Ten years of coaching
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A BLAZING red head weaved through a pack of Melbourne and Richmond players. Suddenly its owner broke clear of the pack and I had a full view of Norm Smith, the elusive full-forward for Melbourne who could cost Richmond the 1940 Grand Final.
Norm made that one mistake he will regret for the rest of his life. He balanced himself for a kick at goal without taking a quick look around. He was positioned perfectly for a legitimate shirtfront. I gathered speed and got fully into stride as he lined up his shot. I hunched my shoulder as Norm bent a little low in his turn. . . . CRASH. The ball bounced in the air. He had no idea I was near and I felt the shudder of the impact run through my body. He lifted in the air and thudded to the turf with one gasp of agony. That’s when you know you really hit them where it hurts, a simple ‘Wooofff’. I could feel the vibration in my shoulder and thought, ‘He won’t get up from that one in a hurry.’
The stubborn little redhead was motionless, but gradually life stirred in his body and he struggled gamely to his feet. The umpire was having a go at me, claiming I hit him with an elbow. I pointed to my shoulder. ‘Look at his teeth marks.’ Smithy staggered in circles, turned to Ron Baggot and dazedly asked, ‘Which way do I kick, Baggs?’ He was all at sea, but so was Baggott, who had just received a heavy knock as well. ‘Oh, just anywhere.’
The crowd was in uproar and I have often been bitterly criticized over that incident. I still think Smithy believes I got him with the elbow. I didn’t. It was a fair shirt-front and I’ve no regrets about it. Football is a man’s game and I’ve been flattened many times without squealing, Why should they? Anyway, we achieved our purpose, we won the game.
But you can’t keep a good side down. Melbourne were a far better-equipped side and when we met a fortnight later in the Grand Final they won and I was to play the most humiliating game of my career.
Smithy was passed fit for the big match, but in the opening few minutes I collected him again. He was spitting mad, but he was to have the last laugh. The Melbourne selectors put a big ruckman named Jack O’Keefe on me. He couldn’t play football to save himself. Still, he was a policeman and took me into custody for the day.
Everywhere I went he followed me, jostling, niggling and interfering. I couldn’t get into the game and the umpire turned a blind eye on O’Keefe’s antics. I’m convinced that umpire was instructed to crack down on me. O’Keefe stuck to me all day, I couldn’t get a touch and Melbourne won the flag. It was a humiliating day and the worst I ever had in football. Why did it have to be in a Grand Final?
Still, you have to take the embarrassments with the glories.
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Another of my most embarrassing games came the next season in a vital home and home game at the end of the season against St. Kilda. We were two points in front and only had to win to make the finals. It was well into time on and trainer Charlie Callendar was waving a towel from the side lines, indicating there were only seconds left to play. I grabbed the ball about 40 yards from St. Kilda’s goal and, with Kev O’Neill shepherding, I decided to go for a run. Once, twice I bounced it. If I had kicked it upfield the game would be won. But no, I had to be flash and go for another bounce.
The ball hit a protruding piece of turf and shot straight back over my shoulder into the hands of a St. Kilda player named Hartridge. If his mouth had dropped open any wider he would have swallowed the ball. In shock he did the automatic thing and dropped the ball to his boot. It went 50 yards on an acute angle straight through the middle for a goal just as the bell clanged. We were beaten by a freak bounce and a miracle kick. It is the only kick I can ever recall him getting in League football and you could bounce that ball a million times and never get a bounce like that again.
I had to trudge that long walk back to the rooms. I felt like jumping the fence and going home. I’d been a smart alec and nobody would talk to me. They probably still wouldn’t be talking but we saved the day in the next match and made the finals. Not that it made much difference, as it was to be Melbourne’s year.
We started season 1942 with a rush of wins and this is the season I played my best football. We were determined to make the four and take the Premiership for two reasons: Richmond and Flight Sergeant Bill Cosgrove.
