My football nirvana: Croweaters vs The Big V
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Everything that follows is true. None of the names have been changed to protect the guilty (except the ones I can't remember).
The eve of the match
It was all Stefan’s and Frances’s fault. They were a year older than the rest of us and so, understandably, we deferred to their judgement. Whether what followed had its origins as a calculated prank on their part, which ultimately went too far, or was from the start a genuine error, I never knew, but the results, for me at any rate, were far-reaching and seminal, shaping my life as surely and as emphatically as any event before or since.
When you’re eleven, each weekend is a vast oasis of time stretching out far beyond the horizon. Monday morning, and the humdrum routine of school, remains an unproven and, at six o’clock or so on a Friday evening, highly improbable hypothesis.
Friday 30th June 1967, at roughly 6pm, found me, aged eleven, leaving school football training with a group of friends. The oasis that week seemed especially lush and expansive, for on the morrow I would, as I saw it, be making my interstate football debut at the Adelaide Oval, where South Australia would be going head to head with the might of the ‘Big V’. Admittedly, it was only my debut as a first hand spectator of such events, but the knot in my stomach would surely not have been any tighter had I been selected to play at full back against the new ‘wunderkind’ of Victorian football, Royce Hart.
The fact that I experienced such a pronounced sense of anticipation was perhaps allowable, but it was, at the same time, unprecedented. Could it have been that, subconsciously, I was aware that, after watching this particular match, my already by this stage fairly long-standing infatuation with Australian football would be transformed into a full-blown, and all consuming, love affair?
First though there was the deceptively straightforward matter of getting home from footy training. Normally, this particular journey took about forty-five minutes; tonight it would be virtually four hours before, tired, wet and bedraggled - but still luxuriating in a miasma of excitement over the prospect of Baldock, Nicholls, Shearman, Eustice and co. the next day - I vaulted the garden fence ready to proffer my hastily concocted, but I hoped believable, explanation as to why I was so late.
Normally, I walked directly home from training with two or three others who lived in the same neighbourhood. Tonight, for some reason, a group of about a dozen of us - several of whom (though not Stefan and Frances) would be attending the next day’s interstate match - decided to walk home together, effecting, as it were, a kind of half-circuit of the town, dropping people off as we went. The agreed route meant that I would be one of the last to arrive home, but even so the entire journey ought not to have taken more than an hour and a half.
Had we been a few years older the most logically persuasive explanation of our ensuing waywardness would likely have had to do with the disorientating effects of an over-indulgence in alcohol. In reality, it was intoxication of quite a different kind that was to blame, as we spent the early part of our journey engaged in excited chatter over South Australia’s prospects in the following afternoon’s big game, all the while, with Stefan and Frances leading the way, wandering further and further off the beaten track.
At first, I treated it all as a bit of a joke. I realised straight away that we were heading in the wrong direction, but Frances and Stefan either had a mysterious, and hopefully amusing, agenda of their own, or were genuinely lost - a state of affairs likely to have even more hilarious consequences. Anyway, as long as the sun stayed up, then due west - the direction away from the school oval in which I lived - was easy enough to pinpoint. Meanwhile, although I made a few half-hearted objections, I was more or less content to bide my time and see what transpired.
And so we trundled on, ignoring the fact that the hitherto distant hills, which lay in the opposite direction from home, were gradually getting closer. However, when the road along which we were walking began to slope upwards, Gary Walker, for one, had his feelings of trust ruptured. “This ain’t the way home,” he announced, his tone of voice perhaps a touch less conciliatory than he intended.
Stefan said, “It’s just a different way, Gazza,” which Frances reinforced with “Yeah, Gazza, it’s a short cut.”
But Gary Walker had come to a stop, his normally quite defiant chin now become positively rebellious. “Home’s back that way,” he insisted, pointing behind him, and endeavouring to elicit, with a plaintive stare, the support of others in the group. “Well, ain’t it?”
No one answered, although Chris Forder looked across a little uncertainly at his older brother, Anthony.
