One-hit wonder
I LIVED FOR footy from the time I was old enough to pick up a ball. Just one of tens of thousands of young Melbourne boys. Kick to kick at the local park; trying to take hangers every lunchtime on the primary school oval; fierce competition with my younger brother as I pretended to be Darrel Baldock. I shared tbe dream. But the difference for me was that I was given a chance to use my talent; the door opened. Then it shut. I've just turned 49. I had my big chance 30 years ago. So what does that sort of missed opportunity do to someone? How does it feel to be a 'one-game wonder'? Walk with me ...
I was in the St Kilda medical room on July 31, 1975, when I received some stunning good news. Club physio Adrian Wright, who was treating me for fluid on the knee, confided that quite a few players looked like being out with injury. He suggested I get out onto the track and have a crack at impressing ‘Yabby’ (coach Allan Jeans). I slid off the medical table and charged down the race.
I was 19. I’d joined the club in late 1974 and, like any red-blooded young VFL wannabe, I was desperate to make my debut. It was the opportunity I'd been waiting for.
The session was competitive. The youngsters were out to seize a rare opportunity and the experienced players were showing very clearly that they weren't going to be replaced without a fight. I was pitted against the rugged Allan Davis, who had played in St Kilda's one and only premiership in 1966 as a skinny 17-year-old. On this July night, the 26-year-old Davis wasn't about to let a teenager take his spot. Every time we went for the ball he made sure he drove his elbows and knees into as many parts of my anatomy as he could. Brighton Grammar circle work, circa 1973, this was not!
After training, Kevin 'Cowboy' Neale and Russell Reynolds puffed on their fags and 'Jeansy' went about his business of trying to get someone to "rassle" (Jeansy speak for wrestling). I headed home with no great expectations.
Dad woke me at about 10.30pm. Sun sports writer Scot Palmer was on the phone and wanted to talk to me about being selected for my first game. Wright had lived up to his name. ‘Scotty’ (whom I vaguely knew because I was a cadet journalist at the Herald, where my uncle Jack was sports editor) asked a few questions about being named at full forward.
The next day the headline read: Cannon shot into seniors. I went to work as usual the next day, but it was not a normal day. Tony Homfray, who sat two desks in front of me and would be covering the round-18 St Kilda-Geelong match the next day, joked that he would give me a mention in his match report. Chief-of-staff Max Grant told me to take it easy so I wandered over to the milkbar and bought the glossy VFL magazine, Football Life. The cover headline read, ‘The VFL's toughest backmen’ and the story described Geelong full back John Scarlett as one of the League's most feared players. He was to be my opponent the next day!
St Kilda secretary Ian Drake rang mid-morning to congratulate me on my promotion and suggested I visit a particular chemist in the city to pick up some pills that would help me sleep that night.
Herald photographer Peter Ward took a picture of me, my dad Keith and younger brother Ian. He got Dad to toss a coin (above) because he and Mum had to decide who they would watch the next day - me at VFL (Waverley) Park or Ian as he tried to help Brighton Grammar win its first premiership against Haileybury College. They decided to watch the first half of my match and the second half of Ian’s.
I slept well that night (maybe the pills helped) and had a special breakfast - a huge rump steak, compliments of our local butcher. A mate, Richard Salter, picked me up at about 10.30 and we chatted idly on the way to Waverley. I vividly remember how luxurious the rooms were, with plenty of rubdown tables, a huge shower and bath area and a full-sized kicking net. There was no question this was the big-time.
I found it hard to fill in the time until the team arrived and that’s when I started to get really nervous. It was hard to believe I was about to run out onto the ground with some of my footy idols, players like Brownlow Medallist Ross Smith, Barry Lawrence, Jeff Sarau, Barry Breen, Paul Callery, George Young and Glenn Elliott. My two best mates at the club - Trevor 'Barks' Barker and Colin 'Carts' Carter - were also in the side.
The Saints were just inside the five (it was a final five in those days), while the Cats were near the bottom. With only five rounds remaining, a win for us was critical. Jeansy told me to make sure I gave myself plenty of room to lead into; to stay deep in the 10-yard square. (He would say later it was the first time he had used a decoy full forward!) I floated down the race onto the ground feeling fantastic. I vividly remember everything about the game. Doesn't everyone?