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The greatest compliment ever paid to me was by Bill Cosgrove (right), a former Richmond centre half-back and a wartime hero. He flew combat planes in Egypt, Sumatra and Java and every plane he flew bore my name. He also had a tiger’s head painted on his craft and our battle-cry ‘Eat ’em Alive’ along the side. Bill was trained in the same flying school as other wartime greats: the late Squadron Leader Bluey Truscott, Wing Commander Caldwell, Flight Sergeant Clive Wawm and the late Flight Sergeant George Sayer.
Cosgrove had a habit of getting shot up but never crashing, but he had to change planes regularly. He named his fourth plane ‘Jack Dyer IV’. It was to prove the tragic plane. He was killed in New Guinea. Soon after his death I received this letter from one of his squadron oflicers.
‘I have a vivid picture of a blood-drenched Bristol Blenheim bomber landing in a desert sandstorm with the legend “Up there, Jackie Dyer" painted in foot-high letters, dimly visible on the fuselage. The machine was returning from a raid on Benghazi on Christmas Day, 1941, and was piloted by a Richmond lad, Bill Cosgrove.
‘The air gunner’s cockpit had received a direct hit and the gunner’s blood had been blown by the raging slipstream over the huge white painted letters of your name, while Cosgrove persevered with the attack. Bombs gone, Bill came home, landing as usual in the middle of a dust storm. Cosgrove later flew out to Singapore from India under very trying circumstances, only to be trapped there.
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'The story of his escape and the long weeks adrift in an open boat are well known, although the cost was terrible, his body was pitted with tropical ulcers. I came to know him and admire him tremendously. He seemed to think Jack Dyer was the epitome of all football ideals, and I know your name was a kind of a talisman to him, as he put it on his next machine when he went back to fight the Japs in New Guinea.
‘He was killed in a plane accident while looking for a lost comrade in bad weather. He was never beaten in battle. When you unfurl that flag this year I want you to know Bill Cosgrove will be there with you in spirit. So go in and win, Mr. Dyer; the best of luck to you and the Tigers.’
I received that letter in May 1942 and every player in the Richmond side steeled himself to win that flag for Bill Cosgrove. It is my greatest regret that although we made the Grand Final, Essendon were too good. The victory meant so much to us, we lost with even more bad grace than usual.
However, 1942 was a great season for us. Before Bill Cosgrove’s death and his oflicer’s letter I had not been confident of making the finals, but from the first game the Tigers were inspired. Against Melbourne, the current premiers, we won 30.16 to 18.9. A total aggregate score of 313 points, a new V.F.L. scoring record. War hero Bluey Truscott was on leave for that game and played with Melbourne. Incidentally, few people know Bluey was my cousin by marriage. The crowd gave him a thunderous ovation.
We won ourselves one of the top two positions on the ladder and the double chance. When we beat Essendon by four goals in the semi-final we thought we had the Premiership won. Essendon won the Preliminary final and the right to meet us in the Grand Final. We were fresher and I was coaching a keen, confident side. I thought I had my first Premiership sewn up, but anything can happen in football.
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Essendon should erect a monument to me for winning them the 1942 Premiership. As the game got under way I was having the better of my opponent, Whopper Lane. Just for good measure I made a certainty of him and bounced him around with a couple of shirtfronts. Finally I hit him a bit too hard and he had to be helped off the field. He was replaced by the 19th man, former Test ’keeper Gil Langley.
Langley went berserk and kicked five goals, turning defeat into victory. I was mortified. Essendon slammed on six goals in the second quarter and six more in the third to give us our biggest hiding for the year. Dick Reynolds struck a purple patch of form and his power to lift the Essendon side was never more clearly displayed. If we had managed to quell Reynolds or if I hadn’t hit Whopper so hard we would have won that flag for Bill Cosgrove.
