“GIVE ME… an h!”
“AITCH!”
The Hawks chant-leader is hoarse before the first bounce, and his involuntary, agonised squeak is quickly swamped by the guttural male growl of the mob.
(“Give me an a!)
“AY!”
Behind the goals at the Punt Road end of the MCG, behind the seats, on the narrow, shallow pedestals of terracing that pass for standing room these days, the wannabe bad boy fans of Hawthorn and Geelong have convened alongside each other for the first of their bi-annual battles.
Unofficial, unsanctioned, yelling un-PC chants of their own devising, these two bays are a throwback to a coarse era of competitive barracking. In an age in which ticketing and membership complexities conspire to separate opposing fans, this verbal combat is pure 1970s.
This is not the cheer squad, where kids and oldies mingle with burly teens. These are the outlaw fans. They know where to stand, what to yell; they know to be loud, how to annoy. Everything is directed at their adjacent opponents, as much as their on-field representatives. It is a battle of wits and volume.
Thanks to the insulating roar of 80,000 other engrossed fans, and packed standing room bays either side, the naughty words are mostly drowned out, and the pantomime aggression remains mainly harmless. The rebel fans yell and say stupid things and get a laugh from their peers, instead of automatic eviction.
On Easter Monday, at just round five, there is an unmistakeably finals-like desperation to the chanting and baiting. This rivalry has gone to a new (decibel) level. Normally such over-excitement is restricted to the second half of the season, when everyone knows which teams are in contention. But the Hawks and Cats are in familiar territory, unbeaten atop the ladder. And since 2008, the rest of the competition doesn’t matter when these two clubs play. Everyone in attendance knows this game will be dramatic, and close.
In M4, the Hawks have the numbers, and the greater fear of loss, so sound more menacing. The Cats, content to the point of smugness, are relatively subdued to begin with, but the baiting and chanting from the wild Hawks, and the thrilling to and fro of the game, soon warms them up.
“WE-ARE-HAW-THORN-WE-ARE-PRE-MI-ERS!”
“GEEEEEEE-LOOOOONNNNNGGGG!”
One particularly unhinged young Hawk cannot express his anxiety any other way than to rail on about the supposed cowardice of Travis Varcoe. “YOU SLEEP WITH THE LIGHTS ON VARCOE! YOU CAN’T TAKE THE PRESSURE.”
Is this because Varcoe missed what would have been the winning kick at goal with the final act of that incredible final last year? I have never seen any evidence of Varcoe’s crimes. But this fan saw something, once, and he has hung on to it. Screeching repeatedly, his character assassination seems to propel the smooth-moving Cat towards the ball, which further enrages the Hawks fan. A perfect circle.
Other sources of vitriol are not surprising – Joel Selwood’s propensity to draw free kicks. Steve Johnson’s lairishness and "flopping" for free kicks. The toughness and brilliance of both players offers plenty of opportunities for condemnation.
The Geelong fans praise their stars in song, but save their volume for Hawthorn free kicks.
“SAME OLD HAW-THORN… ALL-WAYS CHEA-TING” they cry out any time one of their players is penalised.
They add some variety in the second term, their chants a transformed echo of the Hawk put-downs. “STEE-VIE-JOHN-SON-FOOT-BALL-GEEN-YUS!” they repeat as the mercurial, infuriating larrikin weaves his magic through the middle of ferocious packs.
Then, ominously for Hawthorn: “SOO-PAH… SOO-PAH TOM… SOO-PAH TOMMY HAW-KINS!” as the monolithic Cat forward Tom Hawkins starts to rag-doll undersized Hawk defender Kyle Cheney.
Just before half-time, during a lull in play, a Cat voice decries the Hawks stand as “eastern suburbs wankers!” A single Hawk voice answers back, advising him to go back to his milking his cows. Both stereotypes are as outmoded as each other – Hawthorn now as much City of Casey as City of Glen Iris and Geelong as much Melbourne urbanites as Western District farmers. But it is somehow heartening that such traditional abuse lives on. Both sets of fans laugh, disproportionately, at their man’s slander.
At half-time, Hamish McIntosh misses from just outside the goal square. He smirks ruefully, but the Hawk fans go spare. Spirited ripostes from Cats fans. Now the two sets of fans, without the game to distract them, turn and face each other. It is pure primary school. The two mobs get closer together and start pointing and yelling at each other across the divide of a couple of metres.
Here the ground authorities do intervene, expertly. There’s a first time for everything. Young, but burly diplomats urge calm from key verbal combatants, and stand between the two groups. It’s impressive. Most of the boys involved are grinning and giggling, excited, but hardly spoiling for a real fight. The handful of hotheads are counselled, calmed. They don’t want to miss the second half (of barracking or football).
This is the raw edge of Hawthorn and Geelong, but they are comparatively genteel clubs, with only a modern rivalry. There is passion, but not the deep-seated antagonism of other clubs, remembered wrongs and ancient hatreds which stretch back through families and friendships and generations. The fans yell and point, but they remain on their patch as if held back by a force-field. They are all talk.
Hilariously, early in the third quarter, when Geelong fans taunt the Hawks with a Buddy Franklin chant, the Hawthorn fans join in, then overpower the Cats with their own rendition. Clearly, the rank and file has moved on from their former darling. It is a barracking triumph.
I hear a gentle, youthful voice behind me mutter: “Muff it, why dontchya?” when Hawkins lines up for another set shot. He likes the atmosphere in standing room, but he’s not lifting the volume much.
His rowdy compatriots get their big moment when Joel Selwood gets lost in thought after breaking a Paul Puopolo tackle. Drifting in contemplation of where to kick the footy, Selwood gets mown down by Puopolo’s second effort. Holding the ball. For a moment, the entire Hawthorn crowd is as excited and loud as the feral chanters.
But that is the peak moment for the Hawks.
Eventually, Geelong’s second-half dominance yields scores, and their fans’ glee, pitched a few octaves higher than Hawthorn’s, spreads like confetti across the shifting outer.
The Cats’ standing room rebels are singing, non-stop, blissful, showing off their joy as the ultimate taunt.
The defiant Hawk ferals are reduced to: “GEE-LONG TAKES IT UP THE ARSE. DO-DAH DOO-DAH.”
It is and oldie but a baddie. Humour, inventiveness are done with, the Hawks are gone, their fans as much as their players. No cries of “GUN-STALL” when Gunston marks the footy – he isn’t getting it any more. Just wild-eyed, open-mouthed shock that their admirable team is once again losing to the hooped affair.
Nothing but emasculating frustration.
Most fans steer clear of these enclaves of 18- to 35-year-old supporters, and fair enough. The language is fruity, and some of the gang is screaming hysterically from the outset. Not for the kiddies.
But at a big game, the pack mentality of a chanting standing room is less threatening than the rogue individual in the sweet seats. And it creates that "atmosphere" thing the TV execs like.
Who won? Maybe the feral Cats fans, but the margin was narrower than on the field. The Hawks were louder, the Cats cleverer. The Cats were at their best when their team got on top. I'd go so far as to say it was a draw, the logical outcome which has somehow evaded Hawthorn and Geelong on the field during their incredible run of close finishes.
The main similarity between the AFL contest and its corollary behind the goals, at the back of the seats, was that both teams needed each other.
Without each other, it doesn't hurt enough, and it's not as much fun to win.
