Some blame the coach. Others point fingers at the players. Maybe the off-field antics are too distracting. But I know the truth: I’m the reason my footy team is losing.
When I show up to the ’G, flash my newly purchased membership card and head to my reserved seat with my bag of cinnamon donuts – bought only minutes ago and already turning an opaque brown bag translucent with delicious, sugary grease – I’m filled with hope. And I have reason to be!
Credit: Robin Cowcher
When I adopted Richmond as my team in 2012, the tides began turning. After not making finals for more than a decade, that September saw them have a crack. Coincidence? Absolutely not. I might not have known the rules, but I knew I was the difference.
A few years later it wasn’t Dustin Martin or Jack Riewoldt or the latest in a line of Riolis to steer us into our first premiership in 37 years. It was my presence and repeated scarf-wearing.
I was there for the great years. The dynasty! Three flags in four years!
But golden eras can’t last forever. When we lost back then it was a blip, a weird glitch. As soon as things start trending downward, we all began looking for someone to blame. And lately that person is me.
In round one, I had my pass and my plan to watch a team of new recruits run onto the ground, but had a last-minute calendar clash that kept me away. The Tigers ended up shocking the tipsters and smashing the Blues.
A few weeks later, they played at the ’G again and I rugged up and took myself along to witness a win that never eventuated.
An anomaly? Maybe. But only because we didn’t have enough evidence. When the data starts to accumulate, there’s only one person to blame – or credit. I’m not alone in thinking like this.
My friend Sarah wore the same silk jacket embroidered with a traditional Japanese tiger design to every game in 2017, and with each win its inarguable powers increased.
When games turn quiet and tense, my friend Amy heads to the bathroom to summon what we’ve come to know as a “toilet goal”. They don’t happen because Tom Lynch is having a screamer; it’s because Amy’s in the loo.
The three of us once co-hosted a footy podcast, and when Tigers legend Matthew Richardson joined us behind the mic, we asked him about his own superstitions. He validated all our witchiest impulses by telling us about how he needed to run out onto the ground last, and how he always had a Mars Bar before the game. That’s because he’d played well in his third or fourth game, after asking the team’s property steward to find him a chocolate bar. So, naturally, the next 270-odd career matches needed to start with a Mars Bar.
But it was the third of Richo’s superstitions that really floored us. Before every game, he said, he cooked the same meal: spaghetti bolognaise. It wasn’t his inclusion of curry powder and Worcestershire sauce – additions that would get him banned from Italy for life – that knocked the wind out of us. It was what happened in 2009, when he had friends over for dinner the night before Richmond played Sydney at the SCG. The fact he invited people over the night before a match was already strange, but not enough to raise the alarm. Until it came time to dish up.
“My mate knocked one of the bowls off and smashed it. I went, ‘That’s not good’,” Richardson told us. “The next day I ripped my hammy off the bone and never played again.”
There it was: verifiable fact. Scientific evidence of superstitions’ impact. If Richo hadn’t had his butterfingers mate over, he might have kicked his 801st goal.
We’ll never know. Just like we’ll never know what would’ve happened if I’d showed up over the Easter weekend to see Richmond take on the unbeaten Suns. I had my ticket weeks in advance, but on that unseasonably sunny day I decided to watch from home instead. What I witnessed was a truly euphoric display. A classic nail-biter. A redemption story told in primary colours.
I had enough data by then to know the truth: for my team to win, I have to make plans to be at a game, and then not show up at the 11th hour. When Richmond lost to Melbourne on ANZAC Day Eve, it was not because they were outclassed and outrun, it’s because I was there.
Despite how much I adore the atmosphere and the combination of mid-strength beer and jam donuts, my powers are just too strong. So this weekend I’ll hold my ticket, tell everyone I’m going, and then French exit. When the Tigers claim their next win, you can tell everyone it was because of me.
