Richard Marles (Corio, Australian Labor Party) Share this | Hansard source

I rise to speak of a matter which tonight and this week has been occupying much of the thoughts of those in my electorate—namely, the AFL grand final this Saturday. The significance of the Cats and footy to our community cannot be overestimated. It really matters. In my childhood, following Geelong principally taught me about defeat. Kicking empty cans in the empty outer at Kardinia Park, watching the Cats get a kicking, drilled into my consciousness that it was other teams that won premierships and other supporters that enjoyed the sweet nectar of success.

Years in the barren wilderness finally landed us at the doorstep of 1989, a year to remember. A young team led by the best footballer ever took us to an encounter with the mighty Hawks in the grand final that became an epic. The Hawthorn supporter of the eighties was an imposing beast. They would take their seat in the ground with regal assurance. Like their mascot, a bird of prey, they would focus on their victim with complete certainty that within a couple of hours they would make their kill and have their feast. Playing in September was considered a birthright. One word epitomised their demeanour: arrogance.

A six-point loss was painful but it promised the beginning of a golden age. The passage of time alone would surely provide passage to the Promised Land. But then we started losing grand finals. For many the journey was just too much. By the time Carlton had buried us in the 1995 grand final, streams of Cat fans were wiping off their tear streaked cat faces and wondering why. Barracking for Geelong had become like a medieval test of faith. Had the Spanish Inquisition had the Geelong Football Club at its disposal it would have prescribed a decade of following the Cats to sort the faithless from the penitent.

Fast forward to round 6, 2007, when Geelong beat Richmond by 157 points. From there, week by week, we kept winning, until we grabbed top spot mid-season. We started contemplating the last Saturday in September while at the same time reminding ourselves not to take off the lid. Soaring at this altitude was uncomfortable. It had the effect of making one’s head giddy.

Then came 29 September 2007. Our team was steely and determined. Collectively they wielded Excalibur, vanquished Port, and, in a procession glorious and joyful, claimed the Holy Grail. The Geelong Football Club had repaid its supporters. It knew that this was a town full of demons and at last it had the means of exorcism. And so the 2007 premiership cup was put to work. It became the most handled trophy in human history. They let everyone and anyone play with it, from corporate dinners to union meetings. If a supporter, demented from years of heartbreak, needed the cup to spend the night next to him in order to finally ward off the nightmares then the cup arrived to provide merciful relief.

With the new year dawned a different Geelong. We unveiled a flag and then serenely ripped Melbourne apart. We beat Essendon by a tonne and then jogged off the ground picking their bones from our teeth. As the weeks went by so did the wins. The winter became a sublime march to the best home and away season played since 1929.

But then, a couple of weeks ago in the corridors of this place, I had a very different experience: an old friend looked me in the eye and accused me of being an arrogant fan. I was taken aback, but she was right. All year I had spent the weeks leading up to the weekends enjoying the win before the game had even been played. That is arrogant. All year I was focused on who would come fourth because that would be the team that would be our first meal come the finals. That is arrogant, too. If I am really honest, I probably emotionally banked the 2008 premiership back in July. That is indeed arrogant. This cocky arrogance was the reason I hated the Hawthorn supporter of the eighties, but the worst thing is that, now that it is us, it feels great. The certainty of it, the security in it, the joy from it—all of it is wonderful.

The players, of course, are immune to this. Thankfully, Bomber, Frank and Cookie have managed to put together a team of Zen Buddhists who seem as unperturbed by lunatics like me as a Tibetan monk. For the rest of us, though, we are wallowing in an experience I never thought would be ours: being arrogant Geelong supporters. Yet arrogance is born of insecurity protecting the scared inner child from the vagaries of life and, halfway through the third quarter last Friday night, as Eagleton lined up to close the margin to single figures, life started to look very vagary indeed! It reminded me that the trembling, frightened Geelong fan was very much still inside. O please, Lord, let me still be arrogant come Sunday.

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