am seriously sad, and I never say that.’
Hafey lived life like he’d live forever. His legend will live forever.