Technically, of course, Gazza undoubtedly had a point, and I am sure that each and every one of us knew it. However, at some other level we were aware that if we were to allow ourselves to be guided and constrained by technicalities we would end up living pretty charmless, desiccated lives. And so, as though inextricably enmeshed in a collective cobweb of anticipation, we avoided Gazza’s eyes, and guilelessly succumbed to the only kind of life experience that can, when all is said and done, redeem.
“See, Gazza, nothing to worry about,” said Stefan, with slightly excessive fervour.
“No worries, Gazza,” added Frances, with a grim smirk that may have been his version of a reassuring smile.
When we finally reached the boundaries of civilisation, Stefan cheerily informed us, without missing a beat, that now it was time to turn left.
So we did.
“Who’s gunner win tomorrow, Gazza?” I asked - not, in truth, because I was remotely interested in his answer, but because I imagined that by diverting his attention from the objective reality of our plight I might, in some way, reinforce the solidarity of the group.
“The Vics, of course,” he replied. “Without Big Bill we’ll get crucified in the rucks. Their rovers are better too. And Royce Hart’ll probably kick seven or eight on Elleway.” He stuck his chin out, as he almost always did, to reinforce, or else to challenge.
This last was too much, however. “No way!” I demurred, caught up in the topic despite myself. “Ron’ll be ‘way too tough for that weedy Tasmanian poofter!” I was consciously eschewing eloquence in order to forge a more elemental connection, sensing perhaps that Gazza needed to find an alternative outlet for his simmering rage.
“Nah,” he retorted. “Elleway only looks good for Port cos all the full forwards in the league are useless.”
“Eric Freeman’s a good full forward.”
“Yeah, but he plays for Port, and ‘sides, you’re just biased.”
“What about Sashy then?”
Gazza nearly choked on phlegm. “That great lump of lard!”
But we had reached another pivotal point in our pilgrimage, as Stefan breezily announced, “Left here, fellas”.
“Now you’ll see,” said Frances, who may even have believed it. However, if he had hoped that his words might provoke an inquisitive craning of necks, he was to be disappointed.
At long last, however, we appeared to be walking downhill.
Gazza and I continued to talk about the footy, with the Forder brothers, who were also intending to go to the match, occasionally joining in as well.
The sun had set by the time we reached Elizabeth North Shopping Centre, which lies a mere quarter of a kilometre or so from St Thomas More’s. However, by resorting to Stefan’s short-cut it had taken us somewhere in excess of an hour and a half to get there.
“This is me,” said Gazza, who lived just a couple of streets away from the shopping complex. He was terse-lipped and pale, and studiously avoided eye contact with everyone as he hurriedly effected what no doubt felt like an escape.
Stephen Orlick, John Conole and a couple of others were quick to follow, although their homes lay at least a couple of kilometres away to the south. I engaged in what I hoped was a surreptitious but meaningful exchange of glances with The Politician and the Forder brothers, my nearest neighbours in Elizabeth West, but any precipitate action on our part was speedily circumvented by Stefan, who said, “Not far to go now, fellas. This way.”
“Nearly home,” embellished Frances, whose complete and unequivocal faith in Stefan was clearly such as to be entirely independent of experience or circumstance.
And so our pilgrimage resumed, adhering, so far as I could tell, to no predetermined plan or structure, but nevertheless being embraced by Stefan – and, to some extent by Frances – as a kind of evocation of divine will.
With me, the Forder brothers, and The Politician as the helpless, soon-to-be-burnt, sacrificial offerings.
We reached the railway crossing at Broadmeadows, which was about a kilometre from where Stefan and Frances lived in Elizabeth Field. The rest of us, though, still had four or five kilometres to go.
With uncharacteristic boldness Frances, who perhaps gleaned a certain inspiration from having at last reached familiar territory, informed us that we were almost home.
“You might be,” returned The Politician testily. “We’re still as far away from home as ever.”
But Stefan, who presumably considered words superfluous in the face of such indefatigable logic, merely laughed, and Frances, after evincing a momentary reflex suggestion of discomfiture, joined in.
I, by this time, had immersed myself completely in what I had increasingly begun to perceive, if still somewhat imprecisely, as a kind of rite of passage. I may even have been grinning.
