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Princes Park (lets not call it Optus Oval now that we dont have to) has never been everyones cup of Stockholm Blend tea, but it will forever hold a special place in my heart for being the venue of my first live AFL (then VFL) match.
It was Round 9, 1983, a positively vivid Saturday afternoon in May, in an era that seems almost prehistoric such is the relentless march of time. In those days all games would still be played on the Saturday, unless the Sydney Swans had a home game, in which case the SCG would be utilised on the Sunday. It appears quite surreal to me now that there was a huge debate going on back then about the morality of playing football on a Sunday, but when a week is a long time in football, 22 years is an eternity or more.
Standing room was phased out with moon boots and thin leather ties, but I was wedged among the (predominantly) Carlton-centric crowd, just shy of the hill at the scoreboard end. The Hawthorn side that day was considered inferior to a Carlton line-up that was revelling in back-to-back flags, but nevertheless contained names such as: Leigh Matthews, Peter Knights, Michael Tuck, Dermott Brereton (in what was, effectively, his first season), Rodney Eade, Terry Wallace, Russell Greene and Robert Dipierdomenico.
I remember being somewhat awed by Matthews, simply because even then he was the biggest name in the game. The Carlton tragics, preened large like prancing peacocks, hid their admiration for the great man behind a seemingly ceaseless verbal barrage, many of them looking unselfconsciously ludicrous as they tottered gracelessly on small stilts of empty beer cans. Feeling smaller than my stature and younger than my years, I swayed quietly with the ever ebbing crowd; all but indistinguishable in a sea of denim jeans and duffle coats.
The game itself carries little memory for me, partly because most games blend into one at home and away level, but mainly because memory can be a frail thing across the vastness of decades. Hawthorn got away early to a big lead, only for Carlton to bang a lazy nine through in the second term to regain the lead. The sides were two of the better ones going around at the time, and it was hardly surprising that only 8 points would separate them (in Carltons favour) come final siren time.
I remember ambling out of the ground with (Carlton supporting) family members, largely indifferent to the result, as I was happy enough for just having been there. On the journey back to the car, a young Carlton supporter (he couldnt have been older than 5 or 6) enlightened me on the harsher elements of football as a mode of psychological warfare when he gave me a nice old sledging. Yeah, he was just a kid, but I hate him now as I hated him then and it is the lingering memory of his Damien (Omens 1,2,3 &4) like face that returns to me whenever I feel foolishly inclined to sympathise with Carlton when theyre struggling.
While the memory of the game itself was hazy, my recollection of the major sports headline in the Sunday Sun (as it was then) the following morning remains as vivid as ever. Former Brownlow Medallist, Neil Roberts was writing for them then, and he didnt make even a cursory attempt to hide his disdain for Hawthorn in writing HISTORY, HAWKS HAVE HAD IT! This headline, funnily enough, was the first thing that came into my mind several months later as the siren blew a merciful end to Essendons traumatic attempt to best Hawthorn on Grand Final day.
Princes Park holds other precious memories for me too, of course. High among them, another Saturday, 7 years on, sitting quietly in my seat, numb from having been fired from my job the previous day, and licking very raw wounds in the best way I knew how. I dont think I was ever more grateful to the side for that win. I was also on hand, in the Elliott stand (yes Virginia, some people actually paid good money to sit in it) when a hapless Fitzroy fan, frazzled beyond the limits of his sanity, stood and regaled stunned onlookers with his own footballing version of the Gettysburg Address. If the prose was not always as eloquent as it may have been, the passion invested in the delivery more than amply compensated. Fitzroy, as did happen so often, were belted again, but I cant help but think had they only had another 100 supporters like this guy they may still have been with us today.
Vale Princes Park. You may have been home to the enemy infidels, but I loved you dearly, all the same
It was Round 9, 1983, a positively vivid Saturday afternoon in May, in an era that seems almost prehistoric such is the relentless march of time. In those days all games would still be played on the Saturday, unless the Sydney Swans had a home game, in which case the SCG would be utilised on the Sunday. It appears quite surreal to me now that there was a huge debate going on back then about the morality of playing football on a Sunday, but when a week is a long time in football, 22 years is an eternity or more.
Standing room was phased out with moon boots and thin leather ties, but I was wedged among the (predominantly) Carlton-centric crowd, just shy of the hill at the scoreboard end. The Hawthorn side that day was considered inferior to a Carlton line-up that was revelling in back-to-back flags, but nevertheless contained names such as: Leigh Matthews, Peter Knights, Michael Tuck, Dermott Brereton (in what was, effectively, his first season), Rodney Eade, Terry Wallace, Russell Greene and Robert Dipierdomenico.
I remember being somewhat awed by Matthews, simply because even then he was the biggest name in the game. The Carlton tragics, preened large like prancing peacocks, hid their admiration for the great man behind a seemingly ceaseless verbal barrage, many of them looking unselfconsciously ludicrous as they tottered gracelessly on small stilts of empty beer cans. Feeling smaller than my stature and younger than my years, I swayed quietly with the ever ebbing crowd; all but indistinguishable in a sea of denim jeans and duffle coats.
The game itself carries little memory for me, partly because most games blend into one at home and away level, but mainly because memory can be a frail thing across the vastness of decades. Hawthorn got away early to a big lead, only for Carlton to bang a lazy nine through in the second term to regain the lead. The sides were two of the better ones going around at the time, and it was hardly surprising that only 8 points would separate them (in Carltons favour) come final siren time.
I remember ambling out of the ground with (Carlton supporting) family members, largely indifferent to the result, as I was happy enough for just having been there. On the journey back to the car, a young Carlton supporter (he couldnt have been older than 5 or 6) enlightened me on the harsher elements of football as a mode of psychological warfare when he gave me a nice old sledging. Yeah, he was just a kid, but I hate him now as I hated him then and it is the lingering memory of his Damien (Omens 1,2,3 &4) like face that returns to me whenever I feel foolishly inclined to sympathise with Carlton when theyre struggling.
While the memory of the game itself was hazy, my recollection of the major sports headline in the Sunday Sun (as it was then) the following morning remains as vivid as ever. Former Brownlow Medallist, Neil Roberts was writing for them then, and he didnt make even a cursory attempt to hide his disdain for Hawthorn in writing HISTORY, HAWKS HAVE HAD IT! This headline, funnily enough, was the first thing that came into my mind several months later as the siren blew a merciful end to Essendons traumatic attempt to best Hawthorn on Grand Final day.
Princes Park holds other precious memories for me too, of course. High among them, another Saturday, 7 years on, sitting quietly in my seat, numb from having been fired from my job the previous day, and licking very raw wounds in the best way I knew how. I dont think I was ever more grateful to the side for that win. I was also on hand, in the Elliott stand (yes Virginia, some people actually paid good money to sit in it) when a hapless Fitzroy fan, frazzled beyond the limits of his sanity, stood and regaled stunned onlookers with his own footballing version of the Gettysburg Address. If the prose was not always as eloquent as it may have been, the passion invested in the delivery more than amply compensated. Fitzroy, as did happen so often, were belted again, but I cant help but think had they only had another 100 supporters like this guy they may still have been with us today.
Vale Princes Park. You may have been home to the enemy infidels, but I loved you dearly, all the same