There was a sidelight to that match. When it was obvious we had no hope of winning, a fierce brawl suddenly flared between Essendon’s Norm Betson and Richmond’s Charlie Priestley. I ordered Charlie to stop brawling and get on with the game. For the first time one of my players rebelled. ‘The game’s over and I’m going to get my threepence worth out of this fellow.’ He continued trading punches as he spoke. ‘He’s owed me threepence for six years and won’t pay, so I’m going to take it out of him here.'
The Liston-Clay fight makes the purse for that fight sound a bit trivial, but it must be remembered that every penny counted at the time the threepence debt was incurred. Charlie might have won that fight but he never did get the money.
There was bitterness among the Richmond players over the loss of the 1942 flag. It was one we had labelled our own, so I had no worries getting their minds on the job for season 1943.
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We gave Collingwood their greatest-ever hiding, 25.25 to 5.7, and left their coach, Jock McHale (left), howling with rage. I’d never swap that win for a Premiership. In our first four games we kicked 99 goals, yet were beaten in the first game against Carlton. I figured that Essendon were our only dangers with their pace. If we could take the game up to them with strength we would win.
Things didn’t look that way after the Carlton debacle. We were breaking in a new full-back, Ron Durham, a boy from Bacchus Marsh. Carlton’s flier, Jim Baird, was his opponent and kicked 10 goals. It was a dejected side that trudged off the field and in the dressing-rooms Durham burst into tears. ‘I’m going home to Bacchus Marsh,’ he sobbed. ‘I’ve never had 10 goals kicked against me in my life.’ I lost my temper.
‘That’s right you go home to your mumma. You should cry, I should be crying. I’m coach, I’ve got to take the blame for the lot of it. What’s more, if you don’t turn up next week you can stop home with your mumma for good. So get dressed, go home and stop whingeing and be here next week.’
At training on the Tuesday he reported he couldn’t play. I was ropeable. I knew he had ability but thought he was a squib. Then I discovered he was one of those quiet types who won’t complain about an injury. He played against Carlton, crippled by a thigh injury. No wonder Baird had outclassed him, Baird had been a finalist in the Stawell Gift—what hope would a cripple have against him?
Once fit, there was no stopping Durham. I’m prejudiced but I rate him as the second-best full-back I have seen. There can be no doubting Jack Regan’s claims to being the best. Durham was instrumental in keeping Richmond on top when we were losing our star players right, left and centre.
By the time we struck Carlton again Durham was the meanest full-back I had seen. I was ready for Carlton and Baird. I didn’t waste time discussing tactics in my pre-match speech, I simply concentrated on Durham and Baird. I told the players all about Durham’s first meeting, how he cried, how he was injured and then I turned on him: ‘If you don’t beat Baird on sheer ability, if you don’t stop him from getting a goal, if you don’t stop him from getting a kick, then you can go home to mumma and you can stay there.’
It was a determined side took the field. At half-time Carlton were 0.0. It took them well into the third quarter to realize this was a different Durham and Baird wasn’t getting a kick that day. Baird finished languishing on the fence on a half-forward flank. We won in a breeze; that’s the effect of a class full-back.
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With some more slashing games from Durham (right) we finished on top of the ladder. How badly we needed him was clearly displayed by the fact that we finished only one game ahead of the fifth team. It was a torrid and close season and without Durham we would not have made the finals.
The final series was to be a reversal of 1942. This time Essendon beat us by four goals in the semi-final and had the spell while we met Fitzroy in the Preliminary Final. We accounted for the Lions pretty comfortably, but I was a worried coach. I knew the odds were stacked heavily in Essendon’s favour. I was having trouble with players in the services and players in the doldrums. It was going to take plenty of brain washing to win this Premiership.
The war years were uncertain years for football. I was captain-coach of the most devil-may-care group of players ever to don Richmond guernseys. They were far from being wowsers and they forced me to the position where one day I warned the team that any player caught drinking was out of the Richmond team for ever.