Stefan’s house proved to be almost identical to mine, at least superficially: west facing, red bricked, the trademark tin roof, and a front porch and veranda tacked on to the south wall like a wholly incongruous last minute afterthought. It was just after 9 o’clock when we arrived there, and as the rest of us reassured his anxious mother that we all knew our various ways home and that, yes, we would proceed there promptly and without deviation, it started to rain. This seemed to cause Stefan’s mother still further anxiety, but I managed to alleviate her worries with some impromptu off the wall humour that was secretly aimed at Stefan’s sister, watching from behind the door, who was in the same class as me at school, and for whom I harboured a surreptitious fondness.
Almost an hour later, saturated both in H20 and self-admiration, I was the last but one to arrive home. “See you tomorrow,” I said to the Forder brothers, who still had a ten minute walk ahead of them. “I’ll call for you at 8.30.” The plan was that we would then rendezvous with the remaining members of our party at the train station.
The Forder brothers muttered something incomprehensible and hastened off. I gripped the garden fence with both hands, casually implemented my recently mastered vaulting technique, and went inside to Face The Music.
Nirvana’s four foundations
A total of four key factors combined to make the next day both memorable and significant. Had any of these four factors been absent, then it is unlikely that I would be able to look back on my attendance at the 1967 interstate football match between South Australia and the Victorian Football League as anything more significant than a somewhat enjoyable or interesting event. As things turned out, it became much, much more.
The first factor was that the ‘music’ I had confronted on the previous night had been surprisingly muted and brief; I think my mother was more relieved than angry, all too eager to swallow my thin excuse of “it was all Stefan’s and Frances’s fault”.
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The second factor was the fact that the match itself was, according to popular opinion, one of the finest interstate contests seen in Adelaide for years, with the standard of the play of the highest order, and the result in doubt until (quite literally) the end.
The third factor was the rain, which fell intermittently throughout the day, and which limited the attendance to less than 40,000. This meant that, unlike for many games at Adelaide Oval during this particular era, it was possible for all spectators at the ground to obtain a clear, unobstructed view of the action.
The fourth and final factor emerged when I called on the Forder brothers early that morning. Chris, the younger one, answered the door, barely opening it sufficiently for me to make him out. He seemed shrunken somehow, emaciated. “We can’t come,” he said sullenly. “We’ve been grounded.”
I stared back, bemused, the events of the previous night already consigned to distant memory. “You’re joking,” I said.
“Nah. Gazza, Pete and Clarkey aren’t going either - they ‘phoned.”
I gulped back at him like a goldfish. Gazza, Pete and Clarkey were to have met us at the train station. It duly emerged, after further whispered interrogation, that our circuitous walk home the previous evening had not encountered universal parental acquiescence, and that I would be going to the match alone, or not at all.
The thing was, my mother thought I was going with a group of friends, and it was on that understanding that I had received her consent to travel all the way to Adelaide by train without adult supervision. Strictly speaking therefore, I knew I ought to have turned back, and gone home. However, I was eleven years old, and had been looking forward to this day for weeks on end. Besides, how would my mother ever find out that I had gone to the game alone? I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.
“See you Monday then,” I said to Chris, and the fourth factor clicked into place, for without the distracting encumbrance of friends I was to be free to concentrate on the actual on field football action as never before. Prior to this, trips to the footy had involved messing around with my mates, and having a kick on the oval during the breaks between quarters; on this occasion, I would embrace nirvana.
The big match build-up
South Australia entered the match with a new look line-up. Injuries had robbed the team of key, proven interstate performers in the shape of John Cahill (Port Adelaide), Robert Day (West Adelaide), Geoff Kingston (West Torrens) and Bob Schmidt (South Adelaide), while stalwarts like Neil Kerley (Glenelg) and Bill Wedding (Norwood) had been excluded. Kerley, in fact, was named as coach of the team, while Wedding’s somewhat controversial exclusion would arguably prove decisive; as a ruckman, he had repeatedly proved himself capable of competing on even terms with the formidable Victorian big men, who on this occasion would ultimately emerge as South Australia’s undoing. Nevertheless, there were still a fair number of very good players in the South Australian team, including tenacious captain Ken Eustice from Central District, the Sturt trio of Paul Bagshaw, John Murphy and the long kicking Bob Shearman, the Norwood pair of Robert Oatey (shown above) and Ron Kneebone, eventual 1967 Magarey Medallist Trevor Obst from Port Adelaide, a duo of North Adelaide interstate debutants in Barrie Robran and Dennis Sachse (three parts potato to one part league footballer, but a highly effective full forward nevertheless), and my own particular hero, Port Adelaide’s test cricketing goalsneak, Eric Freeman.
