July 27 2003
By Barry Richardson
Last weekend I was inducted into the Richmond Football Club's hall of fame and I found it a very humbling but rewarding personal milestone in what has been an enjoyable journey through 37 years in the game.
The most powerful emotion of the evening was a surreal feeling of acceptance among the images of players past, to be written in some kind of indelible ink in the corridors of a club that has been in existence for 118 years.
I felt extremely proud, and fantasised that if I could ever create my own "Field of Dreams", I would be welcome to kick the footy around as an equal with champions deceased such as Basil McCormack, Barney Herbert, *smile* Harris and Roy Wright, living legends such as Jack Dyer, Des Rowe and Max Oppy, and teammates Billy Barrot, *smile* Clay, Francis Bourke, Kevin Sheedy and Michael Green.
It would be under the watchful eye of the man who recruited me in Graeme Richmond, with Tommy Hafey as coach. I was also proud that my wife, son, daughters, brother and sisters all saw fit to bear witness to the occasion.
These events are a celebration, not only for the recipients of the honour but for all those supporters and workers past and present who share in those glories. They are the true essence of a football club.
Unfortunately, the night was tainted, something a bit missing - I needed just a couple more club "immortals" than Hafey to be there to share in my moment. Graeme Richmond was one, and Dyer was another (I wore his famous No. 17 with great pride). Jack is struggling with his health now so his non-attendance was understandable.
And there is another legend; he was my teammate in three premierships and I later became his coach. I would have liked him to be there too, to share in what was a pretty important night for me, and his friends Hafey and Green.
I like Kevin Bartlett; I enjoy his company, his wit, and admire the way he has forged a career in radio and television after his coaching days. It is just that his biggest strength has become his biggest weakness and it is hurting a lot of people. His single-minded determination made him what he was as a player, and to make legend status as an individual in a team game can come at a cost in human relations.
Players who reach those heights are often driven, rather insular individuals who operate in a sort of a bubble, impervious to the many parts that make up a successful team. Because they are extremely important to team fortunes, less talented teammates make allowances and in fact even help clear the stage to allow them to display those talents.
Royce Hart was also of that ilk. I played alongside Royce for years and can claim to have screened his opponents many times to allow him a clear run to use his great marking skills, but I reckon it would never have entered Royce's head to screen for me.
As teammates, we forgave KB his selfishness, even joked about it when the fans gave him the title "Hungry", because we knew that if he played well as an individual, he would help the team anyway. We tried to understand when he warmed up alone before games, and respected his right to celebrate our victories with a cup of tea rather than join us at the bar.
But right now we feel a bit jilted. A night of recognition for some other contributors to club history was tainted by some feud which had nothing to do with any of us.
Football clubs are about other people: some old, some young, some lonely, some sick. They need their heroes to recognise and acknowledge them occasionally too. In their "Field of Dreams". They don't want their little champion standing in the outer with his arms folded, they want him out with his teammates. So do we.
KB, you got hurt, whacked, knocked down and you always got up again. This might be the toughest one, but do it again for us.
By Barry Richardson
Last weekend I was inducted into the Richmond Football Club's hall of fame and I found it a very humbling but rewarding personal milestone in what has been an enjoyable journey through 37 years in the game.
The most powerful emotion of the evening was a surreal feeling of acceptance among the images of players past, to be written in some kind of indelible ink in the corridors of a club that has been in existence for 118 years.
I felt extremely proud, and fantasised that if I could ever create my own "Field of Dreams", I would be welcome to kick the footy around as an equal with champions deceased such as Basil McCormack, Barney Herbert, *smile* Harris and Roy Wright, living legends such as Jack Dyer, Des Rowe and Max Oppy, and teammates Billy Barrot, *smile* Clay, Francis Bourke, Kevin Sheedy and Michael Green.
It would be under the watchful eye of the man who recruited me in Graeme Richmond, with Tommy Hafey as coach. I was also proud that my wife, son, daughters, brother and sisters all saw fit to bear witness to the occasion.
These events are a celebration, not only for the recipients of the honour but for all those supporters and workers past and present who share in those glories. They are the true essence of a football club.
Unfortunately, the night was tainted, something a bit missing - I needed just a couple more club "immortals" than Hafey to be there to share in my moment. Graeme Richmond was one, and Dyer was another (I wore his famous No. 17 with great pride). Jack is struggling with his health now so his non-attendance was understandable.
And there is another legend; he was my teammate in three premierships and I later became his coach. I would have liked him to be there too, to share in what was a pretty important night for me, and his friends Hafey and Green.
I like Kevin Bartlett; I enjoy his company, his wit, and admire the way he has forged a career in radio and television after his coaching days. It is just that his biggest strength has become his biggest weakness and it is hurting a lot of people. His single-minded determination made him what he was as a player, and to make legend status as an individual in a team game can come at a cost in human relations.
Players who reach those heights are often driven, rather insular individuals who operate in a sort of a bubble, impervious to the many parts that make up a successful team. Because they are extremely important to team fortunes, less talented teammates make allowances and in fact even help clear the stage to allow them to display those talents.
Royce Hart was also of that ilk. I played alongside Royce for years and can claim to have screened his opponents many times to allow him a clear run to use his great marking skills, but I reckon it would never have entered Royce's head to screen for me.
As teammates, we forgave KB his selfishness, even joked about it when the fans gave him the title "Hungry", because we knew that if he played well as an individual, he would help the team anyway. We tried to understand when he warmed up alone before games, and respected his right to celebrate our victories with a cup of tea rather than join us at the bar.
But right now we feel a bit jilted. A night of recognition for some other contributors to club history was tainted by some feud which had nothing to do with any of us.
Football clubs are about other people: some old, some young, some lonely, some sick. They need their heroes to recognise and acknowledge them occasionally too. In their "Field of Dreams". They don't want their little champion standing in the outer with his arms folded, they want him out with his teammates. So do we.
KB, you got hurt, whacked, knocked down and you always got up again. This might be the toughest one, but do it again for us.
