Murph's Age Column

This would just about be my absolute favourite article from Murph, an ode to The Great Man, Chris Grant: King of the jungle Grant returns home Robert Murphy | May 29, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/grant-returns-home/2008/05/28/1211654122498.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 OVER recent years I've become a morning person. I put this down to the possibility of actually maturing a little, but mainly because of a caffeine addiction that shows no sign of letting up. This past week I have braved Melbourne's recent chill to get my morning coffee, returning to wake up my little boy, all before 6.30am. It's a long way from my years as a teen in the country, where I wouldn't rise until it was absolutely unavoidable. Just about my favourite part of parenting is that early-morning wake-up, when my little man sits on my hip rubbing his eyes and burrowing into my neck, clinging to the last remnants of a long sleep. Pulling up the blinds of his bedroom window this week revealed the city lights of Melbourne shining through. These same lights aren't usually visible, masked by the leaves of a giant oak tree out the front of our house, but the frost has claimed the leaves in recent days, revealing a perfect view of our grand old city. As is tradition in our house, when Jarvis wakes up he is shown the world out his window. He revels in taking in his street and neighbours, along with the big smoke in the distance. It only struck me this week how similar this little ritual is to that of a scene from The Lion King. Mufasa stands by his son looking out over the land and begins to explain to him the realities of life as a lion, and also to educate Simba about the circle of life — how we are all connected and part of a much bigger plan. Jarvis is yet to walk, in fact he is yet to crawl, so he is hardly ready for a speech from his old man about the circle of life. But we have a chat anyway about the leaves and the sky, or sometimes we even talk about football. He has some strong views for one so young. Football has its own circle of life and this week it has been perfectly encapsulated by a couple of events. The first is the start of the under-18 national championships, so often viewed as the breeding ground for tomorrow's stars. For all those young men representing the various states and territories, there is hope this is the first step in a long AFL journey. Just like Simba, they will have the enthusiasm of youth running full speed across the plains as they -*test*-('") themselves and also the blissful naivety of just how tough it is to make a career from our game. Of course, to complete the football/Lion King analogy, one must find a place for the all-conquering Mufasa, someone who could place a caring hand on the shoulder of these young budding Simbas and offer them some helpful words to best prepare them for their mission to one day reign over the land. And who would be better suited to play the part than my old skipper, Chris Grant? There was a quiet dignity with which he carried himself and, although in a football sense he may not have been the King, he was certainly royalty. Chris, or Mufasa I should say, is about to complete the circle of life for a footballer. What is the final stage in this life? I'll start off by saying that it's not retirement, nor is it a gig as a special comments man on TV, where so many of the greats are put out to stud. No, it's when you go back to your old football club to play one last game or season. To give something back to the place where it all started. And on Saturday Mufasa will line up for his home club Daylesford, a noble gesture from a noble king. "Granty", or "Granto" as he was affectionately known around the club, cast a huge shadow as a player at the Bulldogs. Not that he would let you know it, of course. In the year I was drafted, 1999, a group of us young ones would hover around him in much the same way that Simba just wants to be around Mufasa. We would annoy him, try to impress him, sometimes even try to be him, and he would always sit politely, shaking his head and grinning at our immaturity. From that draft, Gilbee, Giansiracusa, Hargrave, Hahn and myself remain and, while Mufasa's shadow over us has gone, his influence has not. Daylesford needs to be congratulated, firstly for producing one of our game's great kings and secondly for tracking him down to play. Mufasa has always been notoriously evasive off the field, near-impossible to get hold of — a private family man with a humungous heart. Going back to play with your old club does carry some risk, of course, and you hear some horror stories of fisticuffs, broken jaws and the like. But surely if there was a jaw designed to cope with the rigours of such a homecoming, then he has it. Whenever I'm asked if I would go back and play a game or a final season with my old team, Warragul, my answer varies depending on what day you get me. For Mufasa, I imagine going home and pulling on the Daylesford jumper is just his way of acknowledging the help the club gave him. I'm sure his outing in the bush will give the footy club and its players and supporters a real kick along. And looking on over the fence will be a whole new generation of budding Simbas, dreaming of one day standing over their land, just like Mufasa.