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The VFL team, which was coached by Collingwood’s Bob Rose, was, as usual, packed with talent, as well as, on this occasion, possessing more experience than the South Australians. Skippered by St Kilda’s Darrel Baldock, the team possessed an awesome looking ruck division comprising John Nicholls (Carlton), Len Thompson (Collingwood), John Schultz (Footscray) and Noel Teasdale (North Melbourne). These would be supported by a pair of top quality rovers in South Melbourne’s dual Brownlow Medallist - later to win a third - Bob Skilton, and Ross Smith of St Kilda, who would win the same award later that year. Attracting more attention than any of these players, however, was Richmond’s young Tasmanian spearhead, Royce Hart, who had made his interstate debut a fortnight earlier against Western Australia, when he had booted 7 goals. Aged just nineteen, Hart would be opposed by another of my favourite players, Port Adelaide’s dogged, miserly full back, Ron Elleway, who treated every goal kicked against him as a personal indignity. Prior to the match, the media was treating this particular duel as potentially crucial to the outcome of the match.
Others stars in the Victorian line up included Hawthorn’s beanpole wingman Des Meagher, Essendon’s rugged half back Barry Davis, Richmond utility Bill Barrot, who had been best afield against Western Australia a fortnight earlier, the versatile Denis Marshall of Geelong, and reliable defenders like Wes Lofts (Carlton) and Peter Walker (Geelong).
The consensus in the Adelaide press appeared to be that the VFL was a marginal favourite to win this game. However, there was certainly no trace in any of the match previews of the inferiority complex which began to beset South Australian football in the 1970s. Why should there be? South Australian interstate teams had proved themselves more than a match for the Vics on several recent occasions¹, while matches between South Australian and VFL clubs had, over the past few seasons, begun increasingly to favour the croweaters². However, after squandering most of my lunch money on potato chips, chocolate and ginger beer at Adelaide station, I distinctly remember thinking, as I walked to the ground through yet another shower of rain, “Bloody wet weather football - suit the Vics!”
A frenetic opening
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In still, cool, overcast conditions, with rain falling intermittently, South Australia’s Ken Eustice won the toss and chose to kick to the scoreboard end. The oval was in excellent condition, with the exception of the central cricket wicket area, which was somewhat muddy.
The first quarter was evenly contested, with the two sides testing one another out. Right from the outset a pattern emerged whereby the Victorian ruckmen won the majority of the hit-outs, only to see a comparatively large proportion of them sharked by Murphy and Chessell, the two South Australian ruck rovers. Overall, this meant that neither team gained a decisive advantage from the ruck contests.
Given the slippery conditions, it was perhaps surprising that neither teams’ rovers were especially prominent, although Ross Smith (VFL) occasionally caught the eye with his verve, pace and clever use of the ball, while South Australia’s Potter kicked the goal of the term when he somehow managed to break clear of a surging pack of players and elude several flailing attempts to tackle and spoil, before snapping truly from a tight angle.
Wingman Des Meagher was the VFL’s most effective player in this term. He managed eight kicks while keeping his opponent, Barrie Robran, kickless, and repeatedly sent his team deep into attack.
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South Australian skipper Eustice played on a half back flank on the Victorians’ match winner from a fortnight earlier, Bill Barrot. On this occasion, Barrot met his nemesis, as Eustice was too quick and aggressive for him, providing a frequent source of vital rebound for the South Australians.
Neither full forward, Sachse for South Australia, or Hart for the VFL, showed to much effect in this term, although Sachse did get one clear-cut opportunity which resulted in the ball striking the goal post.
