Patrick learn from your more experienced bipeds that the males amongst us don't have to sit every time nature calls. I can assure you that if you can master this option all of us will be more comfortable. If nothing else it will give you more time to see some of the game you found so disappointing; for I am afraid your pre-occupation with our urinals deprived you of far more pleasant sights, sounds and smells. Lets start with your offended olfactory, which in days gone past, even in the open air, would have been assailed at every suburban ground by the unique combination of beer, tobacco and burnt pastry with perhaps a whiff of cut grass and liniment thrown in for good measure. Most could linger in that sense alone happily for a pleasant Saturday afternoon, but we must hurry on Patrick, for there is so much more. Can you hear it? The shrill call of 'Record!' as you meander to the ground. Closer still, the murmur unique to those hours before the game, the working week is done, its time instead to wonder aloud with a friend what is ahead for the afternoon. The squawk, regular now, of antiquated turnstiles, ushering the rest of us in. In the distance there is always a radio and the most recent trifecta result from goodness knows where being relayed to no-one in particular. Impressive I know Patrick, but most things are in comparison to the flush of a latrine, so do not look so astonished when I tell you that this is but an entrée. Princes Park is also my neighbour, and I so I pass it most days of the week, dormant but for perhaps the hum of a leaf blower or lawnmower; making the contrast to Saturday afternoons so much more dramatic, for our ground always seemed alive. From that growl of approval from the Heatley and Pratt Stands as the team ran out, to that fearsome roar that confronted the Umpires decision to at last bounce the ball and then to an ever present sense that the stands themselves were alive, and in close final quarters when you could feel the vibration of the cavalcade of clapping, stamping and thumping of the nearest steel hoarding to urge tired players to still greater heroics, and yet despite all this, in a close one, you can always hear your heart above all else, for surely it will soon burst, until it is at last soothed by the final siren. But we are not done yet Patrick. Oh no. The wash of the flush, the distinct eddies ushering cigarette butts and pubic hair to the plug hole have their fascination for some, but lets dare to look at the sights outside the toilets, it means backtracking, but I assure you it is worth it. The approach to Princes Park in autumn is quite simply stunning. You could in 15 minutes travel from the CBD to see it this week. You don't even need your trike, you can hope the number 19 tram up Elizabeth Street and be there in about the same time. I know that means getting up from behind the typewriter but Journalists are a notoriously hardy lot, and if you wish to be one I understand it is one of the attributes you will have to work at. I digress. Where were we? Oh yes – the walk to the ground. Lets take Saturday, the morning was brisk but bright, the emerald green parkland making for stark contrast with the brilliant autumn leaves on the many trees. You will enter, through one of those turnstiles we heard earlier, and into a dark cavernous series of alleyways, shards of light leading you upwards (this is one of the keys to avoid being stuck in the urinals) and to the terraces. Our terraces are cobbled together, each a monument to a different age, and to the layperson no real connection in the architectural style of each. The stands don't seem to mind, and neither do their occupants, you sit or stand where you are comfortable. Once you do sit, I and I understand your need to do so, for it has been a long journey and you have witnessed much for the first time, I encourage you to look around. You need not look far to see that this ground has a place for everyone. From your common tall poppy corporate targets enjoying their corporate boxes, to the families with seats they have shared for generations, to groups of mates who stand stoically as they have done for years. Every class, age, gender and political point of view is represented here. Content for a few hours to accept the destination of a sack of air is the most important thing in their lives. Turn now to the ground Patrick. It is preserved for our beloved Blues alone, a surface not shared around amongst co-tenants could be a bowling green. What will we see this afternoon? What has a suburban afternoon in North Carlton given us this Saturday? Will it be the violent gesturing of a bay of clenched fists at a contentious holding the ball decision in front of the Social Club? Will it be the euphoric waving of arms underneath the Legends Stand greeting an impossible goal? Will it be a thousand rolled-up records urging a winger to a fifth bounce on the city wing? It might be too late Patrick, for you and others have long wished the death of suburban football, and the shame is that you probably never knew what you were wishing away. The only way to find out Patrick will be to get your head out of the toilet.

I can't believe that this absolute prick can get away with posting such drivel. I'm astounded, I really am. How many times is that now that he has manipulated some Carlton event or news into such a biased dig at our salary cap breaches?

pj_canus? Any chance that you could insert a couple of paragraphs into that post? It looks like you had some interesting things to say, but it is just so difficult to read when it is one big bulk.

Just some advice.

Coaching prodigy Clarkson cuts family ties
Patrick Smith
May 24, 2005
IT is sad to read. It documents with clarity why Peter Schwab was replaced as coach of Hawthorn. Here was a man with ability and integrity but only fleeting success. It is a deadly mix.

In his column in The Age newspaper last week, Schwab wrote about the different priorities between coaching junior and elite footballers. He quoted US basketball coach John Wooden: "A leader, teacher or coach, has the most powerful influence on those he or she leads. I consider it a sacred trust: helping to mould character, instill productive principles and values, and provide a positive example to those under my supervision".