Split-second decisions can leave a timely mark Robert Murphy | June 5, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/splitsecond-decisions/2008/06/04/1212258909320.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 I KNOW I've waffled on over the years about how unique our game is, and the specifics that set it apart from the other codes. I've tried to point out some of the less obvious jewels in the crown of Australian rules, but there is a diamond so big it deserves its own place in the spotlight. For mine, the high mark is undoubtedly the most awe-inspiring thing seen and enjoyed on a football field. Call it a "speccy", a "hanger" or a "screamer", it is synonymous with our sport. Anyone who has ever played the game, or even just enjoyed it as a spectacle, will have a favourite speccy memory. Mine was always Gary Ablett over Gary Pert at the MCG in the early '90s, the way the clouds almost sucked Ablett skywards to throw himself at the ball — a ball he had no right to think was his, until it fell off his hand and ran down his arm before settling in his belly for the long journey back to earth. I suspect most young kids will have one particular mark that is etched in their memory from a very early age. As a child, seeing such a wonder as Ablett's mark had a lasting effect. All I wanted to do was take a hanger on my mates' shoulders in the playground — before, after and (sometimes, if the teacher was distracted) during school. Up until then, I had been a pawn in my brother's own private Michael Roach fantasy. He had been profoundly affected by Roach's screamer against Hawthorn in the early '80s, and with me being the little brother of the perfect step-ladder height, he set about trying to stand on my shoulders while our cousin kicked the ball high into the air. The five years that separated us at times felt like a huge chasm. Up until I saw that Ablett mark, I wasn't too fussed about football or speccies — hardly surprising, considering I never got to have a go at taking one. Rather, my role was exclusively to be "speccied" on at family functions. Life and football are a series of moments — some good, some forgettable, some thrilling and some that leave you with a chill. Our meeting with the Hawks on the weekend was a game I'll remember for two moments in particular. The first was a high mark — I don't think we could call it a speccy or a screamer, but for a split second it felt high enough. The only time I've enjoyed heights was sitting up the top of my old gum tree Herbie, back home in Warragul, and that was only because Herbie was always looking out for me and would never let me fall (he told me this once, in a quiet moment). I've not taken too many big grabs, but any that I have managed have left memories that don't fade easily. Of that moment when the play unfolds quickly, but for some reason you can see it in slow motion, and there is a split-second like a camera flash where you think you just might be about to launch. The best comparison I can come up with is being on a surfboard, when you are about to attempt a wave that you realise is way beyond your ability. You're moving with the swell of the water, aware that you have no intention of catching the wave as the fear rips through your arms and legs, and your eyes peer down the wave's glassy face. Then, inexplicably and out of nowhere, there is that split-second where you think, "Stuff it, I'm going here." This split second of courage is usually followed by enormous regret. Having never had the skill (or complexion) for surfing, I can only relate this to the split-seconds on a football field and how they can make you feel. Kicking, for instance, is such a basic of the game, but a fundamental so crucial to winning or losing. The exhilaration of kicking one through the big sticks or placing the ball on a teammate's chest is a thing of pure joy, and often you will know a good kick before it leaves your boot. When the stars align and you feel the rhythm, it can be as if you've seen the outcome before it happens. The flipside, which I know a lot about too, is the clanger. The crowd will give a collective sigh, and maybe a curse, as your kick falls into a post or the arms of an opponent. We all make mistakes on the ground, but sometimes when you turn it over you feel like an alien with the eyes of the stadium burning into you. There are so many split-second moments in the game, such as knowing you are about to be crunched. To use the surfing analogy again, it's like standing under a three-metre wave and knowing that you have to keep your eye on a seagull that's flying in your direction. There is also the possibility that you could be on that wave, about to crash into an opponent. You have a split-second to act, and a mindset of being physical but also with the tenderness to take due care. I found myself in this situation, too, last weekend against the Hawks. It's just one of those things in footy, I suppose, a moment that now means I'll have two hours of split-seconds to experience from the stands on Sunday.

Ha, nice one.

