Martin Flanagan's not my favourite sports journo - bit too Billy Deane for me - but in Sat'dee's Age he's got a fine tribute to Brent "Tiger" Crosswell....
A novel is needed to explain Crosswell. He was an intellectual and a footballer at a time when Australian culture didn't recognise you could be both.
No ordinary footballer, he was twice voted best on ground in a grand final. He responded to big crowds and big occasions.
In his own words: "Give me 80,000 people at the MCG and I was Hercules. Give me a grey day at the Western Oval and I wasn't worth a cracker." Flamboyant, unpredictable, little understood, Crosswell left Melbourne, his third and last club, in 1982, and returned to Tasmania a few years later.
At the start of 1993, I visited him in Hobart. I was then thinking of writing a novel about football, about a black player and a white player in the one team.
Crosswell had begun his own football novel, three handwritten pages in a notebook. He read them for me.
They were about an older player going back to the game with mixed motives and realising he has lost the purity of belief that drives the young players.
By the time he finished his reading, my novel had shrivelled and died; there was such power and conviction in what he had written. Crosswell's novel never appeared. In all, his entire output probably doesn't exceed 20 pieces.
Sadly, for some time now, Tiger's suffered from Meniere's Disease and the balance problems attendant to the disease have restricted his ability to write and appear in public.
That's a crying shame.
I remember in the mid-nineties he wrote a marvellous article about his ability - surprised him that he still had some - to catch a bar of soap in the shower, and his associated co-ordination problems. I think it's the last piece he wrote and I discussed it at length with a friend of mine. We both agreed he was the best footy writer going around.
Not long after he appeared on the Footy Show and completely eclipsed resident "high-brow" Sam Newman. Not so hard you might think, but to be fair, Sam's no slouch in a public forum. Especially when he's able to shine in the company of the usual footy fools and Street Talk lurkers.
However, it was back in 1982 that Crosswell provided me with one of my favourite footy moments. Don't forget in '82 he played at Melbourne with Mark "Jacko" Jackson and Peter "Crackers" Keenan. Bring on the dancing pandas.
This day at the MCG Demon coach, Ron "Five Year Plan" Barrassi, had him playing at full-back on North's Malcolm Blight. Blight would go on to kick a hundred goals for the season.
Blight had been on fire, and if I'm not mistaken, Barass had started Robbie Flower on the North champion. Needless to say, Flower was moved out and Crosswell moved in. Tiger had always been Barrassi's "Mr Fixit".
The ball was kicked in high to the North Melbourne forward line and Crosswell and Blight, as the only two players in the vicinity of the drop, proceeded to engage in an extravagant wrestle for position. Crosswell virtually headlocked Blight and eventually managed, in a tangle of arms and legs, to throw him to the ground. And out of the contest. Or so he thought.
Blight had snaffled the mark while lying on his back.
The Tiger's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Then he stood there, mouth agape. He looked in hope at the umpire. No deal. Again down at Blight. He leant back on the balls of his feet. He put his hands on his hips. He gave a loud and visible FAARRK. He shook his head and shrugged.
And started clapping.
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m0nty
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