From the back deck at Ghost Manor last Saturday night, the world’s troubles seemed a long way away. Gazing up at the stars, trying to find one that was high enough to warrant being called Puopolo, it was easy to believe all was well in the world. To imagine that nothing had changed, and that as ever true bliss lay only a Three-Peat DVD pack and a large capricciosa away.
Granted, there’d been some drama when Angus and I arrived home from the game, turned on the kitchen light to check on the new goldfish, and could only see Jaeger and Tom huddled together looking like they’d been swimming their little hearts out for hours. It was ages before we found Tyrone, off in a corner behind the miniature Michael Tuck Stand. Then an incredible thing happened – Jaeger and Tom swam over, put a fin each on Tyrone’s back and ferried him back to the middle of the tank. It almost brought a tear to Angus’s eye, and he hasn’t cried since “Changa” Bateman retired.
We’re a family at Hawthorn, and in trying times we stick together. As I told Angus, at least we won’t have to endure another week of pundits pointing out that the last time we lost the first two of the season Stuey Dew was rolling around our forward line and the Schoe was a second-gamer. Gus agreed, but being a glass half empty sort of bloke he groaned that now they’ll be laughing that when we last lost the first three Joel Smith got the Brownlow votes, someone called Harry Miller kicked a goal and Matthew Lloyd ran around wearing an armguard that was only a jousting stick short of getting him a game up front for King Arthur’s Chevaliers.
In times like these it’s hard not to miss Josh Thurgood, but it’s not like we haven’t been here before. You didn’t have to be around when Alec Albiston and Bobby McCaskill were coaching to experience defeat so regular it drained you like a direct debit. Even our youngest fans surely remember going one-and-six at the start of 2010, a stretch that was greeted with glee by all of those Hawk haters out there. And how did that turn out? We made the finals that year, the prelim the next, the granny in 2012, then won the hat-trick of premierships that confirmed us as the greatest team on the planet, ever, in any sport, including jousting.
So when Clarko says we’ve got the players to win our next premiership, I’m standing at his shoulder nodding enthusiastically and saying “I’m with you all the way, oh great one”.
As I keep telling Angus, these are times to stick fat. To look to the rays of sunshine that are piercing the clouds. To see Ryan Burton as more than just the best-looking bloke to play in our backline since “Chinny” Langford. To see Mitchell and O’Meara getting 74 touches between them as a positive, not whatever the so-called experts made of it. To see Jordan Lewis getting suspended and not having to think, “Gee, we’re gunna miss him this week.”
And to see Teia Miles – and even if like Angus you’re old and grumpy enough to remember a time when Hawk heroes were called Peter, John and Don, and at a stretch Kelvin but only if they wore long sleeves – and realise what new blood can do for us. Not to mention seeing Teia Miles and wondering how many others he joined in that exclusive club of “sent an opponent to hospital with first bump in AFL”. Or wondering what the odds are that he’ll end up with a girl named Maria.
But let’s not get side-tracked. It’s time to empty the Mitchell-Lewis Swear Jar, top up the kitty with our earnings from taking Luke Breuuuuuust for first goal against the Crows (at $12 – ka-ching!!), and head for warmer climes. In case you hadn’t noticed, the Suns aren’t exactly scorching the grass. And as I told Angus, the best thing we can do right now is get away from the MCG. It’s not like anything good ever happens to us there.
And as Jaeger and Tom clearly know, it’s time to throw a fin around Tyrone and swim into calmer waters, together as one. It’s time we had a win. Carna mighty Hawks!
Read: Ghost of Glenferrie: Round 1