We are all in this together so it seems only right that we give each other a fair shake Robert Murphy | June 12, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/we-are-all-in-this-together-so-it-seems-only-right-that-we-giveeach-other-a-fair-shake/2008/06/11/1212863738281.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 AS I get older I can feel myself becoming more Irish, and I welcome this reconnection to my heritage. The rolling green hills are talking to me, beckoning, a voice calling on me to become who I really am. A Murphy. An Irishman. A pale, brown-haired Paddy. My late teens and early 20s were a time of experimentation; as most young men do, you try a few things and see what best suits you. After a brief dalliance with tips in my hair and a couple of visits to the solarium, it became quite obvious that whoever I was trying to be was not myself, only someone who I thought might appeal to others. Over time the tips grew out, and the tan that never really took faded away. I was left to find another path. But, as they say, sometimes to go forward you must know where it is that you've come from. Having been suspended last week by the match review panel for my heinous crime, I felt as if not only was there a one-week penance to serve, but also that I was being forced back into the shackles my ancestors wore as they boarded the first fleet. All week, as I passed the time reading Rousseau, the steel of the handcuffs and leg irons pressed against my flesh as a reminder that I wouldn't be joining my teammates to take on the Saints. As I sat and watched my boys strut their stuff, the welts on my ankles and wrists were suffering under the heavy burden. At game's end, as I stood off the playing group and watched the boys belt out "Sons Of The West", I had my suspension lifted, and the shackles went with it. With my arms now able to move freely, and my legs stretch properly, I did what any decent Irishman would do — I went to the pub. There was plenty to celebrate. I was a free man, of course, the Doggies had won, and it was also the eve of my 26th birthday. Having all sat down to enjoy a meal and a couple of drinks together, we raised our glasses to say "Cheers". Well, that set Mum off. "Do you know why we do that?" she asked. "Do what?" I replied. "The way we all show each other our drinks and then gently have them touch all the other glasses at the table." Dear old mum is a bottomless well of little derivations and pearls of wisdom. Some are genuine, and some we are pretty sure she just makes up. But her thoughts about the tradition of "Cheers-ing" intrigued me. She claims the reason we bang our drinks together comes from a time when noblemen would have a meal together to discuss money, war and politics. Remembering how brutal this time was, these men would bang cups of wine to demonstrate that what they were drinking was indeed the same, and no foul play had taken place with poisons and the like. The colliding glasses jogged a thought about the game that day. Watching from the stands, I observed how another traditional greeting was holding up. I noticed that nobody shook hands with their opponent at the start of the game, or if they did it was done so discreetly that I missed it. It's a topic I've thought about a bit. I have always been a handshaker; I'm not really sure why I like the ritual, but I always did it — in much the same way I "Cheers" my drinks. But now I fear the handshake is being pushed out of our game. As footballers we are in the business of not showing any vulnerability. Often this is to our detriment, but in the macho world of AFL, those who choose not to shake before a game are deemed to possess the dominant gene over those who think it's a nice bit of sportsmanship that should be maintained. The shakers are wary that if they offer their hand to a non-shaker, this will relinquish the perception that, once the siren goes, it's war. Anyone who sees shaking as a sign of softness need only look at Brett Kirk and ask why he still shakes his opponents hand before they bounce the ball. He is as tough and respected as there is. I have become a non-shaker in recent seasons, and it bothers me. After thinking about it this week, I've decided to campaign for the return of the handshake. I may not know why we "Cheers" our glasses, but I know why I used to shake my opponent's hand — to wish him the best of luck and to let him know that I will play as hard and as fair as I'm able. If that's too "vulnerable" for the non-shakers, then I guess I'll just be left hanging.