Victorian skipper Baldock was conspicuous early, only to fade over the remaining three quarters. Paul Bagshaw in the centre for South Australia proved to be a thorn in the Victorians’ side all day, forcing Big V coach Bob Rose to try a succession of opponents on him, with limited success³.
Overall, South Australia got the ball into attack more than their opponents this term, but were frequently repelled by the Victorian half backs before getting into scoring range. As a result, their lead at the first change was just 5 points.
QUARTER TIME: South Australia 3.4 (22); VFL 2.5 (17)
Croweaters squander chances
In the second quarter Freeman at centre half forward raised his game, giving South Australia a reliable route to goal which they repeatedly utilised. Waiting at the end of these forays as often as not was Dennis Sachse who, towards the halfway mark of the term, kicked his first goal in interstate football after a good mark, and followed up with his second shortly afterwards after being needlessly pushed in the back by Lofts. This made the score 6.4 to 3.7 in South Australia’s favour. The home side was now completely on top, with the ball continuously in their forward lines. Three times in rapid succession Sachse marked brilliantly within easy reach of goal, only to miss the target each time with awkward looking tumble punts that skidded off the side of his boot. If only it had been Eric Freeman with his unfailingly accurate drop punts, I thought to myself, we’d have had 3 goals on the board. As it was, the Vics were still very much in the game.
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Perhaps inevitably, the wind went out of South Australia’s sails at this point, and the Victorian effort all over the ground was raised a notch or two as they fought back to be within just 3 points at the long break. Des Meagher, having allowed his opponent Barrie Robran latitude earlier in the term, was particularly prominent during this phase, as was Essendon’s Alan Noonan on a half forward flank. Across half back Denis Marshall enjoyed another good quarter, while big John Schultz was a prominent figure all over the ground.
For South Australia, Bagshaw continued to win in the centre, while his Sturt team mate Darryl Hicks was in effervescent form on a wing. Full back Ron Elleway still had Hart in his pocket, while the ruck roving pair of Murphy and, more particularly, Chessell were continually in the thick of the action.
The overriding feeling at half time though was that South Australia had led a vital opportunity slip.
HALF TIME: South Australia 6.7 (43); VFL 5.10 (40)
A slogging stalemate
The third term brought tough, slogging, uncompromising football from both sides, with clear goal scoring opportunities at a premium. The Victorians continued to be well served by their half back division, while big Len Thompson from Collingwood was winning the majority of the hit-outs. Rover Ross Smith and ruckman John Schultz were also noteworthy performers.
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For South Australia, Norwood rover Bob Oatey played his best quarter of the match, thriving in the now sodden ground conditions, while ruck rovers Chessell and Murphy continued to undermine Thompson’s ruck supremacy to a fair extent by intercepting numerous hit-outs. They were also much in evidence around the ground, as well as limiting the effectiveness of the Victorian resting ruckmen when resting themselves in a back pocket.
Hart at full forward for the VFL side had still not managed to break clear of Elleway, while South Australian centre half back Ron Kneebone was now keeping tight wraps on Baldock.
At the other end of the ground, Wes Lofts had reasserted his supremacy over Sachse, while Peter Walker was engaged in a fascinating duel with Freeman which saw him dominate when the ball was on the ground, but look a trifle suspect during aerial contests.
At three quarter time the status quo had been maintained; it was still South Australia by 3 points.
THREE QUARTER TIME: South Australia 8.9 (57); VFL 7.12 (54)
Vics edge it
The final term had almost everything you could wish for from a game of football: superb play from both teams, no fewer than five lead changes, and a smattering of controversy to boot.
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South Australia seemed the better side during the opening fifteen minutes of the quarter but could not convert. It seemed they had done so on one occasion, however, when, from a scrimmage on the goal line, the ball was knocked back to Dennis Sachse who appeared to kick truly, only for the goal umpire to raise just one flag. It later transpired that he was of the view that, during the scrimmage, the ball had travelled over the goal line for a rushed behind, but to many spectators in the ground, and not a few players, it seemed that big Dennis had missed another ‘sitter’.
