by

All week I’ve been thinking about the preliminary final between Hawthorn and Geelong. Ever since the Kennett Curse began, these games fill me with a mixture of anticipation and dread, although the last few years have been a bit heavier on the dread.

When Jeff Kennett did a radio interview in 2009 and questioned Geelong’s ability to beat Hawthorn, we all laughed it off as just another stupid comment that had tumbled out of Jeff’s mouth. But no one realised what forces he had set in motion. Since that day we lost 11 games in a row to Geelong and eight of those games by less than two goals.

Some friends say I take the curse too seriously. I’ve studied the scores to find a pattern that might explain it. After 9 losses I was sure the Curse would end, because we all know cats only have nine lives. When that didn’t work, I tried watching from home and in the last game, I held my seven week old child continuously throughout the match, until my partner decided, late in the final quarter, that maybe it was best for everyone if he was taken away from me.

So for the preliminary final I decide to not go with my usual Hawthorn friends. Instead, I invite a friend called Jason, who barracks for St Kilda. I feel it might help to watch the game with someone who isn’t burdened by the Kennett Curse. And if there’s anyone understands long runs of bad luck, it’s St Kilda supporters.

When I get to the ground Jase is wearing a St Kilda jacket, a single speck of red in a sea of brown and gold and blue and white. I’m not sure how this is going to look in the Hawthorn Members, so I ask him to wear my scarf.

We get to our seats ten minutes before the bounce. As we sit down, Jase mutters out the side of his mouth, “Have a look who’s behind us.” Sitting directly behind us is Jeff Kennett.

He’s wearing brown and gold suede shoes emblazoned with the Hawthorn emblem, and a beige trench coat that looks like it belonged to Inspector Clouseau. But then I notice something else. Jeff Kennett and I are wearing the same hat.

The hat is not a piece of club merchandise, it’s a flat cap, the kind worn by old men at the park, or unemployed writers in a North Fitzroy café.

Questions run through my mind. Is this a good thing for the Curse? Is this a bad thing for the Curse? And most of all, why I am wearing the same fucking hat as Jeff Kennett?

Then I have another panicked thought. In every game against Geelong for the last five years, since the Kennett Curse began, the camera always cuts to Jeff during the game. And we’re sitting directly in front of him. And I’m wearing the same hat.

Before I can work out what this all means, the game starts and I stop worrying about cameras and hats. The Hawks start well. We get out to a lead, but Geelong peg us back. Just before quarter time, Buddy hurts himself and disappears down the race, clutching his arm. Terrified whispers hiss around the ground, “Is it a busted shoulder? A broken arm? An injured wrist?” Then from behind us we hear Jeff declare, “It’s a hyper extended elbow, he’ll be okay.”

The siren goes and we’re one point down. The cameras haven’t found Jeff yet. And maybe they won’t find him. We’re tucked in the very back two rows on the second level of the Ponsford Stand. We’re undercover and blocked by a concrete pillar on one side. We might be safe.

In the second quarter, I lean forward, trying to squash the metal coil in my stomach. Geelong get out by 16 points, but Hawthorn fights back. Gunston goals at the 25 minute mark and we’re back in front by two. Suddenly a man in front of us, who hasn’t said a word for the whole game, stands up, turns around, points his finger directly at Jeff and screams, “Jeffrey! The Kennett Curse is over!”

This is a bold statement to make when we’re only two points up and the game isn’t even half way. It’s also very dangerous to mention the Curse during the game. But I know why he said it, because we’ve all been feeling it since the start of the game, because we’re all so close to Jeff, we feel like we’re somehow implicated in this, and we don’t quite know how to deal with it. And then the siren goes and we’re four points up. The cameras still haven’t found Jeff.

The third quarter begins. David Hale kicks a goal. We’re ten points up. And it happens. The camera finds Jeff Kennett, beaming his giant face onto the scoreboard and onto TVs around the country. And just below Jeff, is me and Jase. As the image lingers on the screen, loud boos break out around the ground (although with the Kennett Curse, it’s always hard to tell if the boos are coming from Hawthorn or Geelong fans). Behind us, we hear Jeff say to his family, in a deep, sonorous voice, “They found me.”