The supporters behind every player Robert Murphy | June 19, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/the-supporters-behind-every-player/2008/06/18/1213770732435.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 "He ain't heavy, he's my brother."I DON'T think The Hollies would have watched much Aussie Rules in their day, but their sentiment is easily adaptable to our game. One of the great things football has always done is bring people together. The football landscape thankfully has always been filled by a social demographic that spreads across class, colour and creed to a blur, a beautiful texture of humanity where the only identification worth its currency is the colour of your scarf. But back to He Ain't Heavy: what is its meaning, and how is it adaptable to the modern game? Songs, like football, can be ruined by an over-eagerness to break them into tiny parts, to analyse and package them into mathematical scenarios. A bit like statistics. (Don't tell me who had more inside 50s and I won't tell you what The Hollies' lyrical intention was.) To quote my favourite Australian poet, Tim Rogers, "That's a simple way of looking at things, but I'm a simple person." Rogers was referring to his beloved North Melbourne's plight on the eve of a possible move to the Gold Coast, but somehow I don't think he'd mind me using it in the fight against statistics overload. In truth I have no idea what The Hollies meant, but when I heard it as a seven-year-old I thought it was about me and my brother, that if either of us fell over we'd pick the other one up. I've never cared to go back and search for anything deeper than that, for fear that I'd ruin the song for myself. It brings me to this week's topic, though, and that is this notion of help. As I get older it feels that life is forever becoming quicker, and with demands increasing daily, it's a relief that every day at five o'clock I can still stop for a cheese and biscuit to assess the day's profit and loss. I went to see the new Rolling Stones documentary/concert/movie this week, and as I was watching the "Glimmer Twins" do their thing up close, it had me wondering about all the help they must get to put on a show like that, night after night. A good rock 'n roll band is not dissimilar to a football team, or so I've been telling myself for a while now. We all watch the finished product through the drizzle on a Saturday, marvelling at the skills and courage of the players, but we see very little of those who have helped them get there. Rewind two weeks, to when I was paying homage to my criminal Irish forefathers. While watching from the outer I was about 10 seats away from the family and friends of debutant Callan Ward. Taking up a good part of the Docklands wing, they were extremely vocal and beamed with pride as they watched their boy play like a man in front of a national audience. It struck me immediately that, here before me was the throng of people Callan will represent for the rest of his long career. Not simply his teammates or club in the red, white and blue; they are a given. What needs to be understood is that every player who walks on to the ground to play for their team also carries the privilege of playing for a host of other parties who often go unrecognised. There are your ancestors, your school, partners, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and many more. A boxer fights for the cause of being world champ, but also for the faces in his corner. As players, our cause is to win for our club and hopefully win the big prize as well, but we also have many, many faces in our corner who take each hit with us. For the most part these are people who would cut off their big toe to be able to join their man on the big stage, but settle for watching on with a glint in their eye as they enjoy a loved one do it for them. Thoughts of who we play for made me look a little more inwardly at my own corner. My first coach taught me the game and made it fun, lessons that have been valuable. I think about him quite a bit, and also the mates I played all my junior footy with as a kid. I don't get to see my old mates as much as I'd like to, but before a game I'll often think about them and wonder if they are watching or listening to the Dogs. And when the game is over and we've sung the song, it's all about cuddles with my bird and my little boy. Yet a player's corner can be so vast, it can feature people he might not even know. I found out through some back channels this week that my opponent last Saturday, Joel MacDonald, is a classic example. Apparently a woman in Altona makes it her duty to cut out any newspaper clippings of Joel, and posts them to a distant relative in Western Australia. From there this second party, who is related to the MacDonalds, sends them back across the country to his grandma in Brisbane. After starting a new campaign in last week's column, I'd also like to commend Joel MacDonald for shaking my hand before the game. "Operation handshake" is only a week old, but it was a success and I can feel a buzz in the football community. I look forward to the day that we can all shake hands before the first bounce, but I would draw the line at picking each other up off the ground — even though The Hollies would love that.

By far, the BEST article Murph has written. If you don't at least poke a smirk at this week's column, you're doomed! Doomed! PS - I don't want to think about the passing of Arthur, Murph! Escaping a branded future Robert Murphy | June 26, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/escaping-a-branded-future/2008/06/25/1214073341400.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 THERE is something about matches played in the twilight timeslot that throws me out completely. I haven't quite worked out why, but when I arrive home to have dinner it feels weird, like the first day of daylight saving, only a lot worse. As is customary in this weekly column, I like to brush down the sideburns, swing by the record store for the obligatory '60's soundtrack, before heading back on the train to the early '90s to steal a piece of my childhood. It's then sprinkled with a little AFL, just to make it more palatable for the sports pages. Well not today. It's time to grow up. Actually, in light of the twilight games and the inevitable twilight zone backlash that follows, I thought we should strap on our space boots, jump in Marty McFly's time machine, and head back to the future! Setting the scene: June 25, 2018: Robert Murphy is still an Age columnist after retiring from the Western Bulldogs in 2014, crippled by gout. He's still flogging the old formula — starting each column with rock 'n roll lyrics, talking about his childhood, etc. His fans, while loyal, are dwindling. His critics are growing by the day."I've got a car, I've got a big, black, shiny car." One noticeable change is that he never mentions his sausage dog, Arthur, since his untimely demise. Famously, Arthur was scared stiff of water and would never walk over a puddle, let alone go for a swim. But Arthur confronted his H2O fears, taking off one day across Bass Strait, never to be seen again. It's a sore point for the columnist, who claims he never tried to replace his little, four-legged friend, despite purchasing two more dachshunds and calling them Marthur and Arthur Mk2. God only knows how the kids listen to this stuff, but as Shannon Noll sits atop the charts, I thought I'd try to appeal to the masses in a desperate attempt to stay hip. "Better than that Mick Jagger s*%# you play at home, dad," moans 10-year-old Jarvis Murphy. Anyway folks, back to the business of footy, footy, footy. As I travelled down to Launceston on the weekend to see my old team the Doggies take on the Tigers, I couldn't help but feel a little forlorn. The game itself was no great shakes, and even though I was cheered a little to see the Bulldogs escape with a two-point win over the old rival from Punt Road, there were still things that fuelled my pessimism about the modern game. Bulldog veteran Ayce Cordy, a shining light for the Dogs over the last 10 seasons, was reported for making eye contact with an umpire, and with points hanging over his head from a similar incident two weeks ago, he looks to be in danger of missing next week's clash with Gold Coast. A big fan of water slides, Ayce is understood to be shattered. Back to the game itself, and despite claims from the experts that football is quicker, players tougher and the skills at an all-time high, I sat with my old teammate Daniel Giansiracusa and we both agreed that the current payers are not as tough as we were, and have decided to publicly criticise the Dogs on talkback radio — not to self-promote, you understand, just to help the club improve. Veteran Bulldog coach Rodney Eade was upbeat after the win, but came under scrutiny for this quote: "We didn't do the brand any harm today." Eade was fined $10,000 for breaking rule 14.7, which states: "Any use of the word 'brand' shall be sanctioned due to its condescending nature — just call it your football club." Terry Wallace was, as usual, upbeat despite the narrow loss, but was lucky to escape an AFL sanction of his own for describing a Cleve Hughes mark as a "catch". You'll all remember that, back in 2013, there were some words and phrases highlighted in this column that I believed were hurting the fabric of football. On that glorious day, accompanied by my team of lawyers, I marched into AFL House in an attempt to have words such as "brand", "catch" and "franchise", and phrases such as "is he a champion?", "kicks it from outside the paint", "they didn't come to play", "he's gotten ahead of himself" and "growth markets" outlawed. Our chests heaved with pride when Andrew Demetriou banned their use forever. As I said earlier, the game itself was of no great standard, but it was remarkable for one reason. Brad Johnson lining up for his 500th game was always going to be cause for celebration out west, but to have the milestone fall on the day his son Jack made his debut in red, white and blue would have to rank as the second-most amazing day for the club this year. Second, of course, to drillers striking oil beneath Whitten Oval, a discovery that left the club with untold riches and also lowered petrol to a reasonable $3.56 a litre. With the Bulldogs now cashed up, it looks as though they will be purchasing the Collingwood Football Club and renting the Lexus Centre back to them.