The following morning I walked into a Richmond hotel and saw three of my star players, Jack Broadstock, Edwards and Waldron, all swilling down pots of beer. It was barely 9 a.m. I slipped out without them seeing me. I couldn’t afford to sack them with the Premiership in the balance, so I planned a reprisal for training that night.
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All three stayed at the pub throughout the day, but cunningly came to training separately. I put everybody through some hard training and then sent them to get dressed—all but Broadstock (left), Waldron and Edwards. I had them running backwards and forwards, sprinting and jumping until they were staggering. Suddenly Broadstock stopped and gasped, ‘I was drinking beer, not petrol, and I'm not a car.’
One of my players went absent without leave from the Army to play for Richmond in the Grand Final against Essendon. He was vital to our side but the M.P.s picked him up as he arrived at the ground for the match. I phoned his colonel and pleaded with him to let the player off the hook until after the match on my personal guarantee he would be handed over.
The colonel was far from pleased. ‘It’s too dangerous, but darn it, I’m a Richmond supporter, so all right, but make sure he doesn’t shoot through.’
We had another player in the team wanted by the M.P.s, but he was more cunning. He arrived fully dressed through the public entrance and we had it prearranged for him to jump the fence and join us. The M.P.s spotted him and waited to pick him up after the match. We won, but just before the bell clanged one of our trainers waved to the player it was time to think of leaving. He sprinted to the outer, jumped the fence and headed off with a long start on the M.P.s.
The other player pleaded with me to be allowed to stay for the Premiership celebrations. I phoned the colonel again. He was getting worried. ‘This could cost me my rank.’ But again he weakened. The player celebrated all night and came to see me next morning. ‘See if you can get me some more time. I haven’t finished celebrating yet.’
I was getting a bit edgy myself by this and the colonel said: ‘Look. He’s got to be on the train for Adelaide at 10 am. tomorrow. Just make sure he’s on it.’ He arrived at the last minute and we were able to bundle him on the train in time. He was back the next morning and continued his celebrating.
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The 1943 Grand Final was the greatest I have played. The tension had me dry in the mouth until the final bell and I doubt if we could have won that match without the power of the Press. Sporting Globe football writer Hec De Lacy had been giving my one and only centreman, Bernie Waldron (right), a tremendous roasting and had completely undermined his confidence with his scathing criticisms. A week before the big game De Lacy gave Waldron a blast, concluding with: ‘He is the weakest centre I have ever seen at Richmond and they will not win a Premiership as long as he is playing in the centre.’
I was aghast. I could see the Premiership slipping away, so I phoned De Lacy. He had one more edition to go before the big game. ‘Lay off, Hec, for God’s sake. You’ve just about shot my Premiership. Waldron’s the only centreman I have and you’re taking him apart.’
De Lacy countered: ‘Why don’t you use a bit of psychology. I’ll give you a bit more ammunition on Wednesday.’ It was a killer.
De Lacy gave Waldron the complete treatment, ‘Waldron didn’t roar like a tiger, he bleated like a little woolly lamb.’ At training on the Thursday I stuffed the article in my sock and went over to Waldron. He was choking with rage. ‘Did you see what De Lacy wrote?’ I asked. ‘I don’t read the pink comic,’ he snarled back at me. But there was no doubt he had, footballers read every word written about them and most of them bitterly resent criticism. The Press can be a dangerous enemy.
I reached into my sock, pulled out the article and slowly read it to Waldron. The steam was coming out his ears by the time I reached the little woolly lamb bit.’ ‘—— —— De Lacy,’ he thundered, ‘I’ll throttle him.’
I went into attack. ‘You won’t get anywhere talking like that. There’s only one way you can prove him wrong—on the football field.’
In my pre-Grand Final address I gave him another gentle reminder about De Lacy and he went on to the ground with blood in his eye. He took complete charge of the centre and it was lucky for the Tigers that he did. We were struggling to hold Essendon. We held a slender lead in the first half, but in the third quarter Essendon hit back and, playing tremendous football, went to a handy lead.
