hujsh
10-10-2016, 09:19 PM
Could this have been written by our BT? Are you holding out on us mate!?
http://www.westernbulldogs.com.au/news/2016-10-10/a-fans-perspective-the-2016-premiership-blog
What did the 2016 AFL Premiership win mean to the Bulldogs faithful? Bulldogs Tragician explains.
The 2016 Premiership blog. The force was with us. And we were the force.
The week of tears
It's Grand Final Week, and our Western Bulldogs' story has captured Melbourne. It's a dream that has swept and carried all neutral fans in a tidal wave of emotion and good will. There's hardly a mention of our opponents, the worthy but dull Sydney Swans.
We're a fable, an allegory, the good guys who everyone wants to win.
Our tale, our quest, are the very definition of 'quixotic.' I know because I looked it up in the dictionary:
Caught up in the romance of noble deeds and the pursuit of unreachable goals; idealistic without regard to practicality.
And yet in this happiest of weeks, all I can do is cry.
I shed tears, whenever I saw the words 'Bulldogs' and 'Grand Final' in the same sentence. And without the usual qualifying words, 1961 or 1954. Or 'never'.
Tears, whenever I view again the incredibly moving footage of our fans during the last, desperately tense minutes of the Preliminary Final against the Acronyms. I recognise myself in every frame.
Unable to watch, having to watch.
Unable to hope, but needing to hope.
Tears, when I see pictures of the Bulldogs' logo being painted on the MCG turf, or the famous arena lit up with our colours - at last - in the build-up to that match, the party from which we have been excluded for so long.
And finally it's Grand Final Eve. We, our beloved but luckless club with the most patient of fans, will be proudly on display in the Parade. That happy celebration, that window of opportunity when for both clubs, everything is still magically possible.
Making my way to meet the Other Libber Sister and set off for the big occasion, tears fall again as I drive down Barkly Street, seeing the African restaurants in Barkly Street, flying our colours, displaying their 'WOOF WOOF' signs. Footscray, the suburb where my father was born, has become unrecognisable to me these days, vibrantly multicultural, unexpectedly hip. In fact, the street in which Dad grew up was even spruiked by real estate agents recently as having a 'Paris end' (which may perplex those who've ever visited the Champs-Elysees).
Houses in the suburb everyone used to scorn and deride now sell for a million bucks.
And the new generation of young professionals, who've brought soy lattes and avocado smash to trendy cafe menus, now call West Footscray, where my parents married and I myself was christened (all in the right Catholic order of course, in case you're wondering) - WeFo.
The Libbers are catching the train from West Footscray. Even Metro have entered into the spirit, blaring out our song from the speakers as we do battle with the Myki machine. The platform sparkles with our red, white and blue colours: there are faded, hand-knitted scarves and retro bomber jackets from the 80s dragged out from cupboards and worn with pride. There's a resurgence, I feel, of the fierce Footscray and western suburbs' parochialism that I'd thought might have disappeared in our more urbane and cosmopolitan city.
I see craggy faces who look like they've been through a lot, and faces from many places across the sea who've made the west their home. Babies are asleep nestled in their mothers' arms. Children aren't the only ones wearing face-paint, tri-coloured wigs, red white and blue nail art and hats with badges.
When I turn my face to hide those treacherous tears again, I see the Olympic Tyres and Rubber factory - or what's left of it now that it's been converted to sleek new apartments. Here, both my parents and grandparents once worked. When I was granted the long-awaited privilege of attending games when I was four, we often waved to my grandfather, in his grey dust-coat, who was the gateman there, as we headed to the game.
Our tribes gather
We all alight at Parliament station. There's a happy confusion about where to go, the best place to see the parade. Because we've never been here, any of us, before.
Our vantage point, when we find it, allows the petite Libber Sisters a reasonable chance to glimpse Our Boys. I get talking to the man next to me, a newcomer from the Phillipines, here on a visitors's visa. He's looking around, bemused and puzzled by us, decked out in all of our mysterious tribal gear. I struggle to explain it to him, our joyous excitement, the meaning of what is - or so they say - a game.
It won't make any sense to the young Filipino, but part of the answer is visible across the tram tracks, where a sign is held aloft by a man in our colours.
'Here to represent parents, aunts, uncles and cousins who've passed away since 1961.' 1961. That far-away day when last a Bulldogs' team made a grand final.