By far, the BEST article Murph has written. If you don't at least poke a smirk at this week's column, you're doomed! Doomed! PS - I don't want to think about the passing of Arthur, Murph! Escaping a branded future Robert Murphy | June 26, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/escaping-a-branded-future/2008/06/25/1214073341400.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 THERE is something about matches played in the twilight timeslot that throws me out completely. I haven't quite worked out why, but when I arrive home to have dinner it feels weird, like the first day of daylight saving, only a lot worse. As is customary in this weekly column, I like to brush down the sideburns, swing by the record store for the obligatory '60's soundtrack, before heading back on the train to the early '90s to steal a piece of my childhood. It's then sprinkled with a little AFL, just to make it more palatable for the sports pages. Well not today. It's time to grow up. Actually, in light of the twilight games and the inevitable twilight zone backlash that follows, I thought we should strap on our space boots, jump in Marty McFly's time machine, and head back to the future! Setting the scene: June 25, 2018: Robert Murphy is still an Age columnist after retiring from the Western Bulldogs in 2014, crippled by gout. He's still flogging the old formula — starting each column with rock 'n roll lyrics, talking about his childhood, etc. His fans, while loyal, are dwindling. His critics are growing by the day."I've got a car, I've got a big, black, shiny car." One noticeable change is that he never mentions his sausage dog, Arthur, since his untimely demise. Famously, Arthur was scared stiff of water and would never walk over a puddle, let alone go for a swim. But Arthur confronted his H2O fears, taking off one day across Bass Strait, never to be seen again. It's a sore point for the columnist, who claims he never tried to replace his little, four-legged friend, despite purchasing two more dachshunds and calling them Marthur and Arthur Mk2. God only knows how the kids listen to this stuff, but as Shannon Noll sits atop the charts, I thought I'd try to appeal to the masses in a desperate attempt to stay hip. "Better than that Mick Jagger s*%# you play at home, dad," moans 10-year-old Jarvis Murphy. Anyway folks, back to the business of footy, footy, footy. As I travelled down to Launceston on the weekend to see my old team the Doggies take on the Tigers, I couldn't help but feel a little forlorn. The game itself was no great shakes, and even though I was cheered a little to see the Bulldogs escape with a two-point win over the old rival from Punt Road, there were still things that fuelled my pessimism about the modern game. Bulldog veteran Ayce Cordy, a shining light for the Dogs over the last 10 seasons, was reported for making eye contact with an umpire, and with points hanging over his head from a similar incident two weeks ago, he looks to be in danger of missing next week's clash with Gold Coast. A big fan of water slides, Ayce is understood to be shattered. Back to the game itself, and despite claims from the experts that football is quicker, players tougher and the skills at an all-time high, I sat with my old teammate Daniel Giansiracusa and we both agreed that the current payers are not as tough as we were, and have decided to publicly criticise the Dogs on talkback radio — not to self-promote, you understand, just to help the club improve. Veteran Bulldog coach Rodney Eade was upbeat after the win, but came under scrutiny for this quote: "We didn't do the brand any harm today." Eade was fined $10,000 for breaking rule 14.7, which states: "Any use of the word 'brand' shall be sanctioned due to its condescending nature — just call it your football club." Terry Wallace was, as usual, upbeat despite the narrow loss, but was lucky to escape an AFL sanction of his own for describing a Cleve Hughes mark as a "catch". You'll all remember that, back in 2013, there were some words and phrases highlighted in this column that I believed were hurting the fabric of football. On that glorious day, accompanied by my team of lawyers, I marched into AFL House in an attempt to have words such as "brand", "catch" and "franchise", and phrases such as "is he a champion?", "kicks it from outside the paint", "they didn't come to play", "he's gotten ahead of himself" and "growth markets" outlawed. Our chests heaved with pride when Andrew Demetriou banned their use forever. As I said earlier, the game itself was of no great standard, but it was remarkable for one reason. Brad Johnson lining up for his 500th game was always going to be cause for celebration out west, but to have the milestone fall on the day his son Jack made his debut in red, white and blue would have to rank as the second-most amazing day for the club this year. Second, of course, to drillers striking oil beneath Whitten Oval, a discovery that left the club with untold riches and also lowered petrol to a reasonable $3.56 a litre. With the Bulldogs now cashed up, it looks as though they will be purchasing the Collingwood Football Club and renting the Lexus Centre back to them. What is best about these articles is the impossibility, no matter how seemingly, of it being inspired by a puff of green smoke or two... Bobby. You are weird. But we loves ya for it.

