The bulldog tragician
10-04-2014, 08:06 PM
Bob's latest is just wonderful.
When I was 18, in one of my first training sessions at Footscray, I led out in a simple lane work drill and the ball hit my hand awkwardly, jarring my finger. I dropped it, grimaced, and probably swore before moping to the back of the line to lick my wounds.
There I heard Tony Liberatore snarl under his breath: "You've got nine more!" It was the sort of comment that falls in your mind like a seed to the dirt.
Over time, and with the help of a few earthy elements, the seed begins to grow. I still think about it, even now as a 31-year-old, when I hurt myself during training or a game. Not the exact quote perhaps, but the spirit of where it came from. Toughen up, get on with the job.
You can't get comfortable playing in the AFL, and last week showed me that again. The game against the Tigers was a pretty intense affair; we were striving for our first win of the year, and they are a serious team who gave us two thumpings last year.
To win, we needed all hands on deck, a contribution from everyone. If we had a couple go missing, we would probably lose. That's how it is for a team coming from 15th on the ladder.*!
At some stage early in the game, our big full-back Jordan Roughead went down and looked sore. I didn't see him get hurt, but I thought I could see him holding his stomach and in pain. I also know that Roughy is as tough as they come, so if he was staying down, he would have good reason to.
The ball was still in our defensive area and we were on high alert, so despite his ailment I told him bluntly: "I need you for a couple of minutes, Rough."
One of the hard things about footy is that there is barely a stop in play, no time-outs. You have to organise each other on the fly. Messages between teammates tend to be swift, direct and sometimes harsh.
As the afternoon went on and the game ebbed and flowed, I could sense that my big teammate was having a pretty tough day. At one of the breaks he was behind me vomiting, or at least trying to vomit. "Must've been a nasty one in the guts," I thought to myself, with all the empathy of a snarling Liberatore. "He'll be right," was my next thought.*!
The second half of the game was dramatic, as is often the way when the Tigers and the Dogs cross paths. We had got out to a lead, but through the sheer will of Trent Cotchin an co, the Tigers were steaming home and the Bulldogs' defence had the air-raid siren sounding loud.
During the chaos, I became aware that Roughy had a sore shoulder. There was no big announcement, I could just tell. Roughy has played with a sore shoulder before and I casually assumed it was simply more of the same.*!
Deep in the third quarter, after he was able to provide another contest in the air and bring the ball to ground, the ball was skewed in his direction and he fumbled it twice, almost ending in disaster for the Dogs. This time, I was not so casual. "We need 40 minutes out of you Roughy, give me everything you've got. Slap your hands, do whatever you have to do to wake them up!"*!
About an hour later, *!Roughy and I were in the showers, his shoulder broken and swollen. I felt foolish and immensely proud in that moment, a most curious combination of emotions.*!
Speaking softly out the corner of a crooked smile, I asked my heroic mate: "So, slapping your hands to wake them up didn't quite help?"*!
"Not with a snapped AC joint, Bob," came the reply. He played almost the whole game with one arm and through immense pain, all for the cause. I didn't hear him complain once. We love him so.
A few days later, with the weekend's dramatic wins and losses fading in the memory, I sat at home with soft rain falling outside when the news came through that Mitch Clark would retire from football immediately due to mental health issues.*!
I don't know Mitch Clark or the private challenges he faces, but when I think of him now, walking away from the game at the age of 26 for the betterment of his health, I feel a strange kind of admiration for him.
What I do know is that professional football carries a very unique kind of anxiety and pressure. It's a pressure that is constant, a pressure that is both intensely public and intensely private.
Courage comes in many and varying forms. This week, I saw just a couple of them.
Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/afl/courage-comes-in-many-forms-20140409-zqsoz.html#ixzz2yTbLCtis
When I was 18, in one of my first training sessions at Footscray, I led out in a simple lane work drill and the ball hit my hand awkwardly, jarring my finger. I dropped it, grimaced, and probably swore before moping to the back of the line to lick my wounds.
There I heard Tony Liberatore snarl under his breath: "You've got nine more!" It was the sort of comment that falls in your mind like a seed to the dirt.
Over time, and with the help of a few earthy elements, the seed begins to grow. I still think about it, even now as a 31-year-old, when I hurt myself during training or a game. Not the exact quote perhaps, but the spirit of where it came from. Toughen up, get on with the job.
You can't get comfortable playing in the AFL, and last week showed me that again. The game against the Tigers was a pretty intense affair; we were striving for our first win of the year, and they are a serious team who gave us two thumpings last year.
To win, we needed all hands on deck, a contribution from everyone. If we had a couple go missing, we would probably lose. That's how it is for a team coming from 15th on the ladder.*!
At some stage early in the game, our big full-back Jordan Roughead went down and looked sore. I didn't see him get hurt, but I thought I could see him holding his stomach and in pain. I also know that Roughy is as tough as they come, so if he was staying down, he would have good reason to.
The ball was still in our defensive area and we were on high alert, so despite his ailment I told him bluntly: "I need you for a couple of minutes, Rough."
One of the hard things about footy is that there is barely a stop in play, no time-outs. You have to organise each other on the fly. Messages between teammates tend to be swift, direct and sometimes harsh.
As the afternoon went on and the game ebbed and flowed, I could sense that my big teammate was having a pretty tough day. At one of the breaks he was behind me vomiting, or at least trying to vomit. "Must've been a nasty one in the guts," I thought to myself, with all the empathy of a snarling Liberatore. "He'll be right," was my next thought.*!
The second half of the game was dramatic, as is often the way when the Tigers and the Dogs cross paths. We had got out to a lead, but through the sheer will of Trent Cotchin an co, the Tigers were steaming home and the Bulldogs' defence had the air-raid siren sounding loud.
During the chaos, I became aware that Roughy had a sore shoulder. There was no big announcement, I could just tell. Roughy has played with a sore shoulder before and I casually assumed it was simply more of the same.*!
Deep in the third quarter, after he was able to provide another contest in the air and bring the ball to ground, the ball was skewed in his direction and he fumbled it twice, almost ending in disaster for the Dogs. This time, I was not so casual. "We need 40 minutes out of you Roughy, give me everything you've got. Slap your hands, do whatever you have to do to wake them up!"*!
About an hour later, *!Roughy and I were in the showers, his shoulder broken and swollen. I felt foolish and immensely proud in that moment, a most curious combination of emotions.*!
Speaking softly out the corner of a crooked smile, I asked my heroic mate: "So, slapping your hands to wake them up didn't quite help?"*!
"Not with a snapped AC joint, Bob," came the reply. He played almost the whole game with one arm and through immense pain, all for the cause. I didn't hear him complain once. We love him so.
A few days later, with the weekend's dramatic wins and losses fading in the memory, I sat at home with soft rain falling outside when the news came through that Mitch Clark would retire from football immediately due to mental health issues.*!
I don't know Mitch Clark or the private challenges he faces, but when I think of him now, walking away from the game at the age of 26 for the betterment of his health, I feel a strange kind of admiration for him.
What I do know is that professional football carries a very unique kind of anxiety and pressure. It's a pressure that is constant, a pressure that is both intensely public and intensely private.
Courage comes in many and varying forms. This week, I saw just a couple of them.
Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/afl/courage-comes-in-many-forms-20140409-zqsoz.html#ixzz2yTbLCtis