Published: 21 September 2021
Last updated: 4 March 2024
The Demons are hoping to win their first AFL grand final in 57 years. JACK CHRAPOT, one of the club’s many Jewish tragics, savours the build-up to this weekend’s great occasion
DECEMBER, 1954. It was coming onto Christmas and the family’s excursion into town for a movie, followed by a detour into Myer to meet Santa. Two young boys lined up to sit on the knee of man who had a presence totally alien to the family’s culture. Moreover, it was one that was emblematic of sinister elements of their recent past. He awarded each of us a shiny blue necktie as a compliment of the season.
On the tram home, my cousin and I unrolled our new prizes to discover both embossed by the image of a footballer wearing a navy blue guernsey with red “V” yoke. His muscular right leg was raised so high that the toe of his boot pointed directly towards heaven filled with red and blue fire. From that day we were wedded to the Melbourne Football Club, aka the Demons, or the Dees for short.
Everything flowed from that random decision we made to go on that outing on a hot summer’s day. The colours of the necktie ultimately determined friendships, acquaintanceships, timetables, celebrations, commiserations, remembrances and (almost) every other conceivable aspect of our life cycle.
The next ten years were football bliss. The Demons won six premierships. Names like Barassi, Beckwith, Mithen, Dixon, Adams, Johnson, Mann and many more became folk heroes. It was a joy to be a fan. You woke up on Saturday morning fully believing your team was going to win and you would mostly be right. In the important games when the battle was tough and hard, they would always find a way. It was called, “the winning feeling”.
I was at the MCG in the rain in 1960 when we kept the Magpies to a record low grand final score. Ticketless in ’64, I smuggled myself into the Elsternwick ABC studios across the road from Habonim to witness Crompton’s last-minute goal in monochrome. The skipper raised the cup high.
Months later, the announcement came that Ron Barassi was joining Carlton as its captain/coach for 1965. The news hit like a thunderbolt. Writing in his book The Coach, John Powers described the move as one that "… shattered many people's beliefs in the traditional concepts of sportsmanship and loyalty. Letters of protest poured into the papers and the Melbourne Football Club. Small boys wept".
Needless to say, I was one of the shattered generation of young Demon tragics who had worn Barassi’s number 31 on my back and woke up to the news on December 23, 1964. It was almost ten years to the day after I had been converted to the cause.
Worse came in 1965 when Norm Smith, the coach throughout that golden era, was sacked. He was reinstated after a week of uproar but the die was cast. The club was caught inside a devil’s bargain, afflicted by a malicious spirit. Named “Norm Smith’s Curse”, it dragged the club down for decades.
I met my future wife and we fell in love. We completed our respective educations, married and had children. The family grew and we were happy in all things but when it came to our football team there was little shelter from the storm. The exception was the fleet-footed Robbie Flower who floated across football fields in the 70s and 80s with the grace of a deer, a loyal champion when others fled elsewhere to taste glory. Our children tried to emulate him in the schoolyards.
At length, the curse seemed to abate. The Demons made grand finals in 1988 and 2000 but they were crushed in the Big Dance at the MCG and the long walk to Richmond Station through Yarra Park was enveloped by the Curse.
Stars and would-be saviours came and went and the club was nearly merged out of existence. We had Garry Lyon, David Neitz and the tragic Irishmen Jimmy Stynes and Sean Wight to keep us loyal through thick and thin in the 90s and our support for the Demons was shared with many Jewish friends who also craved success for their team.
At the Kotel, I slipped a note into a crack asking for assistance from above. The plea was ignored; not even having Joseph Gutnick as club president could rid us of the Curse.
On a trip to Israel, the men ushered in New Year 1997 floating on the Dead Sea, talking football for hours. At the Kotel, I slipped a desperate note into one of its cracks asking for assistance from above. The plea was ignored and not even having Joseph Gutnick, an Orthodox rabbi, as club president could rid us of the Curse. On the contrary, it spread from generation to generation as our children married, bore their own and decked them out in the red and blue on special weekends.
Our grandchildren witnessed indigenous players Davey, Whelan, Wonaeamirri, Jurrah and Jetta, playing with humility, imparting excitement and magical abilities over the past decade. But the winning feeling eluded us until one day, we were three generations in Row N22 witnessing yet another 100-point loss.
The time had come for a collective effort within the club to exorcise the Curse and end the malaise. It would not be by the bringing in of mystics and the chanting of spells, but by people like Peter Jackson and Paul Roos who worked hard to change the culture , recruited well and nurtured the players with experience and wise counsel.
This week, for the first time since 1964, the new generation of Demons will go into the Grand Final as favourite. Coached by Simon Goodwin and led by Max Gawn (our family sponsored him from the time he was drafted to the club), the likes of Jack Viney, Christian Petracca, Clayton Oliver, Jake Lever and Steven May are carrying our hopes in faraway Perth. Back in Melbourne, houses in the streets, many in the Jewish areas, are lined with banners and decorations calling on the Dees to “Give ‘em Hell”.
Spare a thought for the many who are bound to their homes in the midst of a plague, deprived of the opportunity to witness the game live at the MCG. Shed a tear for recently retired former skipper Nathan Jones who, like Moses, was our strength over years in the wilderness but unable to cross the river to step foot on the Promised Land.
On Saturday night we’ll be there in spirit, watching coloured screens from afar, while grandson Yoni, who shares my birthday, will wear Bayley Fritsch’s number 31. We also share a dream that when the game’s over and the battle’s won, we will go out into the garden to see the heavens blazing in colours of red and blue.
Main photo: the author, Jack Chrapot, with his two sons, circa 1982
