It has been while. I’ve aged more than a Richmond coach and unlike Richmond coaches, being a Bluebagger is for life.

I remember the days of glory. I was there in ’68 standing beside my dad as the Bluebaggers won their first of eight in my lifetime. I was there, watching Lofts (and yes it was a free) who dad knew - I think from the old days at Mush & Miller. I was there watching new stars shine bright and Big Nick stride the earth like a Titan of old.

I was lucky. Dad came from Tasmania and could have fallen in with any old mob but his heart belonged to my mother and her dad was that Ernie the barber that Wallsy mentioned in his article this week. Pop cut the players hair in his shop in Lygon street and any bloke dating his daughter had better accept that there was only one cut in town and that was being a Bluebagger. The rest, as they say in the classics, is history.

My brothers and I grew up Bluebaggers. There was never any other option. Football should never be a democracy (no matter what Grant Thomas says). Dad pressed his thumb against all the bairns’ new foreheads and said ‘Go Blues’ and that was that.
 So in ’68 I saw my first flag against the Bombers, who whinged after they lost - some things are as perennial as the Pyramids.

Saw my first loss against the Tigers the following year and began to understand this supporter thing. During the next eight flags and several September losses I learnt a lot but at the core of all those lessons was the idea that Carlton was the greatest: We were the Ali of the comp. You might knock us down but never out, we might fall out of condition for a time but we’d always come back.

Then the new millennium started and the wheels fell off. In the dark times the thing (well one of the things) I found hardest was that when watching a game, even one we won, we walked the knife’s edge. The other side was always in it. All games have been like that great game in ’68 when, as the wind tossed the ball around like a ping pong, when the ball headed for goal then took a right turn, when we seemed on top and then them, the nerves of a ten year old took a beating, though my dad all the way through that game kept up his smile and would give me a nod and wink and say, ‘we’ve got it, no worries, we got it.’

Well one close game is hard but season after season of struggles creates a whole other dimension. My son has not sat through an easy game, not since he was about 4. His whole Bluebagger existence has been a dour struggle. So how good, then, was this week’s win.

Some say bad kicking is bad football, but it is not as bad as no kicking at all – remember that horrible Tigers game at the MCG – remember that horrible scoreboard at halftime! I’ll take 8:16 any day of the week.

So we kicked poorly, but for the rest we shone as bright as any Bluebagger team. Tex snapping goals: Griggsy streaming out of the middle: Gibbsy handballing to Murph: Captain Marvel and his Shazam goal! Simmo, Jammo, Carrazzo - every bloody o in the side ‘o!

My brother and I sat and enjoyed that game like we haven’t been able for far too long. It was evident very early on that we would win and win by a lot. Now fair enough, it should have been 20 goals, but I’ll take that 66 point flogging to ease my nerves. It’s good to have a win you can enjoy, a game to sit back and savour like a fine red wine.

So it was that we won easily last week and I was able to watch the lads, to see the development of the kids, to see the old firm who have endured so much enjoying themselves and playing elite football at last. The drought has burst and we are moving closer to the harvest moon time!

Pop’s scissors can be heard in the distance, clicking away in joy that we are returning to our former glory. Dad’s jig is close by, he too, can see that we’ve turned the corner.

And so we come to this week’s game. A bottler! North is on the up, cock-a-hoop and ready to rumble but we’ve got that Ali belief back and this time we’ll not be coping any George Foreman knockout. Our blokes are ready to fight, Carlton bumbaye! Carlton bumbaye!

Watch us absorb all that the Roos can throw our way and then, then as they tire, watch, watch the boys start their assault and watch, watch the look of horror and disbelief in the North players’ eyes.

Carlton bumbaye! Carlton bumbaye!

Murph, Judd, Stevo, Griggsy and Gibbsy, Simmo and Tex, Fev and the Kruise, Hammer in the ruck with Clokey, Jammo and T-Bird down back with Waitey cutting a swathe through the middle. Oh Carlton bumbaye! Carlton bumbaye! This is it folks, this is our Rumble in the Jungle!

Win this and the rest better look out! So I’m going for Carlton to win running away. Close for a half, but watch, midway through the third when they’ve given all they’ve got, watch our boys lift and while we are still running light across the turf, watch the Roo boys sink into disbelief.

Carlton, my friends, is well and truly back! Not that we ever left, we just took it easy for a time, but soon, very soon, we’ll be holding that silver cup aloft once again.

Carlton bumbaye! Carlton bumbaye!

Fev for 7
Tex 3
Gibbsy 3
Griggsy 2 from the centre

and Tex bog.

Go Blues!

Please Note: the views expressed in the above article are solely the opinion of the author and do not reflect the opinions of the Carlton Football Club or those employees of the Club. The Carlton Football Club would like to acknowledge the tireless work of those supporters who contribute to carltonfc.com.au.