During the second half of the term the Victorian rucks began to exert a telling effect, both in rucking contests, and around the ground. It was probably the first time in the entire match that the Vics had managed to get a genuine run on, and the omens for South Australia were ominous.
This was point was reinforced when, after getting no change out of Elleway for three quarters, Royce Hart finally broke free for a couple of vital goals, scored within a minute of one another, enabling the Vics to hit the front.
VFL coach Rose replaced Bob Skilton, who had had a dismal afternoon, with Fitzroy rover John Newnham, and this ultimately proved to be almost a match-winning move. For South Australia, Neil Kerley decided to leave things as they were.
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The closing minutes of the match were as nerve-racking and dramatic as you could wish. As the time on period commenced, South Australia led narrowly, but three minutes in the Vics nosed in front and looked home. South Australia had other ideas, however, and from the centre bounced they surged into attack for Freeman to restore their lead from a long snap.
A point to the Vics soon tied the scores, and with time running out a draw looked probable. With just over a minute to go, normally reliable South Australian half back flanker Brenton Adcock of Sturt appeared to have plenty of time to deal with a loose ball near the boundary, but he fumbled badly, allowing it to trickle over the line. From the ensuing boundary throw in, the Victorians force the ball forward, and Newnham kicks what proves to be the winning goal. Had Adcock managed to collect the ball, as he probably would have nine times out of ten, he would have had plenty of time to safely clear his lines and almost certainly secure the draw.
One final moment of drama remained. In the dying seconds, South Australia mounted a last, desperate attacking thrust which culminated in the ball being kicked high to the teeth of the goal square. As players set themselves, and moments before the ball arrived, the siren sounded; nevertheless, the pack of players still contested the mark, with Eric Freeman taking a beauty within point blank range of goal, but alas! the game is already over.
FINAL SCORE: VFL 11.19 (85); South Australia 11.13 (79)
BEST
VFL: Meagher, Smith, Marshall, Schultz, Davis, Walker
South Australia: Elleway, Hicks, Chessell, Eustice, Bagshaw, Potter
GOALS
VFL: Baldock, Hart, Nicholls 2; Meagher, Newnham, Noonan, Schultz, Skilton
South Australia: Sachse 3; Darley, Freeman, Tilbrook 2; Potter, Shearman
Crowd: 39,564 at the Adelaide Oval
Statistics
South Australia (kicking UP) vs. VFL (kicking DOWN) (Numbers shown indicate KICKS, HANDBALLS and MARKS.)
K | M | H | K | M | H | K | M | H | ||||||
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Forwards | Darley | 13 | 4 | 2 | Sachse | 10 | 1 | 6 | Oatey | 13 | 5 | 0 | ||
Backs | Teasdale | 8 | 1 | 2 | Lofts | 9 | 4 | 3 | Kenneally | 6 | 2 | 2 | ||
Half-forwards | Shearman | 6 | 1 | 2 | Freeman | 9 | 2 | 6 | Tilbrook | 15 | 1 | 3 | ||
Half-backs | Marshall | 15 | 3 | 3 | Walker | 12 | 3 | 4 | Davis | 18 | 1 | 7 | ||
Centres | Hicks | 19 | 4 | 4 | Bagshaw | 19 | 5 | 4 | Robran | 21 | 0 | 2 | ||
Centres | Papley | 11 | 6 | 3 | Tully | 9 | 3 | 1 | Meagher | 28 | 5 | 4 | ||
Half-backs | Adcock | 13 | 5 | 2 | Kneebone | 9 | 1 | 1 | Eustice | 14 | 2 | 3 | ||
Half-forwards | Noonan | 14 | 2 | 7 | Baldock | 12 | 1 | 5 | Barrot | 9 | 3 | 0 | ||
Backs | Chessell | 22 | 5 | 6 | Elleway | 12 | 0 | 5 | Obst | 11 | 2 | 1 | ||
Forwards | Nicholls | 6 | 4 | 3 | Hart | 10 | 0 | 4 | Smith | 21 | 9 | 5 | ||
Followers | May | 8 | 0 | 1 | Murphy | 10 | 3 | 3 | Potter | 14 | 1 | 2 | ||
Followers | Thompson | 10 | 4 | 3 | Schultz | 9 | 1 | 5 | Skilton | 8 | 6 | 1 | ||
19/20th men | Grljusich | - | - | - | Simunsen | - | - | - | ||||||
19/20th men | Newnham | 2 | 2 | 0 | Johnson | - | - | - |
Note: South Australia’s 19th man Grljusich and 20th man Simunsen did not take the field; neither did the VFL’s 20th man Johnson.