Walking down to full forward with big Cowboy (who was in the pocket next to me) was reassuring. He introduced me to Scarlett and told him I was playing my first game. Scarlett and I had a bit of a natter; he asked me what school I had played at, whether I'd played at Waverley, gave me some advice about the camber of the ground - though what a camber was, I had no idea then - and said that field umpire Kevin Smith was one of the best going around. I couldn't believe how chatty he was. The ogre I had been reading about the previous day seemed like a ripper bloke ... until the opening bounce.
That's when he ‘welcomed’ me to the big league with a punch to the side of the head. ‘Cowboy’ yelled out to Scarlett - something about putting his head into the fence if he touched me again.
Geelong got off to a great start; I remember seeing their left-footed centre half-forward taking plenty of marks although, from where I stood, I could only see him from his waist up. I was starting to understand what camber meant! I got to know this player better the following year when he came to Moorabbin. His name was Rex Hunt.
My first touch of the nut came when Carts charged around the outer side of the ground and bombed a torpedo in the direction of yours truly with Scarlett breathing down my neck. We both arrived at the ball at the same time, but somehow the ball stuck in my arms and an angry Scarlett slung me to the ground. Umpire Smith awarded me a 15-yard penalty. I remember thinking I would have preferred not to have been brought to within 45 yards of goal because now I was expected to become the next player to nail a major "with his first kick in League football". I pulled the kick slightly and it went through for a behind.
At the start of the second quarter, Scarlett didn't come down to full back. I learnt later he had tweaked a hamstring and gone into the forward line. (Homfray said in his Herald match report that my pace had forced the move!) Unfortunately, Scarlett was replaced by Phil 'Snake' Baker, whose oiled arms and protruding veins still give me nightmares. He was built like a bodybuilder, but with the spring of a high jumper. Just ask former Hawthorn full back Kel Moore, who played on 'Snake' (by then a 'Roo) in the 1978 Grand Final and watched six goals sail over his head.
I fancied taking some hangers, but every time I went to leap, it seemed Baker already had his knee on my shoulder. I started moving around more. I distinctly remember charging towards the members' half-forward flank at what felt like 100kph and launching myself towards a beautifully weighted drop punt. I was propelled skywards and just failed to bring the ball to ground. It was the ride of a lifetime, but I came down to earth in more ways than one when I saw ‘Barks' crawling to his feet holding his back with a scowl on his face!
At half-time, we were down by 21 points. Jeansy asked me how I felt; I was afraid he might take me off. I was pretty drained - probably more emotionally than physically - but it was hard to believe we had already played for nearly an hour. The time had flown.
In the third quarter, we had plenty of the ball and I got a few touches, but we managed only 3.8. We should have led at three-quarter time, but trailed by eight points. There were some anxious players in the huddle, but the experienced blokes were reassuring. They insisted we had the momentum.
The last quarter a real arm wrestle as we continued to pepper the perpendiculars. I still regret not following my instincts when Barry Breen had a set shot at goal late in the game from about 40 yards with the game in the balance. He was holding the ball on an angle for a torp and I knew that if he hit the ball sweetly, it would easily clear the goal-line where about a dozen players - including me - had congregated. But often Breeney's attempted torps turned into mongrel punts and dropped short.
I momentarily contemplated standing 10 yards in front of the pack in case he produced a 'mongrel'. That's exactly where the ball went and, after a scramble, the Cats cleared it. If I'd followed my instincts, I would have marked the ball, slotted the goal and sealed the match. My poor decision - or was I playing it safe because I didn't really want to put myself under the pump? - remains with me.
I had no idea of the score when the siren sounded, but tears welled up in my eyes when I saw we'd snuck home by four points. I bumped into two girls as I trotted off the ground - my sister Sue and her friend Rosalie. I can tell you it's pretty embarrassing to be caught crying by your 15-year-old sister.
It was heady stuff after the game - a few beers with my "chauffeur" Richard and mates 'Barks' and 'Carts' then to the social club at Linton Street where we were greeted like rock stars. It also turned out to be dangerous. I hadn't eaten after the game and after a few more 'neck oils', I found myself in the toilets vomiting. The highs and lows for a young League footballer!
