Bulldog Revolution
16-04-2009, 02:49 PM
http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/rfnews/were-the-hawks--let-us-be-known-by-our-tweed/2009/04/14/1239474877063.html
We're the Hawks … let us be known by our tweed
EASTER Sunday. The footbridge at Docklands is teeming with footy fans. Families. Prams. Shopping bags of chocolate and Cheezels and chewy. Toddlers. Kids. Brown and gold kids in jumpers — 23, 5 and even 9 — destined to live happy, successful, confident lives. Who, even at age six, will sit you down and explain why none-and-two is nothing to get concerned about. Who are being taught to believe they'll inherit the Earth, because they deserve to.
I have a problem with Hawthorn fans. The way they just sit around in the Tower Hotel in their YSL polos dreaming up stuff that directs the course of the planet. Like tanking and short-selling, rolling zones and family trusts inside family trusts. The way they strut around like the uber-fan of the uber-club. All straight-toothed and shiny-haired reminiscing: "Remember James Morrissey. It was '86 or '88. No, it must have been '89, because it was the year we sold Anglesea." (All of Anglesea probably.)
Well, that's how I imagine them.
But as I take up my position, standing behind the Hawks cheer squad, I am determined not to fall into my own prejudice. I am not going to seek out some private school boy for the sake of my thesis.
I stand alongside a bay of Hawthorn yobs. I get talking to a 50-something bloke with a Moses beard. He is wearing his Hawks scarf and an African kofia, a sort of cloth fez with images of zebras, lions, elephants and rhinos.
"Nice hat," I say. "Where'd you get it?"
"Daylesford," he says. That ends that.
"Worried today?" I ask.
"No," he says. "The video evidence is in our favour. We'll be right." He throws his head back knowingly.
As if only the underlings at North could be so crass.
"Why Hawthorn?" I ask.
Turns out he grew up a Cats supporter on a property near Ararat and went to school at Geelong College. In the 1970s (much of which I suspect, from his hangdog eyes, he's unlikely to remember) he set up a candle shop (called Frankincense and Candlestein) not far from Glenferrie Oval. The Cats were rubbish; the Hawks were flying. He converted. Very Hawthorn.
I find a seat just behind the goals at the eastern end. I am supposed to be challenging the stereotype and I'm one from one on private schoolboys. Even in the cheer squad, I'm seeing them. They've got rowing written all over them.
The sunshine is magnificent: soft, white Easter light. As I look upfield, every player is haloed. The turf is the colour of a pine-lime Splice. It warms up. Jumpers are removed. One bloke is wearing a Vespa T-shirt.
The banner is raised. I'm half-expecting it to be in Latin: "Spes Nostra Accipiter in Buddy Est" with a blue ribbon presented to the first one on the terrace to translate that it's Buddy in whom Hawk hope resides.
The banner actually reads: "Let Us be Known By Our Actions," a subtle Hawthorn jibe with its claim to the moral high ground.
I wonder whether it's justified. When the North players take set shots, the Hawk cheer squad does all in its power to put them off. Do they have no conscience?
Stuey Dew bangs one through and they make their distinctive sound.
Hawthorn supporters don't barrack like the rest of us. They cheer. As if Snodgrass-Willis has just broken the under-14 breaststroke record or Sir has announced a half-day holiday for the visit of General Peter Cosgrove.
They're all so Hawthorn, and just as I've convinced myself that I'm the one projecting meaning on to these people, a Hawker and his Hawk girlfriend sit in front of me for the last quarter. I'm having a bet with myself that they are PhD students or classically trained musicians. He is in a tweed jacket. In the outer. Check over check. In dark brown, tan and mustard. A bit like the Glen Keith pattern. But more Hawthorn. I guarantee it's why he bought it. It will be his footy jacket.
Their Hawks dominate and they are delighted. Mitchell has the baton. He conducts a Bateman concerto. Which elevates the Hawthorn soul.