The parade is boisterous and fun. Members of the army band are wearing Bulldogs' scarves over their army fatigues. We're polite in our applause for Patrick Dangerfield, the Swans' players, and even the umpires (because you never know).
We cheer loudest, of course, for our convoy. Bevo Our Saviour, Bob Murphy and Easton Wood are crammed into the first car, where only two seats should be, because Bob's name is not on the car. It's a statement that Bob is part of this journey, every bit of the way.
I study Our Boys' faces to see if they're relaxed. Matthew 'Keith' Boyd looks tense; we expect no less of our driven, competitive, hard-nosed former captain. There's an expression of starry-eyed innocence on the face of 19-year-old Josh Dunkley, whose 17 games so far have included three consecutive finals victories, and who's about to play in the grand final which eluded all our five 300-game veterans. The Bont, much more of a seasoned professional than Josh at just 20, tells reporters he's 'keeping it simple' and 'enjoying the moment.' And such is his relaxed composure that of course, we believe him, because it was The Bont who said: 'Why not us?' and then played more than his part to make this day real.
Learning to fly
We make the same trip from West Footscray station the next day, our treasured grand final tickets in hand. Those pesky tears are back as I see a family group on our platform, posing for a photo with their grandmother, who is frail but beaming, sitting in a wheelchair decorated with our colours.
As we walk towards the 'G, I realise I've barely given a thought to the actual game, to the thorny question of who will match up with a certain Lance Franklin, the dilemma of how we will match up with the Swans' tough, experienced mid-field, how we will stack up against opponents who've been here many times before.
There's been a turning point that I can't begin to understand, in the strength of my faith and belief in our team. I've been more nervous, more anxious and apprehensive before many a humdrum home- and-away match. Instead, I'm floating along, excited and joyful. I may even, like the relaxed and affable Bont, be enjoying the moment.
I feel like I did as a child when the training wheels came off my first bike, and I took off down the street, giddy with excitement and even executing an adventurous wave in the directionof my brothers and sister.
Yes, it's true. With me barely noticing, Tragician-thinking, the weight and ghosts of failure and disappointment have somehow ebbed away, and with it the wall of defensive pessimism designed to keep me safe from dangerous hope and flights of premiership fancy.
When did this transformation occur and who can be blamed? Perhaps it was when Bevo Our Saviour announced, after awful injuries in the same match to Mitch Wallis and Jack Redpath seemed to have scuppered our season, that his team had not lost their faith in their ability to win a flag. And then Our Boys backed up what could have been just empty talk, with a defiant display of gallantry and courage as our undermanned team took on the Cats the following week and all but pinched the match, even as two more men went down with apparently season-ending injuries.
Maybe the killer blow to the old fatalism came when we headed to Perth, not given a snowball's chance in hell of winning, and defied the doubters with an outstanding win. Or when we stormed past the Three-Peaters in front of nearly 90,000 fans, our unafraid and undaunted Men of Mayhem.
Perhaps Tragician thinking finally got thrown out of the (car) window as we all, as though hypnotised, jumped in our cars and journeyed up the Hume, a convey of daydream believers following Our Boys wherever they were about to go.
The win that night not only smashed that preliminary final hoodoo out of the park; it cemented a magical partnership between us and our team, a circle of belief and togetherness.
The cynics, of course, have gloomily - some I suspect gleefully - predicted this will be our downfall. That far too many expressions of delirious happiness - too much celebration that we're just IN THE GRAND FINAL, having not achieved 'anything' - or so they say - will make our team complacent.
Whereas I think the opposite. Team and fans are in parallel. Our joy is now sweeping our team irresistibly along, even as their deeds are transforming the fans' mindset after decades of disappointment.
When Our Boys run out on the 'G, lifted and carried on our wall of sound, I know that if we lose, it will not be the result of too much celebrating or the great footy crime of 'getting ahead of ourselves', or because our players have embraced the week and worn wide smiles instead of attempting stern 'it's just another game' blank stares.