No need for smoke when you're already weird. You just need to look at the man. That's what makes him even more appealing. He doesn't look like a footballer. He looks like one of us. Champion.

Just wonderful. Johnno playing his 500th - Gold. :hail: Ayce cited for making EYE contact with the Umpire - funny as. But the vision of Arthur dog paddling across the Bass Strait - was nearly the end of me.

That'd be the way to go for me: dog paddling across the seas...

Very smooth, Mr Murphy. Congrats! A time to heal (and to propose) Robert Murphy | July 3, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/a-time-to-heal/2008/07/02/1214950850428.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 ON MY school holidays as a boy we often travelled up to the small rural town of Lockington, where my Aunty Mary and Uncle Frank had a property, to take in some country air and run around the wide open spaces. It was a long way from Dreamworld (the preferred destination of my vintage), but I loved every second of it. The property was filled with adventures just waiting to be had. Rusted-out old cars, a mob of sheep dogs, the odd motorbike ride, and of course the sheep themselves. I was scared of the sheep, and often found myself making mud pies with my cousin from some old camping bowls that had been left in the shed. All these memories glow with the same sun as the one that drenched those long, hot days. Except one — the day Aunty Mary thought it would be fun for the kids to have a ride on their Shetland pony. After being led around the paddock a few times, the novelty wore off and I thought we could take things up a notch. Damien Oliver-style, I kicked the pony in the ribs with ample force and she took off like Bonecrusher. Showing little regard for her own safety (and none for mine), we did three full laps of the paddock before I was eventually thrown clear and rolled into the fence. I've had it in for ponies ever since. Lucky mum was close by and she picked me up and dusted me off; us blokes need a good woman to help us when we're a bit down. Unlike sheep, horses are one of my all-time favourites, right up there with the elephant and the always-amusing sloth. After the game in Darwin on Saturday night, I jetted out before the rest of my teammates for some healing on the NSW coastline. With a sore hind leg and fetlock, I felt a little like a horse that had been put out for a spell and needed some salt water and sugar cubes to get some pep back in the step. The healing powers of salt water is a constant fascination for me, and as I limped into the drink on Sunday afternoon I felt a lot older than what my birth certificate would have you believe. Falling into the waves more than carving through them, the sensation of pure healing had taken hold, and with the sun gazing down, those limbs that ached suddenly began to return to their old self. A thickly bearded man swam nearby, and for a second I thought it could have been our very own Martin Flanagan, or even John the Baptist. But it turned out to be a wild man from Nimbin, healing himself just like I was. Even without John the Baptist present, I could certainly feel a fresh start of biblical proportions. Walking down one of the sandy paths near this particular beach, I was taking stock of my life, as one does when going for a stroll. I can't speak for others, but as far as I can tell the best times in life, and also the worst, are always shared with the people we're closest to. Weddings, funerals, birthdays, operations, illness and the beginning of new life are all things we celebrate or endure with the people we hold most dear crowded around. Bruised and weary from battle (just like I was after the pony accident), this time it wasn't my mum to whom I turned to make it all better. I don't want to get all Bec and Lleyton on you, but with Jarvis' mum beside me, the beach in front of us and the rainforest as a backdrop, I knelt down on a sore knee to ask my most special person the most special question of all. She said yes, and we walked back towards our hotel, full of smiles and giggles, a million miles away from anything and anyone. (And then we were nearly bowled over by my old teammate Jimmy Plunkett and his wife, Bianca. Now Jimmy is one of the great people I've met because of the oval-shaped red leather thing, and Bianca is a special person in her own right, but it just goes to show that you're never far away from footy and all who sail in it, even on your very own secluded trail to wedded bliss.) It was not until I returned to my room to check the news that I heard about Graham Polak's health crisis and this notion of healing came into sharp focus. Aching bones and tired muscles are one thing, but the injuries and challenges facing Graham and his closest people will take more than some salt water to fix. In adding my voice to the chorus of prayers and well wishes for Graham and his family, I hope he is up and about before long. The mid-season break could serve as a checkpoint for all of us so consumed by the game to sit back and be with the ones who mean the most. I know I will be, and I'm sure the Polaks will do the same.

