It was years before I worked out that Dad barracked for Melbourne. Only when his membership of the MCC came through did he feel comfortable admitting his heart beat true.
Like most Tasmanians who moved to Melbourne in the late 1960s, Dad had a soft spot for St Kilda with its distinct hue of green, yellow and maroon brought from across Bass Strait by the likes of Baldock, Stewart, Bonney and Lawrence. That we lived not far from Linton Street helped convince my primary school mind that Dad was a Saint.But when our invitations to join the club came in 1988, Dad felt comfortable enough to declare his true allegiance and took his rightful place on the balcony garbed in red and blue. Together we attended hundreds of games, and all but three grand finals after our Full memberships came through in 1994.
It’s almost a year since our last visit to the 'G together. The last game he made before the cancer kicked in was the 2016 Queen’s Birthday game and he gloried in Melbourne’s 46-point drubbing of Collingwood, my team. Dad passed away in April and his 2017 Melbourne member’s scarf and 25-year MCC member’s medallion were among the memorabilia we assembled around the urn carrying his ashes.
The eulogies made specific reference to Dad and his affection for the MCG. As much as anything, it cheered his years of retirement.
Dad, a civil engineer, was the last general manager of the West Gate Bridge; the last before the tolls were removed and the bridge management completely folded into the Road Construction Authority. After almost 20 years living with the bridge, Dad found himself redundant and virtually unwanted by his profession.
Suddenly he had time on his hands and the MCG proved a great way to spend it. In the early years he set himself the task of seeing every team live, and often that meant seeing two or even three games a weekend. In the summer he was one of those hardy souls who turned out for even the dullest Sheffield Shield game, usually in the company of his great friend Ron and a laden picnic basket.
His mate Brian, another long-time member, persuaded Dad to join the MCG Guides, which he did for about 15 years until an old knee injury put paid to walking up and down stairs. This job he loved, particularly picking around the old pavilion with its nooks and crannies, dust and detritus. Dad built up a store of facts and anecdotes, with a favourite trick of getting his party to try jumping between the white lines that marked the world-record long jump distance deep beneath the stand.
Dad had put our names on the MCC waiting list when we first moved to Melbourne and we waited 20 years for that very welcome letter. Until then we’d sit on the benches in the raking Southern Stand and look across the ground enviously at the Pavilion with its rows of men sitting in white shirts and ties. Together our highlights included watching Rodney Hogg clean bowl Geoffrey Boycott at the 1978 Boxing Day Test, Helen d’Amico streak at the 1982 Grand Final, Imran and Javed lead Pakistan to the 1992 World Cup and Barry Richardson hold Peter Hudson goalless in 1969. (It only happened four times, so worth remembering.)
Our first Grand Final was in 1974 when we stood at the back of the middle deck in the old Olympic Stand. Dad had built an ingenious wooden stool on which I could stand that he smuggled past the gate attendants in pieces, then screwed together with the screwdriver hidden in his jacket pocket. Ah, security!
As a member, Dad’s Grand Final routine was consistent. An early start, content to queue for as long as required, then once inside a quick trot to the line for hot breakfast in the old Sheffield Room. It was the Grand Final queues that finally showed Dad mobile phones could be useful. In the monster that preceded the 2000 Grand Final between Essendon and Melbourne, Dad and Mum arrived late and tacked on several hundred metres behind me down Jolimont Parade. With every lurch forward he’d call to check if I’d reached the turnstiles and to ask where we’d meet.
Mum became a member through the back door, as ladies’ tickets were a thing of the past when we joined. At a Guides function one evening, Mum found herself seated next to a senior MCC employee. “Are you a member?” he asked. “No,” said Mum, and explained why. A little later, Mum received an invitation to join the MCC, gratis of an elderly member who had surrendered his ladies ticket. She became Dad’s regular match-day companion, despite barracking for Hawthorn and enjoying an unfair amount of success.
In latter years Dad gave away the Grand Final queuing on account of his injured knee but had incredible luck in the ballot, missing out only once. With a seat secured, he’d arrive at the ground about 10.30am and immediately join the Long Room lunch queue. Nothing pleased him more than the Long Room carvery and he would greet the chefs wielding the carving knives like freed prisoners of war. They, in turn, would load his plate with plenty of everything, particularly pork crackling.
I went to last year’s Grand Final alone, a little melancholy despite leaving with about 30,000 new best friends on the train heading west. Dad and Ron watched the game at home, propped up together in their armchairs with trays on their knees.
As his health spiraled we spent most of the cricket season in and out of hospitals. While some members had croissants and cru for breakfast on Boxing Day, I helped Dad put butter and marmalade on his toast, then watched him snooze through all but the final session.
By the time the footy season began, Dad had moved to a nursing home and was confined to bed. Together we watched happily as Melbourne came from behind to beat Carlton in Round 2, but he passed away on the final day of Round 4, Easter Monday.
So I’ll attend this year’s Queen’s Birthday game alone with a head full of happy memories but a sad, sad heart. I’ll be barracking for Collingwood but it won’t matter a jot if Melbourne salute. In fact, I rather hope they do.
(And then I’ll remember to advise the MCC of Dad’s passing, giving them our approval to admit another member from the waiting list, trusting that person will have as much pleasure from the club as my Dad.)
Robin Jones OAM 05/09/1928 – 17/04/2017
Hugh Jones is a journalist and communications consultant who spent far too long working for News Corporation publications. He supports Collingwood but will switch to Tasmania the moment his home state gets its rightful place in the AFL.