I don't know if they are quite ready - whether our team, lacking even one player with grand final experience, can match our opponents, who have played in four of the past 11 grand finals. Yet still, I can't quite fathom my own sense of calm as I rise to my feet with thousands of other true Bulldog believers, applauding and cheering our team, breaking through the banner and onto the MCG.
http://www.westernbulldogs.com.au/news/2016-10-10/a-fans-perspective-the-2016-premiership-blog
What did the 2016 AFL Premiership win mean to the Bulldogs faithful? Bulldogs Tragician explains.
The 2016 Premiership blog. The force was with us. And we were the force.
The week of tears
It's Grand Final Week, and our Western Bulldogs' story has captured Melbourne. It's a dream that has swept and carried all neutral fans in a tidal wave of emotion and good will. There's hardly a mention of our opponents, the worthy but dull Sydney Swans.
We're a fable, an allegory, the good guys who everyone wants to win.
Our tale, our quest, are the very definition of 'quixotic.' I know because I looked it up in the dictionary:
Caught up in the romance of noble deeds and the pursuit of unreachable goals; idealistic without regard to practicality.
And yet in this happiest of weeks, all I can do is cry.
I shed tears, whenever I saw the words 'Bulldogs' and 'Grand Final' in the same sentence. And without the usual qualifying words, 1961 or 1954. Or 'never'.
Tears, whenever I view again the incredibly moving footage of our fans during the last, desperately tense minutes of the Preliminary Final against the Acronyms. I recognise myself in every frame.
Unable to watch, having to watch.
Unable to hope, but needing to hope.
Tears, when I see pictures of the Bulldogs' logo being painted on the MCG turf, or the famous arena lit up with our colours - at last - in the build-up to that match, the party from which we have been excluded for so long.
And finally it's Grand Final Eve. We, our beloved but luckless club with the most patient of fans, will be proudly on display in the Parade. That happy celebration, that window of opportunity when for both clubs, everything is still magically possible.
Making my way to meet the Other Libber Sister and set off for the big occasion, tears fall again as I drive down Barkly Street, seeing the African restaurants in Barkly Street, flying our colours, displaying their 'WOOF WOOF' signs. Footscray, the suburb where my father was born, has become unrecognisable to me these days, vibrantly multicultural, unexpectedly hip. In fact, the street in which Dad grew up was even spruiked by real estate agents recently as having a 'Paris end' (which may perplex those who've ever visited the Champs-Elysees).
Houses in the suburb everyone used to scorn and deride now sell for a million bucks.
And the new generation of young professionals, who've brought soy lattes and avocado smash to trendy cafe menus, now call West Footscray, where my parents married and I myself was christened (all in the right Catholic order of course, in case you're wondering) - WeFo.
The Libbers are catching the train from West Footscray. Even Metro have entered into the spirit, blaring out our song from the speakers as we do battle with the Myki machine. The platform sparkles with our red, white and blue colours: there are faded, hand-knitted scarves and retro bomber jackets from the 80s dragged out from cupboards and worn with pride. There's a resurgence, I feel, of the fierce Footscray and western suburbs' parochialism that I'd thought might have disappeared in our more urbane and cosmopolitan city.
I see craggy faces who look like they've been through a lot, and faces from many places across the sea who've made the west their home. Babies are asleep nestled in their mothers' arms. Children aren't the only ones wearing face-paint, tri-coloured wigs, red white and blue nail art and hats with badges.
When I turn my face to hide those treacherous tears again, I see the Olympic Tyres and Rubber factory - or what's left of it now that it's been converted to sleek new apartments. Here, both my parents and grandparents once worked. When I was granted the long-awaited privilege of attending games when I was four, we often waved to my grandfather, in his grey dust-coat, who was the gateman there, as we headed to the game.
Our tribes gather
We all alight at Parliament station. There's a happy confusion about where to go, the best place to see the parade. Because we've never been here, any of us, before.
Our vantage point, when we find it, allows the petite Libber Sisters a reasonable chance to glimpse Our Boys. I get talking to the man next to me, a newcomer from the Phillipines, here on a visitors's visa. He's looking around, bemused and puzzled by us, decked out in all of our mysterious tribal gear. I struggle to explain it to him, our joyous excitement, the meaning of what is - or so they say - a game.
It won't make any sense to the young Filipino, but part of the answer is visible across the tram tracks, where a sign is held aloft by a man in our colours.
'Here to represent parents, aunts, uncles and cousins who've passed away since 1961.' 1961. That far-away day when last a Bulldogs' team made a grand final.