Congrats to Bobby and Justine(sp?). Also great to hear about Jimmy P again, i miss him. Hope you all take the time this weekend to spend time with family or friends, lifes to short not to, after reading that article, its making me kind of change my mind about what i may be doing on the weekend now. Keep up the awesome work Bobby.

Let's raise our glasses to tradition Robert Murphy | July 10, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/in-praise-of-tradition/2008/07/09/1215282926195.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 OUT of sight there has always been a struggle that carries on like one long tug-of-war. On one side is the power that fights to make the game faster, slicker and easier on the eye. To balance the ledger, the other side features a staunch team of romantics fighting to keep the charm and tradition alive in a technology and efficiency-driven world. It's a see-sawing battle of balance and compromises. We no longer have the ability as a spectator to wander onto the ground at quarter- and three-quarter-time to listen to a coach's passionate address to his players, but on the flip-side we have the luxury of watching every game on television in the comfort of our homes. As long as there is compromise, then to a degree we should all have to take a few hits along the way. It's a little of the yin and yang — the traditionalists will give up a small piece of the cultural tradition in exchange for some new practice that gives us another perspective on the game, taking us that little bit closer. Take the example of the public's right to have a kick on the ground after the final siren. In return for giving up this once treasured privilege, we got … hang on, what did we get? I'll have to come back to that. The constant internal battle I hear in my head is like the noise of two battleships firing cannonballs, over and into one another, until one is sunk and the other hailed the victor. The time for diplomacy is gone, and the small causes that make up our great game must be fought and won by the people, or in this case their representatives — the players. On the back of the handshake debate raised in this column a few weeks ago, I was talking to Cameron Ling and he raised the topic of players from opposing teams making the effort post-game to have a beer together, just like the old days. This proposal will be met with a dismissive tone by some clubs, and then we'll hear the old reminders about recovery and hydration and so on. As with any idea that has a slightly romantic slant, it leaves itself open to the sound of robots clamouring for data on biomechanics and the like. But unless I misheard Lingy, he wasn't saying we need to bring back the Sunday keg session. He was more interested in the symbolism of sharing one or two beers after a long day's battle on the ground. (I would insist, of course, that all players would "cheers" their drinks to make sure no poisoning had taken place.) Flags out at the kennel this week have been at half-mast as we mourn the loss of one of our all-time greats, Jack Collins. I've never been too good with numbers (always been a letters man myself), but the No. 2 is closest to my heart. Playing for the Bulldogs and being given the No. 2 guernsey, it didn't take long before I was flicking through the history of the men whose locker I had inherited. It's a link all players have with the generations who have gone before them. I regret to admit it, but when I arrived at the Whitten Oval I had no idea who Jack Collins was. I soon found out. If the current Bulldogs are the sons of the west, the obvious question to ask would be, who are the fathers? The 1954 premiership team is held in such high regard out west that it would be foolish to look anywhere else. I had the privilege of meeting Jack a few times in recent years and he was always a gentleman. One night, I had the honour of walking him to his table at an official occasion, which was pretty special. I can still remember, as I walked alongside him that night, Jack commenting to me that the Bulldogs are a proud club, and that I should wear the jumper with pride. As a young player those words can ring in your ears for a long time. By then I knew he was the man who, as much as anyone, took Footscray to its first flag, bagging himself seven goals at the big dance. As anyone who knew Jack would be aware, he had an amazing clarity when it came to recalling every one of his majors on that famous September afternoon. Amazingly enough, the Dogs come up against the Demons in the week of Jack's passing — the same poor sods he terrorised on that grand afternoon. In the unlikely event that players from both Melbourne and Footscray this weekend gather to cheers and share a beer, I'd like to think we would all raise our glasses to one of the fathers of Footscray, and one of the all-time greats. Thanks for the memories, Jack.