In Monday's Sun, sports journo Rex Pullen had given me three out of 10 for my performance. Whenever I passed him in the office after that I'd shoot him a dirty look. I don't think it worried him though, because I'm sure he didn't know who I was!
Five days later, I was spewing again. I'd been dropped. There had been no inkling this was going to happen, though in the back of my mind I knew some senior players were due back and because we were still a chance for the finals, they were obviously going to be preferred to me. I had been pretty happy with my performance against the Cats and, at 19, was confident a permanent spot in the side was around the corner.
You can imagine the reception I received from the Footscray reserves players at the Western Oval the following week! I copped a punch in the - let's say groin area - in the first five minutes, then my opponent kept giving it to me about "getting the arse after one game".
Worse was to come, however, once the seniors started. 'My' place at full forward had been taken by brilliant left-footer George Young, who normally played on a forward flank. He had a day out. I think he kicked nine goals on Gary 'Chook' Merrington, who had an absolute 'Barry Crocker'. Every time Chook attacked the ball, it would bounce over his head to an unattended 'Youngy'; in fact, I'm sure the cherry bounced between Chook's legs at one stage to give George another 'sausage roll'.
Suffice to say, that while all my reserves' teammates and Saints fans in general were in raptures about George's efforts , I knew each goal represented a nail in my immediate football coffin. The seniors flogged the Dogs by 11 goals, but lost the final three games of the year and missed the finals. I played out the season in the 'Magoos'.
But my appetite had been whetted and I trained with Jeansy right through summer, doing weights, hill sprints, 400s, boxing and Jeansy's favourite, rasslin. He loved pinning you and letting a little bit of spit hang from his lips as you tried to squirm away from the dangling object. "The trouble with you kids from Brighton is that you've all got Labradors," he'd say. "I want players here who've got Alsatians and Rottweilers."
By the following March, I was stronger and fitter than I'd ever been. Going into a practice match at Moorabbin, rugged Carlton back man Vin Waite no longer frightened me. For years I'd watched him belt rovers - and not just the little blokes in the red, white and black. So when Waite tried to execute a blind turn out of a pack, I put my elbows and knees up thinking that would hurt him. I was about 12 stone 2 pounds (77kgs) and he would have been about 16 stone 7 (l05kgs). It was like throwing marshmallows at a locomotive. Waite ran straight through me, spinning my body like a top. Unfortunately, my right leg was anchored to the ground. I crumpled.
There wasn't a lot of pain, but I couldn't run, so I came off. The following Wednesday, the club surgeon pushed, pulled and prodded my swollen knee and casually said my football days were over.
I struggled to comprehend his words. Before the appointment, I had no perception of how serious my injury was. I stumbled down the hospital driveway, my head spinning. Out on the street, I slumped onto the footpath and started bawling. At 19, my VFL career should have been ready to take off, but here I was being told it was finite.
I got a second opinion from another surgeon, John Grant, who pioneered knee reconstructions a decade earlier when he successfully operated on Peter Steward, a gun centre half-back from North Melbourne. He told me he could operate, but that I would miss the whole of the 1976 season. Fine by me; I had time on my side and the Saints were an ageing team. They'd be looking for some young blood in a year or so.
During the rehab, I spent a lot of time with Jeansy; I'd often train with him in the police gym in Russell Street playing volleyball with a medicine ball. He left at the end of 1976, replaced by Ross Smith. I don't know whether it was the long rehab, or whether I'd lost a yard, but some of my enthusiasm was gone. I'd also had a strong relationship with Jeansy.
I still liked the game, but I wasn't obsessed by it any more. I played some reasonable games in the backline for the reserves and had the thrill of playing on former Collingwood superstar Peter McKenna, who was now with Carlton. In fact, 'Macca' now reckons he knew his career was over when I beat him at Moorabbin one day while we were kicking up the dew.