TEAM TOTALS
VFL: 217 kicks, 60 marks 62 handballs
South Australia: 238 kicks 42 marks 53 handballs
HIT-OUTS
SA: May 11; Darley 8; Chessell 1
VFL: Thompson 31; Schultz 13; Nicholls 5; Teasdale 2
Nirvana Achieved
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I returned home in something approximating to a state of rapture, South Australia’s narrow and - in my view - unjustified loss notwithstanding. It was as if the scales had been whisked from my eyes; enlightenment had dawned. Football, far from being just a game, was a metaphor, indeed a conduit, for life itself. As of this particular day, and this unique and unrepeatable set of experiences, football and life, for me, would become so inextricably intertwined as to be virtually indistinguishable. Football became my life, my raison d’être, my fulfilment. Had the catalyst for this been of a somewhat different kind you might reasonably have deduced that I had undergone a religious experience, and indeed that is the closest, most meaningful comparison I can draw.
Despite the fact that I had had a keen interest in football for several years, this was the first time I had been confronted full on by all its essential beauty, drama, pain, exhilaration and allure. I was, to coin a cliché, born again, and nothing in the world would ever be quite the same.
Before catching my train home, on a sudden impulse I spent the last few cents of my lunch money on a bar of Cadbury’s fruit and nut, my mother’s favourite. It was a shrewd move. Later that evening, bribe duly proffered and taken, I wallowed once again in the thrill of watching all the major incidents from the match on Channel 9’s ‘Big Match Replay’. This represented a virtually unprecedented luxury, given that Saturday nights traditionally saw us, as a family, ensconced before the dubious delights of SAS 10’s ‘Country and Western Hour’.
Once again, I marvelled over Potter’s miraculous early goal, Sachse’s big grabs, the sinuous guile of Bagshaw, the pace of Hicks, the tenacity of Eustice, Kneebone and Obst, the prodigious kicking of Freeman, Elleway’s asphyxiating stranglehold on Hart, and, most transfixing and compelling of all, those final, tumultuous, electrifying minutes which, despite my fervent prayers to the contrary, still ended with the siren blaring out at least a couple of seconds too soon.
Footnotes
- For example, at the teams' previous meeting at Adelaide Oval two years earlier, South Australia had won by 64 points, while keeping the Vics to their lowest ever interstate score of just 3.1 (19). Two years prior to that, the South Australians had scored a notable victory at the MCG against a VFL side extolled, prior to the game, as one of the strongest ever to take the field.
- Port Adelaide, for example, had beaten Geelong in 1965, and would defeat Collingwood at the end of the 1967 season, while Sturt had thrashed Collingwood in 1966 and would do the same to Carlton later that year.
- The vagaries of fortune in football would be clearly evidenced three weeks later at Subiaco Oval when, playing for South Australia against Western Australia, Bagshaw would receive a consummate caning from Syd Jackson.
Comments
Leo from Freo 2 September 2020
That's brilliant John. Sums up beautifully what it was like being a young lad going to those big games.
Takes me back to my boyhood in Perth.
Caught the train from Freo to Subi to watch WA play the Big V. None of us there could believe the size of Len Thompson. I recall marvelling at the skills of WA's Barry Cable, Billy Walker, Keith Slater and others.
I well recall seeing some of SA's stars in action at Subi. Bob Shearman with those tremendously long droppies out of the backline, Lindsay Head, Ken Eustice, John Cahill, Paul Bagshaw etc.
(I was at that MCG Vic v WA game you mentioned and remember Royce Hart kicking seven)
Thanks for this vicarious trip down memory lane.
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