Let's raise our glasses to tradition Robert Murphy | July 10, 2008 http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/in-praise-of-tradition/2008/07/09/1215282926195.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1 OUT of sight there has always been a struggle that carries on like one long tug-of-war. On one side is the power that fights to make the game faster, slicker and easier on the eye. To balance the ledger, the other side features a staunch team of romantics fighting to keep the charm and tradition alive in a technology and efficiency-driven world. It's a see-sawing battle of balance and compromises. We no longer have the ability as a spectator to wander onto the ground at quarter- and three-quarter-time to listen to a coach's passionate address to his players, but on the flip-side we have the luxury of watching every game on television in the comfort of our homes. As long as there is compromise, then to a degree we should all have to take a few hits along the way. It's a little of the yin and yang — the traditionalists will give up a small piece of the cultural tradition in exchange for some new practice that gives us another perspective on the game, taking us that little bit closer. Take the example of the public's right to have a kick on the ground after the final siren. In return for giving up this once treasured privilege, we got … hang on, what did we get? I'll have to come back to that. The constant internal battle I hear in my head is like the noise of two battleships firing cannonballs, over and into one another, until one is sunk and the other hailed the victor. The time for diplomacy is gone, and the small causes that make up our great game must be fought and won by the people, or in this case their representatives — the players. On the back of the handshake debate raised in this column a few weeks ago, I was talking to Cameron Ling and he raised the topic of players from opposing teams making the effort post-game to have a beer together, just like the old days. This proposal will be met with a dismissive tone by some clubs, and then we'll hear the old reminders about recovery and hydration and so on. As with any idea that has a slightly romantic slant, it leaves itself open to the sound of robots clamouring for data on biomechanics and the like. But unless I misheard Lingy, he wasn't saying we need to bring back the Sunday keg session. He was more interested in the symbolism of sharing one or two beers after a long day's battle on the ground. (I would insist, of course, that all players would "cheers" their drinks to make sure no poisoning had taken place.) Flags out at the kennel this week have been at half-mast as we mourn the loss of one of our all-time greats, Jack Collins. I've never been too good with numbers (always been a letters man myself), but the No. 2 is closest to my heart. Playing for the Bulldogs and being given the No. 2 guernsey, it didn't take long before I was flicking through the history of the men whose locker I had inherited. It's a link all players have with the generations who have gone before them. I regret to admit it, but when I arrived at the Whitten Oval I had no idea who Jack Collins was. I soon found out. If the current Bulldogs are the sons of the west, the obvious question to ask would be, who are the fathers? The 1954 premiership team is held in such high regard out west that it would be foolish to look anywhere else. I had the privilege of meeting Jack a few times in recent years and he was always a gentleman. One night, I had the honour of walking him to his table at an official occasion, which was pretty special. I can still remember, as I walked alongside him that night, Jack commenting to me that the Bulldogs are a proud club, and that I should wear the jumper with pride. As a young player those words can ring in your ears for a long time. By then I knew he was the man who, as much as anyone, took Footscray to its first flag, bagging himself seven goals at the big dance. As anyone who knew Jack would be aware, he had an amazing clarity when it came to recalling every one of his majors on that famous September afternoon. Amazingly enough, the Dogs come up against the Demons in the week of Jack's passing — the same poor sods he terrorised on that grand afternoon. In the unlikely event that players from both Melbourne and Footscray this weekend gather to cheers and share a beer, I'd like to think we would all raise our glasses to one of the fathers of Footscray, and one of the all-time greats. Thanks for the memories, Jack. Another fantastic article from Murph. Here's hoping we play the GF again this year, and Murph matches Jack's goal-kicking...

Billy Brownless seemed to like it this morning. Then again he might've read keg and missed the point of the article! It's a nice idea, but one that's totally up to the players themselves. A lot of players go out for a few drinks after the game, I don't see why they can't shoot off an SMS to the lads from the other team. I don't think it's something you can do right after the game though, those days are long dead.

View Full Version: Murph's Age Column