The parade is boisterous and fun. Members of the army band are wearing Bulldogs' scarves over their army fatigues. We're polite in our applause for Patrick Dangerfield, the Swans' players, and even the umpires (because you never know).
We cheer loudest, of course, for our convoy. Bevo Our Saviour, Bob Murphy and Easton Wood are crammed into the first car, where only two seats should be, because Bob's name is not on the car. It's a statement that Bob is part of this journey, every bit of the way.
I study Our Boys' faces to see if they're relaxed. Matthew 'Keith' Boyd looks tense; we expect no less of our driven, competitive, hard-nosed former captain. There's an expression of starry-eyed innocence on the face of 19-year-old Josh Dunkley, whose 17 games so far have included three consecutive finals victories, and who's about to play in the grand final which eluded all our five 300-game veterans. The Bont, much more of a seasoned professional than Josh at just 20, tells reporters he's 'keeping it simple' and 'enjoying the moment.' And such is his relaxed composure that of course, we believe him, because it was The Bont who said: 'Why not us?' and then played more than his part to make this day real.
Learning to fly
We make the same trip from West Footscray station the next day, our treasured grand final tickets in hand. Those pesky tears are back as I see a family group on our platform, posing for a photo with their grandmother, who is frail but beaming, sitting in a wheelchair decorated with our colours.
As we walk towards the 'G, I realise I've barely given a thought to the actual game, to the thorny question of who will match up with a certain Lance Franklin, the dilemma of how we will match up with the Swans' tough, experienced mid-field, how we will stack up against opponents who've been here many times before.
There's been a turning point that I can't begin to understand, in the strength of my faith and belief in our team. I've been more nervous, more anxious and apprehensive before many a humdrum home- and-away match. Instead, I'm floating along, excited and joyful. I may even, like the relaxed and affable Bont, be enjoying the moment.
I feel like I did as a child when the training wheels came off my first bike, and I took off down the street, giddy with excitement and even executing an adventurous wave in the directionof my brothers and sister.
Yes, it's true. With me barely noticing, Tragician-thinking, the weight and ghosts of failure and disappointment have somehow ebbed away, and with it the wall of defensive pessimism designed to keep me safe from dangerous hope and flights of premiership fancy.
When did this transformation occur and who can be blamed? Perhaps it was when Bevo Our Saviour announced, after awful injuries in the same match to Mitch Wallis and Jack Redpath seemed to have scuppered our season, that his team had not lost their faith in their ability to win a flag. And then Our Boys backed up what could have been just empty talk, with a defiant display of gallantry and courage as our undermanned team took on the Cats the following week and all but pinched the match, even as two more men went down with apparently season-ending injuries.
Maybe the killer blow to the old fatalism came when we headed to Perth, not given a snowball's chance in hell of winning, and defied the doubters with an outstanding win. Or when we stormed past the Three-Peaters in front of nearly 90,000 fans, our unafraid and undaunted Men of Mayhem.
Perhaps Tragician thinking finally got thrown out of the (car) window as we all, as though hypnotised, jumped in our cars and journeyed up the Hume, a convey of daydream believers following Our Boys wherever they were about to go.
The win that night not only smashed that preliminary final hoodoo out of the park; it cemented a magical partnership between us and our team, a circle of belief and togetherness.
The cynics, of course, have gloomily - some I suspect gleefully - predicted this will be our downfall. That far too many expressions of delirious happiness - too much celebration that we're just IN THE GRAND FINAL, having not achieved 'anything' - or so they say - will make our team complacent.
Whereas I think the opposite. Team and fans are in parallel. Our joy is now sweeping our team irresistibly along, even as their deeds are transforming the fans' mindset after decades of disappointment.
When Our Boys run out on the 'G, lifted and carried on our wall of sound, I know that if we lose, it will not be the result of too much celebrating or the great footy crime of 'getting ahead of ourselves', or because our players have embraced the week and worn wide smiles instead of attempting stern 'it's just another game' blank stares.
I don't know if they are quite ready - whether our team, lacking even one player with grand final experience, can match our opponents, who have played in four of the past 11 grand finals. Yet still, I can't quite fathom my own sense of calm as I rise to my feet with thousands of other true Bulldog believers, applauding and cheering our team, breaking through the banner and onto the MCG.