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Apart from the centre my big worry was Reynolds. He had to be kept in check and I only had one player capable of doing the job, Max Oppy (left). I told him: ‘You’ve got to stop Reynolds. Keep him down to a normal game and we’ll win. I don’t care how you do it, but do it.’
Oppy said, ‘But he’s my cousin, Jack.’ I asked if that made any difference. ‘No, Jack, I’m playing for Richmond, no matter who I’m against.’ I warned him he had to plug Reynolds all day, if he cut loose for even a couple of minutes it could cost us the flag. It was a torrid day for King Richard. He finished with a cut over his eye, bruises and slowed to a walk. Oppy was like a shadow and never let Reynolds break clear all day. .
Even with Waldron and Oppy shining, Essendon were still in front in the last quarter and our goals were constantly under attack. One more goal and we were beaten. The Dons swept forward and a flying shot for goal was going straight through the centre when Oppy took one of those incredible desperation marks. He soared feet above any height he had ever achieved before.
Another drive forward and this time we were gone for certain when Perkins took an even more miraculous mark in the goal square. We were saved again. Twice we thrust forward and twice we goaled to hit the lead by five points.
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I had a trick of sending Dick Harris (right) into defence when we were in front and time was running out. I sent him to the back line. He didn’t get past the centre before he turned back and started roaming around the forward line. I roared at him: ‘I told you to get to the back line. Get! ’ Harris said, ‘Waldron said not to worry, he won’t let the ball past.’ When a player is that confident he won’t let it past.
Time dragged on and Waldron was impassable. The bell clanged and the thunderous roar told me it was all over and I had my first Premiership as coach. Waldron was walking on air. ‘That’s one for that De Lacy.’ He hadn’t forgotten him for a second. He wasn’t only the best player on the field, he was the best two.
The Press has its advantages, but I feel coaches should be protected from reporters immediately after a match, particularly losing coaches. They are worked to a fever pitch by the match and if beaten are capable of saying anything. More than one coach has been in trouble saying things in the heat of the moment that he didn’t really mean. Geelong coach Bob Davis was a classical example when he accused Hawthorn of being the dirtiest side he had seen. That was in 1962 and Hawthorn still haven’t forgiven him.
When Essendon beat us in 1942 I sat in our dressing-room and sulked. Richmond president Maurie Flemming said I had to go to the Essendon rooms and congratulate them. I refused. Half an hour later I had cooled down enough and relented. The walk to the victors’ rooms was the longest I ever made. I started my speech by saying: ‘I’m not going to mean a word of what I’m going to say. We were beaten by seven goals, we should have won.’ The Essendon boys didn’t mind my lack of grace. They had the Premiership.
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Next year it was my turn to gloat. I refused to get out of my togs until Dick Reynolds (left) arrived. He was there straight away. He made a nice little speech—no bitterness. That’s what I disliked about Dick. A nice fellow but no killer instinct.
That 1943 Premiership was won with toughness. Yet I have often been accused of costing Richmond wins by overdoing the tough tactics. I won’t have this. I’ve always preached vigour but it must be combined with football. You don’t bash, bash, bash all day. You meet your opponent shoulder to shoulder. Shoulder to chest if necessary, but the concentration must always be on the ball. You don’t win matches if you forget the ball, and we won plenty.
But this always brings up that old argument, football or footbrawl? Many people consider Aussie Rules football is played too hard and the players have too little protective gear compared with other codes of football. I have often been asked if I was disturbed by the number of injuries I have inflicted on opponents and whether I could have played top-class football without playing it so tough.
On the surface the game does look too tough, but on paper it isn’t. I cannot recall any deaths from injuries in senior Australian Rules football and I can only recall a couple of permanent disabilities, the most serious being a player going blind from a deliberate kick. That was not my code of football. I hit hard and I hurt but I never inflicted an injury which had lasting effect on an opponent.
