Better than a fairytale

You can’t dream these scenarios

AT THREE-QUARTER TIME, I swear off football. I’ve had enough. I can’t take this anymore.

This Preliminary Final has led to a personal revelation: it doesn’t matter how much I cheer for Hawthorn, how many games I attend, how much I pray for success, there’s nothing I can do that will have any impact on whether they win or lose. While seemingly obvious, realising this stuns me. All the screaming and crying, the tears and the shouts, mean absolutely nothing. I can’t keep giving them my all only to walk away disappointed.

SINCE UPSETTING THEM to win the 2008 Grand Final, we have lost eleven games in a row to Geelong. Nine of those are by less than ten points, five by less than a goal and two by a kick after the siren, bringing them another last-minute victory and stabbing a knife right through my heart. It is improbable that we can’t scrape a single victory. We play at least twice every year and on each meeting I watch in slow-motion as we fall apart and Geelong find a way to vanquish us.

Given no real world reason for our failure, we turn to folklore for an explanation. After we shock every pundit and beat favourites Geelong in 2008, our president Jeff Kennett gives an impassioned speech where he backs Hawthorn unequivocally:

‘What they don’t have, I think, is the quality of some of our players; they don’t have the psychological drive we have. We’ve beaten Geelong when it matters.’

The Geelong players take Jeff’s words to heart. They decide that no matter what, they will never lose to Hawthorn again and the Kennett Curse is born. Even when the betting companies run the numbers and declare that Hawthorn should win, Geelong find a way to make the impossible possible.

IN 2012, HAWTHORN are on fire. We finish the home and away season on top of the ladder.

All I want is to see a Hawthorn premiership in person. My dad hasn’t seen one either, despite Hawthorn’s massive success in his lifetime, having spent most of his younger years putting in his hours at the hospital.

When Geelong are knocked out by Fremantle in the first week of finals, I breathe a sigh of relief. They can’t make us stray from the path. We get through to the Grand Final. This is our year. I am certain. My dad and I’s dream will come true.

We lose to Sydney by ten points.

My dad and I are silent in the car on the drive home.

In the driveway, scarf still around my neck, he says to me, ‘Jules, I’m still really happy we got to go. Thanks for coming with me.’

I’m much less gracious. I’m trying hard not to cry. All I can think about is that Hawthorn worked so hard the whole year to get to the Grand Final, that winning a flag is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and they are going to have to start all over again the next year. The dream is dead.

BUT THE OFF-SEASON is five months long and I manage to pick myself up from the ground and dust off my dream. In the first round of 2013, we lose to Geelong for the tenth time. I keep my usual eye on them all season, willing them to lose games, but they match our pace the whole season.

With one, singular exception: Brisbane.

Brisbane are woeful. They are not having a good season. They will not play finals. Ash McGrath is playing his 200th game but it will not be a celebration. They are down 52 points against Geelong in the third quarter. They have never come back to win from a deficit that large.

When I look up the score afterwards, my jaw drops when I find out that Brisbane has won by five points. I scramble to find footage of the last two minutes of the game to piece the story together.

The video gives me endless reasons why Brisbane shouldn’t win. Geelong forward Tom Hawkins kicks the most unconvincing behind with 55 seconds left to put Geelong in front by one point. Brisbane try to push forward, but Geelong defender Josh Hunt takes a massive mark with 45 seconds left.

Brisbane defender Daniel Merrett answers with a thrilling mark of his own, but there’s only 20 seconds left and his feet are on the edge of Geelong’s goal square. The ground is 170 metres long. Elliot Yeo, Simon Black, Joel Patfull. Five seconds left. Jed Adcock has it on the ground. A desperate handball to Dayne Zorko who barrels it forward into the palm of none other than milestone man Ash McGrath.

The siren sounds. Geelong coach Chris Scott looks furious on the sidelines. Commentator Anthony Hudson is losing his voice.

‘THIS IS BETTER THAN A FAIRYTALE,’ he calls. ‘YOU CAN’T DREAM THESE SCENARIOS.’

Ash McGrath lines up over 50 metres away from Brisbane’s goal.

‘Ashley McGrath in his 200th game. A behind will create a draw. A goal will give the Lions an incredible victory. Ash McGrath comes in. It’s ON ITS WAY! It’s THERE! THE MIRACLE ON GRASS! THE BRISBANE LIONS HAVE KICKED EIGHT GOALS IN THE LAST QUARTER AND AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR THEY HAVE WON!’

I smile and wonder what it would feel like to get a taste of that.

BY THE END of the season, Hawthorn have finished on top of the ladder. Here we go again.

We enact revenge on Sydney and smash them in the first week of finals, which means I get to sit back and watch who gets the privilege of playing to play us in the second week. I hope for a different result, but Geelong beat Port Adelaide, setting up the inevitable reunion.

Oh well, I think. It’s been a good run. This Preliminary Final will be our last game of the year. But, just maybe, a smaller part of me thinks, that this is how it’s meant to be. We can’t win a flag unless we beat Geelong. We can’t get the gold unless we slay the dragon first. We can’t sneak past, we have to beat him even when he is breathing fire down our necks.

The game is agonising. At three-quarter time, I swear off football. I’ve had enough. I can’t take this anymore. We’re going to lose and there’s nothing I can do about it. We’re down by twenty points. We can’t even win when we’re ahead at three-quarter time.

The fourth quarter is absolute torture. I’ve sworn off football, but my dad and I agreed we never leave games early. I watch most of it from behind my scarf. Slowly, we inch forward. We start to close the gap. But time is running out.

The calls come every couple of minutes.

‘WHO’S GOT A RADIO?’

There’s be a slight pause before the answer comes back.

‘SEVEN MINUTES AND FORTY-FIVE SECONDS.’

We all groan.

I’m holding the hand of the lady sitting next to me. I’d never met her before tonight. I don’t even know her name.

When Shaun Burgoyne kicks the goal that puts us in front again, we erupt.

There is over five minutes left in the game. It is excruciating. A lifetime exists in those five minutes. Radio call, four minutes left. Hide behind my scarf again. Radio call. Barely any time has passed. Nobody is scoring.

When the siren sounds, we are five points up. Captain Luke Hodge throws his hands in the air. We scream, shout, celebrate. The curse has lifted. Cinderella goes to the ball. Sleeping beauty awakens from her slumber. I hug my dad. I hug the lady next to me. Everybody bursts into tears. We’ve done it. We’ve actually done it. We’ve accomplished the impossible. I feel invincible. I don’t care who is waiting for us in the Grand Final next week, we will beat them. Football is beautiful. Football is the best thing in the world. I could never give up football, not when this is the euphoria waiting at the end of eleven straight losses.

Goddammit, I think when we’ve calmed down. That buffoon Jeff was right. We win when it counts.

I GET MY dream. My dad and I go to the Grand Final. After eleven straight losses to Geelong, we kick eleven goals and eleven behinds to win our eleventh flag.

None of it makes any sense. We get to go back the next year, and the year after, to watch Hawthorn win three flags in a row.

It’s better than a fairytale. You can’t dream these scenarios. I could certainly never write it.