They are fine sentiments and no doubt were the bedrock of Schwab's coaching philosophy. It might be too harsh to say the players betrayed Schwab, but the team did win just four games. Nick Holland, this year earning around $600,000, said that Schwab's game plan lacked direction.

Holland played 13 games last season, averaging less than seven kicks an appearance. First you must get the ball to be involved in the game plan.

Holland attempted to justify his salary at the beginning of this season. He has played two matches and collected seven kicks. Another player, Mark Graham, in a story on Trent Croad this year, said half-jokingly that he told Croad to listen only to him. So much for the coach.

Peculiar things continued to happen all season. The club constantly stood by Schwab. A contract is a contract, thumped president Ian Dicker. Schwab was sacked with six games left in the season.

Nathan Thompson's form was poor. He was presented, along with his team-mates, to the media to explain that his form slump was caused, in part, by depression. It was uncomfortable, a laboured attempt to underline that nebulous, self-serving tag: Hawthorn the family club.

Danny Jacobs and Lance Picioane were fined $5000 and Picioane suspended for one game after the pair was stopped by police early one May morning. Jacobs told the club he was merely in the driver's seat, listening to the radio. He later told the club he had been driving over the limit after Picioane became ill and asked him to get behind the wheel. Jacobs was in tears as he came clean about his lie.

At a club lunch before the round seven match against Geelong, Dicker stopped his speech three times as he cried defending his club.

Then came round 11 and the infamous "line in the sand" match. With Essendon* appearing to intimidate Hawthorn, club officials demanded an extra effort from the players at half-time.

Dermott Brereton, a board member, said he spoke privately to several players. One was Richie Vandenberg. Brereton, a club legend, said later he mentioned to the players about the importance of not accepting Essendon*'s physical dominance. Schwab spoke, too, about the need for resistance.

The result was an uncontrolled assault on Essendon* that saw Vandenberg suspended for six matches, Picioane and Campbell Brown four games each. Brereton refused to accept a skerrick of responsibility for the second-half melees.

As well, in articles and interviews since, Schwab, Brereton or Dicker have been unable to explain what caused the second-half mayhem.

It pointed to a club so dysfunctional that it could not solve a simple riddle or, more seriously, was not prepared to try.

Then came the process of replacing Schwab. The Hawthorn board members dithered and lost the opportunity to secure Rodney Eade or Terry Wallace.

Both former Hawthorn players and successful coaches had been secured by the Western Bulldogs and Richmond respectively by the middle of August. Caught unprepared by the appointments, Hawthorn would not secure Alastair Clarkson until September 8.

And it was an appointment that owed more to happenstance. Round up the unusual suspects. Unbelievably, the club said that Mark Harvey, assistant to Kevin Sheedy at Essendon*, had proved impossible to contact.

Finally, Dicker and his board were challenged by Don Scott. To head off a blood bath between the two men who combined to save the club from merger in 1996, influential men including former Victorian premier Jeff Kennett urged Dicker to stand aside - not for Scott though - and allow a controlled changing of the guard. Dicker refused.

From outside it was easy to consider Dicker had fallen in love with the presidency and its trappings. He was a very public figure in the rooms, at the head of the players race. Players could use his expensive car at weekends. He would buy them snazzy suits. Dicker has admitted that he also offered to massage players. CEO Steve Leighton stood down.

Hawthorn was self-important and self-indulgent. Discipline was non-existent. Shane Crawford announced his decision to stand down as skipper not at a club media conference but on The Footy Show. Hubris ruled. Decision making was blurred by emotion. Schwab appeared a coach under instructions from legends of the past. Dicker, well, he just appeared everywhere.

At this stage last year Hawthorn was second last on the ladder with just two wins. There was no sense of hope or a future. It would win just two more games. Clarkson has changed the club fundamentally. He has had the support of new CEO Ian Robson. Dicker is no longer the club mascot. He has been all but invisible this year. Dicker said yesterday he had previously needed to be in the public eye because his job was to save the club.

But the club had been saved by 2000. Dicker has said, too, he might consider staying on past this year. He must be careful he doesn't go from club saviour to football junkie.

Clarkson brought in his own coaching team. Legends Brereton and Jason Dunstall were told they were not required on the track.

"We haven't felt the need to include Dermott and Jason in that regard (coaching)," Clarkson said. You don't hear the family club chant any more. Overnight Hawthorn is a football club, nothing more or less.

Clarkson is young, ambitious. He has drilled through rock to get this chance at senior level. He has backed his beliefs and his players. They have responded to his new order. The young are promising, the old young at heart. The style of play is frenetic, vibrant and controlled aggression.

Clarkson, the youngest coach in the AFL, is marching forward. For the first time in seasons the players are in step.

Left behind is an old Hawthorn that wallowed in the mush of past achievements. Clarkson is not the prodigal son of the family club. But he may just be its coaching prodigy

His opinion isn't worth a page of used bog roll.