If I hadn’t played it tough I might just as well have stepped out of the game. Any slackening off in my game would have registered as a sign that I was getting scared or slowing up and I would have come in for much more severe treatment than I was receiving. And don’t worry, I’ve hobbled from the field with my boots filled with blood, black and blue from bruises and stop marks gouging flesh from my shoulders to my ankles. I’ve been punched and kicked and had teeth knocked out and been carried unconscious from the grounds, but to me it was one of the hazards of the game and I’ve loved it all.
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Still, there was one day against Melbourne in the early forties when I was really frightened after hitting an opponent, Frank Hanna (right). He’d been niggling at me and shortly before half-time I raced at a pack and there in front of me was Hanna, flat-footed and wide open. I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to, so I did the next best thing and accelerated. I lowered my shoulder and CRASH.
A whoosh of agony and he was soaring into the air. I swear he went 10 feet into space, crashed to the ground, bounced three times and then flopped in an inert heap on the ground. The umpire yelled, ‘Quite fair’, but there was a sense of shock throughout the field and in the crowd. There was deadly silence as the trainers rushed on to the field. Des Rowe, later to become Richmond coach, was white-faced. ‘You’ve killed him, Jack.’
It certainly looked as though I had. Melbourne player Dr. Don Cordner knelt beside the prone figure of Hannah and took his pulse after the trainers had placed him on a stretcher. Then to my shock Dr. Cordner reached down for the blanket, covered the victim’s face and then took off his boots. I was numb with shock and fright. They carried him from the ground with his arms hanging limply down.
The horrified silence persisted. The Melbourne players started to call me for everything. I snarled back at them. One of them persisted and I snapped, ‘I’ll kick you right over that grandstand.’ At half-time I walked apprehensively from the ground. Solicitor Ray Dunn was the first to approach me. ‘I've killed him, Ray,’ I moaned. ‘Don’t worry, Jack. It’s only manslaughter,‘ he consoled me. There was no word from the Melbourne rooms during the break and I went out for the third quarter in a daze. The Melbourne players were grim and not talking. Finally I went up to a fellow named Robertson, an amateur. ‘How’s Hanna?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he’s all right, Jack. Nothing wrong with him but a broken collarbone, three busted ribs and concussion. He’s all right.’ But it had had its effect on the opposition. We came from five goals behind to win. At one stage I went charging at Robertson. He stopped dead, threw up his arms and yelled: ‘I don’t want you. I surrender.’
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But I’m proud of some of the men I’ve met on the football field. There have been acts of heroism and acts of grim dedication. George Smeaton (left), Richmond’s ‘Brown Bomber’, played through a semi-final with a broken toe. It was so bad it had gone black. The doctor warned him against playing and George said, ‘The worst that can happen is that it will break right off.’ It was on his kicking-off foot and he played that game right out without a whimper.
The tough-man story of all must be North Melbourne’s Jock McCorkell playing with a broken ankle. His trainers claim they tried to get him off the field and his boot was full of blood. ‘Just tie the boot tighter so it won’t fall out,’ Jock ordered and went on with the game.
I often regretted my instructions to players to only leave the ground on a stretcher. Playing against Carlton I collected a terrific elbow in the eye. It felt like Bob Chitty’s but I never found out. I wandered around like a drunken duck, I staggered into a goalpost and then wandered into a fence. My eye was so swollen I couldn’t put sunglasses on. But I was led back to position and played on, but not very effectively.
I don’t mind giving and I don’t mind taking hard knocks, but I always resented the players who kicked me or wore large rings on their hands that amounted to knuckle-dusters. A backhander could cost a player an eye. I believe umpires should be compelled to examine players in the dressing-rooms before every match. I’ve seen many severe injuries caused accidentally and deliberately because players have been wearing extra equipment.