Smith was replaced as coach after one year by Mike Patterson and he seemed like a terrific bloke. I was looking forward to getting stuck into pre-season and re-establishing myself at the club under his coaching. My hopes were abruptly short-circuited. One night in March, I arrived home to be met at the door by my concerned father. "Why didn't you tell me you'd retired?" Dad asked. "I haven't," I replied. "Well, this afternoon on World of Sport, they put up the St Kilda senior list and your name was under 'retired'." I thought he'd either had too many beers or he'd misread Channel Seven's graphics. I was filthy. I found it hard to believe that no one at the club had contacted me before the news was made public. I then knew I'd missed my opportunity. In the following years, it hurt every time I watched Barks star in the seniors because I believe we were on a par when we both started.
So there you have it, retired at 20 with one senior game to my name.
Through the next week, my phone at the Herald's police rounds bureau rang non-stop with offers from clubs from every state in Australia. The offers ranged from $100 to $400 a game, which was big money considering I was earning about $85 a week as a cadet journo. (I got $45 for my one and only senior game).
I decided to play for the Frankston Bombers in the Mornington Peninsula Football League. St Kilda premiership player Travis Payze, who I'd known for a while, was president and the club was only a short drive down Nepean Highway. I was to receive $ 100 after each game.
The Bombers had recruited heavily and, under coach Pat Flaherty - the crafty former Dandenong star - aimed to win the flag in 1978. My knee was still giving me trouble; I played about 10 games and came off second best in the semi when I tried to clean up a guy by the name of Richard Keddie - the brother of Bob Keddie who had sunk the Saints in the 1971 VFL Grand Final. Keddie's knee caught me on the inside of the thigh.
The club decided it was better that I be right for our expected grand final appearance, so I missed the preliminary against Edithvale-Aspendale, a young side that included one Gerard Healy. But all those plans went awry when Edi-Aspendale knocked us out of the flag race. I never played another game of footy.
At the start of 1979, I went to London to work and stayed there for 18 months. I kept in touch with the VFL results, but didn't touch a ball the whole time I was away. In fact, I didn't kick a footy again for about 15 years and that was a tiny ball with my young son, Jack. He's now almost 16 and, out on the street, I entertain him and my other boy, Harry, by doing dropkicks. They may be able to perform tricks on their skateboards and rollerblades, but however hard they try, they just can't nail droppies.
I love watching them both play and wonder how football will treat them. Will it give them the same rush then crush that it gave me? Will they have the commitment to endure the training and the injuries with so many more distractions?
I know one thing: they will position themselves two or three metres in front of the pack when a teammate has a set shot for goal from within range. The mongrel punt is alive and well in under-age footy. If I'd done the same for Breeney's kick on August 2, 1975, I may have played more than one game!
Footnotes
- According to AFL statistician Col Hutchison - who took stats for Geelong coach 'Polly' Farmer in Cannon's only game - the Cannon stats for the day were seven kicks, four marks and two handpasses. He received one free kick, gave away four and kicked two behinds.
- Of the 12,137 men to have played League football to the end of season 2012, Cannon is one of 1087 'one-game wonders'. They account for 9.0 per cent of the total!
- Bill Cannon is a TV journalist and producer based in Melbourne.
- Details of Bill's one and only match can be found here.
This article originally appeared in Australian Football Quarterly, Issue 3. Published by Geoff Slattery Publishing, April 2005.
Comments
Darren Ray 9 October 2016
Great article, Bill. I chanced upon it from watching Leigh Matthews on Open Mike and your name came up! I was at this game with my dad and remember it well. I was 11. I still have the Football Record! Geelong led all day until the death. Geelong were not a good side in those days and were not fancied. I was sitting near a Geelong father and his young son. The son was so happy during the game, but was crestfallen at the end. His poor father could not console him. I almost wished Geelong had won it for them. Like the Sun scores, I also rated players after the game. It's in my record! And as per Rex Pullen, I also gave you a 3! (I gave Scarlett a 5 and Baker a 4.) My best players for Saints were Colling, Theodore and Callery, whilst for Geelong, they were Newman, Closter and Woolnough. 'Sam' Newman played a great game in the ruck. I'm sure he would've gotten the Brownlow votes. Sarau may have been injured (gave him a 1), because I recall 'Cowboy' spending some time in the ruck that day (gave him a 5). Georgie Young was selected on a wing in this game but kicked three goals. No shame in being replaced by that match winner, Bill. Amazing how he played at full forward for the first time the next week. I think Jeansy only put him there because he had the flu! Cheers.
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