With the victory song on hold, we got the chance to exorcise some demons in the preliminary final with a rematch with Carlton. After a tense first half, we blew the game open in the third quarter, kicking six goals to one. The final result was a clinical 45-point victory and a shot at redemption.
MATTHEW LLOYD
Champion full-forward 1995–2009, premiership teammate, Essendon captain
I had to play on Fletch a fair bit in intra-club games – that’s how I learnt what a really smart player he is.
In one game, I thought my strength on him was endurance so I was working him up the ground but all Fletch did was sit off me – he was more than happy to give me a kick up on the wing.
When we were inside 50 I’d try to get him for body strength. But Fletch knew this was his weakness so he didn’t get caught in that situation, he just kept getting the arm in on me.
I was lost for answers that day. He cut off the most dangerous spots and kept cutting the angles on my leads. I tried everything I knew to get on top of Fletch that afternoon but nothing worked. In the end I kicked one goal in four quarters.
After that I was always grateful Fletch was on my team.
You don’t get to hear how smart a player Dustin Fletcher is very often because he’s so modest. The truth is he’s one of the most intelligent footy people I know. He knows his own game better than anyone . . . and he sometimes knows his opposing number’s game better than they do too.
I think that’s why he’s been so durable. Certainly, not everyone could get away with the lack of training he has at times. But he’s been able to stand the test of time because he knows exactly what he does and doesn’t have to do to get himself up for a game without taking the risk of breaking himself down by overtraining.
Fletch is the closest thing to a goalkeeper AFL footy has. I can’t count the number of times he saved Essendon by deflecting or stopping goals by getting an arm or leg or foot on the ball. It’s why I say James Hird was the greatest player I played with but Dustin Fletcher was the most important.
Fletch changed the game in the sense that so many fullbacks in our era were worried only about shutting down the full-forward they were playing on, so they didn’t care whether they got the footy or not. Fletch wasn’t like that. He was so destructive by foot the opposition had to keep men on him. We took for granted that he would hit someone on the 50-metre mark with a flat kick. When Fletch didn’t play, everyone was a bundle of nerves with our kick-ins.
That’s why I reckon Fletch is the greatest kick for a key back-man there has ever been.
CHAPTER 8
THE GREATEST TEAM
The letter was waiting for us when we came off the track after our last training session before the Grand Final against Melbourne.
There had been an air of expectation about what Sheeds would produce before the biggest game of the year, given the weird and wonderful speeches he’d previously come up with.
To win this premiership, you will make the greatest Essendon team ever. If you lose, it will be the worst loss in Essendon’s history, the letter said. Use your courage. Dare yourself to win. Have no regrets . . . 22 men [who are] 100 per cent together won’t be beaten.
Included in the handout were some paragraphs from players who hadn’t been fortunate enough to be in our position. The one that struck a chord with me was from Michael Symons, who’d been stiff not to be a part of 1993 after playing 19 consecutive games from Round 4 to the semi-final. Symons was a talented marking forward who later in his career moved to a back flank. In 1999 he’d played 14 games but when he didn’t get a gig in the finals he decided to return to Perth. ‘You get one chance. Some people don’t get any chances, so make it count,’ were his words.
I’d thought a fair bit about 1993 over the week because on a personal note I didn’t want a repeat. Stephen Kernahan had towelled me up and I felt pressure to make sure I had a reasonable day on the biggest stage of all.
There were a few other players on personal missions. John Barnes had played in three losing grand finals at Geelong. Mark Mercuri had lost his brother suddenly during the year and also carried baggage from the previous year’s preliminary final, as he’d missed a shot to win in the dying minutes. Dean Wallis had been haunted by that tackle in the final seconds for the past 12 months and was desperate to atone.