Rings and stops can cut you like a razor. Many times during my career I was cut to the flesh by players climbing with their boots up my back to take marks. I’m convinced some of them deliberately had nails and sharp-pointed stops just for that purpose. I’ve seen many a player cut as if from a razor attack.
In the earlier days umpires used to make dressing-room inspections. When they examined Richmond’s Max Oppy, Max would have his hand or wrist bandaged. The umpire would examine the bandage, checking to see there was nothing untoward and then leave satisfied it couldn’t do any damage. After the umpire left Oppy would put a tin of plaster of Paris on his fist or arm and re-bandage it. It set like concrete.
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Playing against Fitzroy, Oppy accidentally hit Noel Price (right). Price was bowled right over. He got up nonplussed. ‘Phew, that Oppy’s a strong fellow. He hardly touched me and over I went. He doesn’t know his own strength.’ A couple of pounds of plaster helps.
In the 1945 Bloodbath Grand Final between Carlton and South, Laurie Nash wore thick, hardened guard over an injured wrist. Bob Chitty came charging through a pack and Laurie gave him a short jolt with his forearm and Chitty went down like a log. Out for the count.
A lot has been written about that epic Grand Final. Jack ‘Basher’ Williams went berserk and collected one of the longest stretches of all time. Half the players on the field were reported and rubbed out. Most of the time the ball was forgotten. South’s Brownlow winner, Ron Clegg, was only a youngster. He was flattened during the match and got up for a free kick. He faced in the wrong direction to kick and Carlton’s Bert Deacon hurriedly pointed him the right way. Clegg didn’t know where he was. If I’d been coaching Carlton I would have reprimanded Deacon. All’s fair in football and Deacon should have let him kick the wrong way. In fact I’d have tried to lead him further down the field.
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It is a strange feature of football how you can lose that perspective of fear. Off the field could you imagine trying to drop the heavyweight boxing champion of Australia—particularly if that boxer was Ambrose Palmer? Yet Ambrose Palmer claims he received more knocks and harder blows playing football for Footscray than he ever received in the fight ring.
I had a niggle or two at him myself. The first game I ever encountered him he was middleweight and heavyweight champion of Australia. He had a terrible habit of putting his head down in the pack. I caught him coming out of a pack and he went down from a shoulder, flush into him. He was down and out, completely out.
The Footscray players and supporters went berserk. Bentley suggested it would be a good idea if I went off the ball and I took that long walk to the forward pocket. With every step the crowd chanted me out. ‘One . . . two . . . three’ . . . ‘nine . . . ten . . . out Dyer,’ they screamed. When Ambrose Palmer staggered groggily up to me about five minutes later the chant was still going, only in stronger terms: ‘nine . . . ten . . . out you Dyer.’
I was getting a bit edgy. I‘d never heard a crowd so worked into frenzy and I was a bit worried about Palmer equalizing. It was a fearful moment as he walked up to me, eyes glazed, and said: ‘Funny mob, footy fans. Don’t you agree Jack?’ I was relieved, to say the least. Knowing he would take it in good part, I later gave him another one.
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Ambrose had a wonderful physique and with his reputation could have worked a terror campaign on many footballers, but he wasn’t the type. He was a gentleman footballer and was the victim of many cowardly attacks as a result. He suffered one of the most serious injuries in the history of Australian Rules against Essendon when Weary Wilson and Stanfield caught him in a sandwich. Quite fair this time, but deadly. He was taken unconscious from the field and straight to hospital. A two-hour emergency operation saved him. Palmer was never a player to whinge. He could take it in the ring and out of the ring, on the football field and off it.
I have mentioned the need to protect coaches from making rash speeches after a match but I also feel they should be protected in their pre-match address. Too many fair-weather supporters, stray dogs and interferers wander in to listen to the speeches. It can be very disconcerting, and at times very embarrassing.
Footnotes
This article is an excerpt from Captain Blood: Jack Dyer as told to Brian Hansen. Published in 1965 by Stanley Paul & Co. Ltd.
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