For the rest of the quarter, every time something happens on the ground, the camera cuts back to Jeff, and there’s Jase with his St Kilda jacket poking out from under the Hawks scarf, and me wearing the same hat as Jeff.

Instantly the text messages start coming from friends at home watching the football: “Did I just see you with Jeff Kennett at the football?”; “Why are you with Jeff Kennett at the football?”; “Why are you wearing the same hat as Jeff Kennett?”; “Stop chewing your nails”; “Can you please turn around and punch Jeff Kennett?”; “Doesn’t Jase barrack for the Saints?”; “Seriously, why are you wearing the same hat as Jeff Kennett?”; “You look like Jeff Kennett’s love child”; “Did you and Jeff get a two for one deal on the hats?”

While this plays out, Geelong get three quick goals and we go to three quarter time 20 points down. Geelong’s burst stated as the text messages came through, so I decide to stop reading them.

The siren goes for the final quarter. Buddy gets an early goal. We’re back to fourteen points. Then Liam Shiels marks thirty metres out. It feels like the energy has swung back our way. But he misses. Geelong rushes it forward and gets another goal. In less than a minute, we’ve gone from possibly eight points down to nineteen points. And like that the momentum is broken. Geelong’s lead lingers at 19 points for the next five minutes, and a gloom sets in. It’s that terrible fourth quarter feeling when fans start gathering their things, and telling their kids to put the jackets on. It’s when you start looking around for which exit will get you out of the ground the fastest. There’s this horrible sense that of all the heartbreak in the last 11 games, this one is going to hurt the most. The scoreboard cuts to another shot of Jeff, who is forlornly staring at his Footy Record, as if he’s reading a book where the main character is about to die.

Then something shifts. Buddy kicks from fifty and it’s touched on the line. Jimmy Bartel tries to clear, but makes a mistake (and Bartel never makes a mistake) and his kick is gathered by Bradley Hill who goals. We’re twelve points down and no one is looking toward the exits anymore. Another shot of Jeff on the scoreboard. He’s standing defiantly behind us, clutching his rolled up Footy Record in his hand like a police baton.

Cyril scores a point. Then Gunston goals. We’re only down by five. The scoreboard cuts back to Jeff, but he’s stepped out of shot and it’s just me and Jase, with a giant empty space behind us. When I look back, Jeff is pacing in the walkway behind the seats, still clutching the record. Jeff must be deeply distressed if he doesn’t want to be on TV.

Bruest kicks a point and we’re four points down. And then Burgoyne, who has starred all night, goals from a tight angle and we’re two points in front. The crowd explodes, and even though it’s all very blurry, something happens which I can’t really explain. There’s a mess of arms and hands and supporters grabbing each other. Somewhere in the middle of this, I high five Jeff Kennett.

I high five Jeff Kennett.

The Hawks kick a point, and another point, and another point and another point. There’s maybe a minute left. We’re up by six points. Six a mystical number for Hawthorn against Geelong: The same margin when we won the 1989 Grand Final.

Somehow the Cats force it forward. Varcoe gets free. He gathers the ball 35 metres out, swings around and kicks for goal. The ball tumbles through the air and we lean sideways trying to will it through for a point. Everything we know from the last five years, through 11 straight losses, makes it feel like this ball will somehow find a way through the goal posts, and it’ll be a draw and we’ll end up in extra time. Behind us, Jeff Kennett let’s out a ferocious groan from deep inside his guts, like some sort of primal scream. And then the ball fades right, and goes through for a point.

Burgoyne takes the kick in. Kennett murmurs, “31 seconds”. The Hawks go forward and the ball sails into Cyril’s arms only thirty metres from goal. Cyril spots Buddy in the goal square, but the siren goes. The Hawks win by five points.

Later I’ll see a replay of this moment on Channel Seven. As the siren goes, the camera cuts to Jeff who’s hat has come off somewhere in the celebration. He’s staring down from the grandstand like an emperor who always knew we would prevail. But if you look closely you can see the deep sense of relief. And just in front of him, Jase and I are hugging, because the Kennett Curse is finally over. This moment will be replayed endlessly over the weekend, and the game will be watched for years to come. And I thank God they didn’t get a shot of me high-fiving Jeff Kennett.