There were 17 players in the team who’d been there in the preliminary final debacle and seven remaining from 1993. Like then, there was a good mix. Seven of the team were aged 22 and under, with the only baby being 19-yearold Adam Ramanauskas. I was part of a solid middle core with the likes of James Hird, Joe Misiti, Damien Hardwick and Sean Wellman, while there were four 30-somethings in Barnes, Wally, Darren Bewick and Michael Long.
There had been no selection dramas this time around; in fact, the same line-up had played in both of the finals. The unlucky player this year was Dean Rioli, who was clearly in our best 22 but had dislocated his shoulder in the loss to the Bulldogs.
Melbourne, who were coached by former Essendon assistant Neale Daniher, had been a bit of a surprise packet – the Dees had finished 14th the previous year, but in the second half of the season they’d won 10 of their last 11 games, including seven straight leading into the finals. They’d pumped reigning premier North Melbourne in the preliminary final by 50 points, with dangerous small forward Jeff Farmer kicking eight goals. Then on the Monday night they’d got another boost to their already-brimming confidence when on-baller Shane Woewodin was a surprise winner of the Brownlow Medal.
We’d had some luck on the awards front a week earlier, with four Bombers selected in the All-Australian team. I managed to get a gig at fullback – a great honour in what had clearly been my best season. It was also a humbling experience to be named in the AFL’s team of the year along with fellow Bombers ‘Dimma’ Hardwick, who was in the back pocket, Hirdy, on the half-forward flank, and Matthew Lloyd, at full-forward.
But all the honours would be worth nothing if we didn’t deliver in the final game of the year.
Personally, the build-up was a lot more enjoyable than my previous experience when I was an 18-year-old schoolboy. This time around, with seven seasons behind me, I knew what to expect, how to enjoy it and, most importantly, how to deal with the occasion of Grand Final Day itself.
As usual I was one of the first to get to the ground. We were told to be there two hours before the bounce but I liked to make it two and a half hours. I’d developed some new quirks in my pre-game routine over the 2000 season. A change of locker had been the biggest move. Being No.31, my gear would always be put in the locker with that number on it at whatever ground we were playing. For some reason at the MCG earlier in the year one of the property stewards had put my jumper and stuff in locker No.1, which was always closest to the door. I’d gone out and played a good game that day, so from then on I told them I wanted that locker every week.
This also had a bit to do with my good relationship with Mark Johnson, who wore No.1. He was a funny character and being in the back pocket we played alongside each other and got along well, so I enjoyed the pre-game banter sitting next to him.
He would tell a joke or do something stupid that would help me relax and we laughed a lot despite being very different people. If someone was pissing him off he’d tell them straight up whereas I probably wouldn’t do that; I’d be more diplomatic in how I’d handle the situation. Johnno was capable of flying off the handle at the smallest things and I regularly told him to calm down; however, his heart was always in the right place.
My new superstition threw a few of the other boys out with the locker sequence, but I was approaching senior status – the Grand Final was my 151st game – so they fell into line.
Another quirk I’d developed in 2000 was strapping my own ankles. Since my ankle reconstruction in 1994 I’d always had a few issues down there. Normally the physios and trainers strapped my ankles, but earlier in the year at a practice match I couldn’t get to them for some reason, so
I did it myself. It worked that day and from then on I just went with it.
‘What are you doing?’ would be a weekly question as my teammates tried to get their head around my new routine. But I got the tick of approval from Reidy and the rest of the medical staff about my technique – three overs, three back the other way, two heel locks and then some more tape on top. I found that by doing it myself I was able to get the right tightness and stability. It also helped occupy the mind and fitted in with my way of keeping to myself in the warm-up. Some guys liked to bounce around with headphones blaring music, but I preferred to sit at my locker by myself, doing nothing in particular. The ankle strapping would pass a chunk of time and then I’d always play around with my boots for a while. I also liked to stretch more than most of the other guys and that would keep me amused.
