A young, anxious Tiger prays for a Richmond revival during the last quarter of 1982 grand final. He’d have to wait 35 years for it. Picture: CHANNEL 7

Richmond says goodbye to the ghosts of grand finals past

There’s a heap of great stories to be told when a club which has been in the premiership wilderness breaks a long drought. And so there was last Saturday.

Richmond has always been a big, boisterous and passionate club, and while the Tigers’ ending of a 37-year-long flagless spell wasn’t as romantic as the Western Bulldogs’ triumph the year before, most of us would know at least someone for whom their grand final win meant a lot.

I certainly do. And yet when the siren rang on Richmond’s 48-point win over Adelaide, my immediate thoughts turned to someone I didn’t know, had never met, never even seen in the flesh, the sole connection between us about two seconds of grainy footage from an old grand final.

I’ve always been a big watcher of old grand finals, having religiously kept, long before the days of YouTube, each one in its entirety, to be dragged out and revisited all too often. And one image in particular has continued to linger.

It’s from the 1982 grand final, Richmond’s previous appearance on the big day before last weekend. The Tigers are warm favourites against Carlton, but three goals down and in big trouble early in the final quarter.

Richmond champion Kevin Bartlett snaps a goal to give the Tigers hope, and the cameras cut to a crowd shot, way up in the top of the old MCG Northern Stand. It’s a group of Richmond fans, and among them, a father and son.

The dad turns excitedly to his kid, in his mid-teens, about the same age as me then. The boy, his face painted in Tiger colours, looks sick with anxiety, but is clasping his hands together, praying that this is the start of a flag-winning comeback.

Of course, it wasn’t to be. Carlton would steady, take out its second premiership in a row, and for Richmond, by then in its seventh grand final in 16 seasons, incredibly, that would be that for three-and-a-half decades.

The Tigers wouldn’t even contest finals for another 13 years, would win only one in the next 19, and would wait from 1980 until a couple of days ago to turn 10 premierships into 11.

But through all the various ups and mostly downs of the past 35 years since Richmond last graced the grand final stage, I’ve often thought of that kid way up in the stands.

How did he cope with the eventual defeat? Did he, like most Tiger fans, and most damagingly, the club itself, presume there would be another chance not far down the track? Like me, a man now in his 50s, did he keep the passionate, all-consuming faith in his team he had that afternoon?

And how did he feel now? Did it mean as much? Was his dad still there to share that boyish glee of seeing your team win a flag? Did he have kids his own, the same age he was then, to share it with?

Yes, football’s just a game. But it means so much more to so many of us. It ties families together. Bonds people from so many different walks of life, cultures, socio-economic groups and political persuasions. It’s not just about the game, but a sense of belonging to a tribe, the shared triumphs and tragedies which accompany that felt intuitively and instinctively across those divides.

Richmond to me has always seemed to symbolise that spirit better than most clubs. Once determinedly working class, values honed in old factories and cheap homes along Punt Road, Swan Street and Bridge Road, its name and culture would spread outward as Melbourne the city grew.

I grew up in a safe middle-class suburb which also happened to be in the thick of Richmond’s old metropolitan recruiting zone, and at a time in the early ‘70s when the Tigers were on top, and loud and proud about it.

The fearsome masses of “yellow and black” supporters dominated my school, my street and the length of the Glen Waverley train line I used each Saturday to go and watch my team play on the other side of town.

Last Saturday night, as I walked the length of a blocked-off Swan Street post-game, the déjà vu was overpowering. This was one rollicking celebration, but one still determinedly old school, much of the gear worn by the fans belting out the theme song in delight over and over of a vintage long gone.

There were tattered old scarves and caps, jumpers clearly bought in the post-golden era days the Tigers were broke, had few stars of which to speak and by when weekly thrashings had become a habit.

These were no Johnny-come-latelys or bandwagon jumpers, but real Richmond people, rusted on supporters who had done the hard yards, suffered for so long and now, finally, and almost with a sense of disbelief, had something to celebrate once again.

The Tigers have a lot more of them than many clubs, and anyone who witnessed their spontaneous explosion of joy couldn’t help but feel anything but delighted for them.

I half-expected to see that kid from the 1982 grand final coverage again, now middle-aged and with grey hair and perhaps a couple of excited kids of his own in tow, but still wearing a duffle coat with Michael Roach on the back and with his face painted yellow and black.

I know he’s out there somewhere with the rest of the Tiger Army, perhaps having taken a “sickie” or two from work and just sitting back contentedly with a can of VB watching a replay of another grand final that, this time, his team gets to win.

Whoever you are and wherever you are, mate, enjoy it. It may have taken three-and-a-half decades, but that praying finally paid off.