The whole section of fans comes to life satisfied that the noble have slewed the savages. Not believing for a second that a beast could possibly dwell within.
We're the Hawks … let us be known by our tweed
EASTER Sunday. The footbridge at Docklands is teeming with footy fans. Families. Prams. Shopping bags of chocolate and Cheezels and chewy. Toddlers. Kids. Brown and gold kids in jumpers — 23, 5 and even 9 — destined to live happy, successful, confident lives. Who, even at age six, will sit you down and explain why none-and-two is nothing to get concerned about. Who are being taught to believe they'll inherit the Earth, because they deserve to.
I have a problem with Hawthorn fans. The way they just sit around in the Tower Hotel in their YSL polos dreaming up stuff that directs the course of the planet. Like tanking and short-selling, rolling zones and family trusts inside family trusts. The way they strut around like the uber-fan of the uber-club. All straight-toothed and shiny-haired reminiscing: "Remember James Morrissey. It was '86 or '88. No, it must have been '89, because it was the year we sold Anglesea." (All of Anglesea probably.)
Well, that's how I imagine them.
But as I take up my position, standing behind the Hawks cheer squad, I am determined not to fall into my own prejudice. I am not going to seek out some private school boy for the sake of my thesis.
I stand alongside a bay of Hawthorn yobs. I get talking to a 50-something bloke with a Moses beard. He is wearing his Hawks scarf and an African kofia, a sort of cloth fez with images of zebras, lions, elephants and rhinos.
"Nice hat," I say. "Where'd you get it?"
"Daylesford," he says. That ends that.
"Worried today?" I ask.
"No," he says. "The video evidence is in our favour. We'll be right." He throws his head back knowingly.
As if only the underlings at North could be so crass.
"Why Hawthorn?" I ask.
Turns out he grew up a Cats supporter on a property near Ararat and went to school at Geelong College. In the 1970s (much of which I suspect, from his hangdog eyes, he's unlikely to remember) he set up a candle shop (called Frankincense and Candlestein) not far from Glenferrie Oval. The Cats were rubbish; the Hawks were flying. He converted. Very Hawthorn.
I find a seat just behind the goals at the eastern end. I am supposed to be challenging the stereotype and I'm one from one on private schoolboys. Even in the cheer squad, I'm seeing them. They've got rowing written all over them.
The sunshine is magnificent: soft, white Easter light. As I look upfield, every player is haloed. The turf is the colour of a pine-lime Splice. It warms up. Jumpers are removed. One bloke is wearing a Vespa T-shirt.
The banner is raised. I'm half-expecting it to be in Latin: "Spes Nostra Accipiter in Buddy Est" with a blue ribbon presented to the first one on the terrace to translate that it's Buddy in whom Hawk hope resides.
The banner actually reads: "Let Us be Known By Our Actions," a subtle Hawthorn jibe with its claim to the moral high ground.
I wonder whether it's justified. When the North players take set shots, the Hawk cheer squad does all in its power to put them off. Do they have no conscience?
Stuey Dew bangs one through and they make their distinctive sound.
Hawthorn supporters don't barrack like the rest of us. They cheer. As if Snodgrass-Willis has just broken the under-14 breaststroke record or Sir has announced a half-day holiday for the visit of General Peter Cosgrove.
They're all so Hawthorn, and just as I've convinced myself that I'm the one projecting meaning on to these people, a Hawker and his Hawk girlfriend sit in front of me for the last quarter. I'm having a bet with myself that they are PhD students or classically trained musicians. He is in a tweed jacket. In the outer. Check over check. In dark brown, tan and mustard. A bit like the Glen Keith pattern. But more Hawthorn. I guarantee it's why he bought it. It will be his footy jacket.
Their Hawks dominate and they are delighted. Mitchell has the baton. He conducts a Bateman concerto. Which elevates the Hawthorn soul.
The whole section of fans comes to life satisfied that the noble have slewed the savages. Not believing for a second that a beast could possibly dwell within.