Reidy always used to joke about my warm-up because I didn’t like to overexert myself and would often hide in the doctor’s room. Mark Harvey had been the king of that when I started, and I’d followed on with the tradition. ‘Get in there and start warming up!’ would be a regular spray I’d receive from an assistant coach or fitness adviser. I waved them off because I’d had a bad experience with warm-ups: in my first season I’d suffered a bad cork in a tackling drill in the rooms, and from that moment on I saved my energy for out on the ground.
One player who had too much energy for all of us in the warm-up was John Barnes. He had actually been banned from being around the rest of us because he had the ability to take people’s minds off the job ahead with some of the stupid things he would do. The ruckman would be banished to another room to do his own drills.
Despite his quirks, I got on with Barnesy like a house on fire. The Fletcher family had got a taste of the larrikin he was back at the very start of this career. He was from up the bush in Cobram and was invited down by Essendon to play in the under-19s. He was about 16 and Mum and Dad put their hand up to have him stay at our place. We put a bed in the billiard room for him, which was down the other end of the house from the rest of us.
He came down on Friday night and the next morning we were getting ready to take him to the game when we heard this massive scream: ‘BREAKFAST!’
It came from the billiard room. Barnesy had just woken up and was expecting breakfast in bed. You can imagine how this went down with my parents, who both marched in there and explained that there was cereal and toast waiting for him in the kitchen.
While Barnesy would often have to kick the ball to himself during the warm-up, the key part of my pre-game was having a kick-to-kick with Colin Hooper, who had been at the club forever in a number of roles, including as Sheeds’ runner. Before every game since I started in 1993, he’d kick 20 balls at me from a couple of metres away and then do it again from further back. We’d go through the same routine each time; Hirdy did something similar with Colin.
While there were obviously normal nerves, there was still that calmness inside about knowing how good this Essendon team was. If we played the same way we had all season and if we had learnt from last year’s preliminary final – which I was confident we had – then the premiership was ours.
Once again I had the job of being on the opposing team’s captain. David Neitz was Melbourne’s big key forward and we’d played Teal Cup together back in 1992.
All you can think about at the start of games like that is getting that crucial first stat. And as a defender you also don’t want your opponent to achieve that. After 30 seconds I found myself on the spot, one metre out, after Neitz had marked a long ball from David Schwarz. The saving grace was that he was on a very tough angle – but what a start this would be for the underdogs, the captain kicking the opening goal inside a minute.
Thankfully, Neitz ran around on his non-preferred left foot and kicked it straight into the post. I was the most relieved man at the MCG at that moment.
A minute later Hirdy snapped brilliantly after roving a ball-up to get our first goal on the board. But it wasn’t long before Neitz had another chance. It was again Schwarz who found him with a nice left-foot pass that gave me no chance. The Demons captain was just 30 metres out on a slight angle and I’d conceded as I stood on the mark. But I was wrong: Neitz missed again. Maybe this was going to be our day.
It turned out to be a midfielder who got the Demons going, with Stephen Powell kicking two goals – although we offset that pretty quickly with two in reply from Blake Caracella.
Inaccuracy was a problem for us in the opening term, with our lead just 11 points: 4.8 to 3.3.
Once again Hirdy got us going in the second quarter with the first goal and then a hand in the next, which provided Caracella with his third for the day. Neitz got one back for them before Paul Barnard came off the bench and kicked two quick goals as we put the foot down and skipped out to a 40-point lead.
The big moment of the term came near the end, when Longy cannoned into Melbourne ruckman Troy Simmonds. His hip connected with Simmonds’ head and knocked him out cold. The Melbourne players weren’t happy and spot-fire brawls broke out as they came in to remonstrate. It had the potential to get very messy, but calm heads prevailed – although boos from the Melbourne faithful followed Longy for the rest of the day. That didn’t worry the veteran, who was more concerned about getting his second premiership medal.
