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WHAT BECOMES OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED?
The off-season always unsettles a small patch of soil in my soul; what’s left after the passing of another winter? In the stillness left behind a wind ruffles the surviving weeds, like a chill rustling through a graveyard. And it is a graveyard of sorts.
There is a silent space in navy blue hearts where all the ex-Carlton players reside. Of course there are the sunny spots, grassy knolls where Jezza's mark and Gag's head ducking are forever etched. A place where the champions frolic in their Carlton jumpers, forever young, forever mighty blue legends who win the ghostly games with their final marvellous kick.
Then there is the patch for those Carlton players who never achieved superstar status, a quiet, peaceful place for the unobtrusive, unassuming players who did their job week in week out until the day they retired. Michael Sexton sits there, his feet dangling in the cool waters of past achievements. Beside him sits Peter McConville, his brave chest jutting out, filled with pride, and even while he rests his blistered hands, his eyes search the sky for another mark in the offing. They, too, wear their jumpers and wait for the occasional game with Big Nick or Stephen Silvagni.
There is another, sadder, rarely visited section to this graveyard though. A sad, lonely place whose inhabitants lay about listlessly, their bare backs baked hard by the sun of rejection. These players have no jumpers, for they had them stripped off them like old soldiers branded after failing in battle. Here the rejects weep tears shaped liked tiny, wet footballs and seek a major calamity that might mean their sudden reinstalment. Players lost to us in the corridors of time lay down in the dust, their cracked and parched lips begging for a recall. Here lay many players, joined just recently by a few more lost souls.
In time though, like a football purgatory, these lost souls float across to the grassy side and find themselves resplendent in their navy blue jumpers again. Time has healed their faults and they are remembered for one single thing - they played football for Carlton. Whether one or one hundred games, they donned the jumper and played for the old dark Navies. These souls will find redemption.
There is a final place, a hell of sorts I suppose, the bottom of Dante’s rung, the place where all those who got so close but never wore the jumper reside. Sadly for them, there is no second coming only a transitory fading until they are lost in time. They were just as needed but are never remembered. Their deeds remain on the training track, or haunt the corridors of junior clubs but for reasons as varied as life itself, they never received their moment in the sun.
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This type of slight is alien in the more cultured part of the world - Walsh. Its up there with mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun!
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