Grand final 2008 - not what we expected!

The papers have chosen their narrative: Hawks valiant; Cats caught napping; goliath taught a lesson. Fair enough. But while the scribes luxuriate in their warm bath of hindsight, the believers are left in search of a more sophisticated tale. For mine, Saturday 27 September was the day Shakespeare returned to walk the earth and scripted Geelong’s players in a tragedy.

The raw material was there. A long suffering kingdom had conquered vast unknown lands; wrestled crocodiles in the swamps; tamed lions in the desert; stared down its inner demons and emerged stronger. Everyone believed. Geelong had discovered alchemy and would never again suffer the indignity of talent squandered. The stubborn path of history had been altered, permanently. And the message reinforced itself in a spin cycle of columnist/believer feedback. Perfect conditions for imperial overstretch if ever there was.

When we broke the drought in 2007 the sheer emphatic-ness of it all was overwhelming. We were a million miles ahead. We’d crossed a bridge to the ranks of those who win grand finals. Behind us lay the romantics, St Kilda, Footscray, the ghost of Fitzroy. Ahead lay the hard-nuts, Hawthorn, West Coast etc. We were in for a decade of fearsome conquest. Other teams would bow to our will, and loath us. We’d all become cocky. The prospect was glorious. We reloaded our wardrobes with merchandise, new logos, shiny silver dvd box-sets. The club treasure chest overflowed; we were rich from the pillaging. We sported team colours in summer and eagerly anticipated the coming season.

And true to our expectations, more conquest came. The victories piled up like carcases on a sausage factory floor. We were a machine. From coast to coast we danced gracefully around our prey, hypnotising them with lightning fast handball and surprising them with bone-tickling tackles. West Coast was humiliated - so spectacularly that the locals stayed to watch the chain gang marching through the streets. Whole seasons were redeemed in single matches – ’92. ‘94. ’95.

Shakespeare became a Geelong supporter on the 23rd of May when Geelong sauntered like half-cut sailors into the MCG and were ravaged by a team of Popeyes in Collingwood jumpers. Where we saw an anomaly, Shakespeare saw hubris, flawed-genius, variegated motivation. Geelong beanie pulled low on his brow, he scribbled some notes and shuffled into the cool autumnal night; a script in the making.

The season rolled on through winter and the columnists lined up to pronounce Geelong a premier in all bar cup. Such rhetorical excess was not consistent with old-Geelong, but maybe new Geelong was different. We were that good, so why not just speak the truth rather than mumbled, heavily caveated, jinx-avoiding half-statements.

Shakespeare attended training these past few weeks, scribbling in his notebook at the back of the past players stand. He saw the cracks that didn’t appear on any x-ray. He was prodding and probing the character of our stars. Behind the confidence, and the uniform devotion to team rules hummed a familiar tune.... we’re still Geelong.

Gary Ablett, was destined for casting as the valiant gladiator, sold out by his comrades on the field of battle; like father like son. Cameron Mooney played the court jester, whose commitment to the court could never be discerned through his riddles. Tom Harley: the righteous king who died on the battle field, dream of empire abandoned, but honour intact. And Joel Selwood, the young prince who will one day be king, proved his worth to maidens and minions alike, accompanied by his hard-toiling friends Joel Corey and Jimmy Bartel. Someone had to play the beautiful princess - who better than Matty Scarlett, so sensitive and supportive, and loyal to the death. And then the others, unnamed, who ran from the fight and took off to France in disgrace, perhaps they’ll return, but if they do, they’ve a lot to prove.

We’re left feeling cheated, as though the glorious sunshine we’ve basked in for the past 12 months, the generous praise of fellow football fans, the certainty of victory, were all permanent fixtures – as if this was a new way of living, a transformation of norms and expectations. I’d adjusted to the new way, attributing superhuman capabilities to our players. Our princes had cracked the code and discovered how to spin mortal football acts into gold. Geelong was a glamour port, a gateway to the architectural porn of the surf coast and a city of artists. This new way felt too good to be mere complacency dressed up in fancy clothes. It was nouveau football. It was a mirage.

So onward to 2009, with the hope of Shakespearean revenge to keep our chastened heros on track. Some scores get settled, some lie dormant for decades, some evaporate with the passing of generations. This one, I hope, will be swiftly dealt with. But those who know old-Geelong fear it might take a while for the sublime to return and sweep away the disappointment. We have hope.

Legend has it that Shah Jahan, the Mughal Emperor who built the Taj Mahal, had intended to build an identical palace on the opposite bank of the Yamuna River, entirely of black marble. This dark palace would complement the soaring lightness and purity of the Taj - capturing the dark side of life. It's easy to understand such a gesture as we contemplate the Shakespearean disaster of Geelong in 2008. After the white-marble radiance of 2007 it’s time to embrace the black-marble of Grand Final Day 2008.