So was I, but the job wasn’t over despite the scoreboard tilting heavily our way. This team had gone through too much to contemplate relaxing for a second. Even when Farmer got the first goal of the third quarter we responded immediately, with a clever tap from Longy eventually ending up with a goal to Steve Alessio. Barnard then got his third, which was quickly followed by a Justin Blumfield goal that pushed the margin out to 53 points before Neitz got his second for the day.
Every time Melbourne tried to mount any momentum, we found answers. Goals to Longy, Bewick and Lloydy took the air out of the Demons’ sails, and at three-quarter time the difference was 57 points. We were just 30 minutes away from being premiership players, but I refused to let those thoughts invade my mind. Sheeds wanted us to continue to be ruthless and focus on kicking the opening goal of the final quarter. ‘Go and finish it. You deserve to win,’ he said.
Barnard, who’d started his career at Hawthorn before becoming an important utility at Windy Hill, did what the coach asked and got the first of the final term and his fourth for the afternoon. We were in cruise control, although that was interrupted by an unexpected source. I went in to shepherd Melbourne youngster Brent Grgic, who was chasing Wally on the outer wing, we got our arms tangled and then suddenly out of nowhere he clipped me. Grgic’s fist just grazed me. I was stunned for a couple of seconds before I went back at him and the same thing happened. My big right hand just brushed past his face. A few other haymakers were thrown before we were separated by Wally and a couple of others.
The unexpected fight snapped me out of my celebratory mood, but it wasn’t long until the party was officially on. When Lloydy kicked his fourth and 109th for the season it was time. I was a premiership player – again.
Being able to play the last 20 minutes knowing I had achieved the ultimate was the best feeling I’d experienced in football. I knew from that moment on that until the start of the next season I was a member of the best team in the competition.
*
We’d been on a mission all year and had put together one of the greatest seasons in AFL history.
Many heroes had worn Essendon colours to win the club its 16th premiership cup. Hirdy had been unbelievable and was fittingly awarded the Norm Smith Medal. Barnard and Lloyd finished with four goals each, Caracella had been important early with three goals, and Blumfield played the game of his life. Barnesy, who was in tears afterwards, had been instrumental in the win while Wally, who was also emotional, had been superb next to me in the last line.
In the end the difference was 10 goals: Essendon 19.21 (135) to Melbourne 11.9 (75).
Every player who has been through it says the time from the final siren to the lap
of honour is the best 30 minutes of your life. But before we did anything we got in a circle in the middle of the MCG and sang the theme song for the first time in months. Getting my hands on the cup was magical as we slowly made our way around the MCG. This was better than what I remembered from the last time. This was why I played a team sport: for these moments that would live with me forever. The bond with these players would last forever, and the look of joy on the fans’ faces made me realise how much it meant to so many people.
Winning my second premiership was certainly an amazing way to celebrate another milestone: my first Father’s Day.
The next few days were wild, crazy and enjoyable. On the Wednesday night we all fronted up to the best and fairest dinner to keep the celebrations rolling. There had been so many good players throughout the year that I hadn’t really given much thought to where I might figure in the voting. At the halfway point I ducked outside to go to the toilet and got stuck out there chatting. By the time I got back inside there were only four rounds remaining and I was in front.
I’d definitely had a good season but I put it down to having such a solid back six, plus the fact that the ball hadn’t come down there as much given how we’d dominated teams throughout the year.
As the voting entered the finals I was clinging to a slight lead but there were challengers coming thick and fast. I didn’t expect to hang on, but even though I wasn’t up in the top vote-getters in the Grand Final, I managed to just beat Hirdy to win my first Crichton Medal as Essendon’s best and fairest player.
Public speaking isn’t my strong point and I was still a bit stunned when I went up to the stage to receive the medal. I thanked my teammates and quickly got back down to have another beer. It was one of those things that I knew I would appreciate down the track. As my old teammate Gary O’Donnell, who’d taken home the Crichton in 1993, says to me every time we cross paths: ‘There’s not too many blokes who win B and Fs in a premiership year.’
Fletch Page 9
