Afl Junkies Can Still Get Their Fix At Footy Pubs

The Age

Wednesday May 30, 2007

John Harms

Brisbane Lions v Collingwood

and Richmond v Essendon

Saturday night,

The Rose Hotel, Fitzroy

Football fans from pay TV-starved homes are drawn magnetically to watering holes that come with their own match-day atmosphere

ONE of the driving forces in the modern footy fan is this: if your team is not on free-to-air television and you don't have Foxtel, then you will not stop until you find somewhere that does. You will be driven.

Sometimes, this will lead you to re-establish friendships half-forgotten ("Mate, are you watching the Lions tonight?"). You will desperately ring the local pubs ("Which match are you showing tonight?").

The Rose Hotel, in a leafy back street of Fitzroy, is a footy pub, a haven for the Foxtel-challenged.

You would expect it to be a Lions pub, filled with craggy working men from the bluestone terrace houses around, and young film-makers and musicians still high on three Brisbane Lions premierships. Some of the decor would suggest it is.

In keeping with the rule that every pub in Fitzroy will have something signed by Kevin Murray (or Kevin Murray himself) in it, there is a feature dripping with pathos: a 1959 Fitzroy Night Premiers WEG poster on which Bulldog immortalised himself (again): "Believe me this day will live in my memory forever." There is also a 1991 Fitzroy team poster, and a photo of the Fitzroy team that toured Tasmania in 1950.

But artefacts of other clubs adorn the walls creating a certain confusion as to whose territory this is.

Really, the Rose is a pub with a serious identity crisis. It is owned by a mad Richmond fan who used to employ Richmond players as bar staff (Richo poured beers for a while).

Yet the only items of anthropological significance are a small photo entitled "Ben Harrison . . . HERO" and a colour-enhanced team photo of the 1943 Richmond premiership team (which defeated Essendon).

To add to that confusion, there's Collingwood stuff as well. Someone has flogged the old Victoria Park station sign, which hangs beside the CUB clock. On the other wall is a photo of the Vic Park southern terrace (absolutely chockers), circa 1969.

On this night, with all three teams playing, it was going to be interesting to see which fans dominated. I arrived half an hour before the game. I was quickly reminded why the Rose is a proper pub: the mixed grill came with a fried egg on top and there's a photo of the Hotham Handicap triple dead heat on the wall.

Pies supporters were gathering. Already, they had the numbers in the front bar. Already, it was decided: Pies-Lions in the front bar, Richmond-Essendon on the TV in the middle bar (where a second TV showed the Pies game as well). It was standing room only.

The pub was in that transitional period where the afternoon crowd, having done their lolly on the races, are half-tanked and trying to leave. I got talking to a local plumber from up the street. He was a Collingwood fan ("Mum was Collingwood").

"Did you play?" I asked.

"One game for the Fitzroy thirds in 1959," he said.

"Good year for the Royboys," I said. He missed the significance of it.

"Yeah. Against Carlton at Princes Park," he said. "Kicked a couple."

I was impressed. "Kicked one at the MCG as well," he added.

He saw my puzzled look. "Did a job there once," he explained. "Took me footy. Dobbed one at lunchtime."

"A lot of Pies fans here tonight," I said.

"Collingwood pub, mate," he explained. "For years. You know the story?"

"No," I said.

"When Jock McHale was sacked, they made Bervyn Woods coach," he told me. "John Wren was havin' none o' that. He wanted Phonse Kyne. So he bought the Rose and gave it to Woods. Suddenly, the poor bloke wasn't a coach, he was a publican."

Another drinker reckoned that was all rubbish ("This is a Fitzroy pub, mate"). Meanwhile, the plumber disappeared into the night ("to watch the footy with me dog").

While I was at the bar, a local sidled up to me, to set me straight: "It's a f---en Richmond pub, mate. The publican brings out a big cup when Richmond wins. It gets passed around. You have to have a drink. He won't let you go home. It's the only time he brings it out." Then he corrected himself. "Oh yeah, and for buck's parties."

By the opening siren, the pub was full. The mixed grills kept coming past. Wall to wall Pies' fans, ready to yell at the screen; ready to love ("You're a genius Pendlebury"); ready to hate ("You green slime, umpire").

"They don't want it, Pies," screamed the man with male pattern baldness. "You're a hack, Brown," yelled the man with male pattern boringness and a cavalier attitude to the memory of two recent grand finals. (Although he redeemed himself with, "You should be in a Peanuts comic, Brown.")

They sang, "Swanee, how I love you, how I love you" and when O'Bree snapped truly, one yelled, "How did he do it?" and together the rest bellowed, "Cheesy." The Pies were home. They belted out Good Old Collingwood, Forever.

Meanwhile, things were hotting up in the other room. Groans suggested Essendon was coming back. I stood with the Tiges' fans mid-capitulation. But Richo was their saviour. When he marked and turned and goaled, the roof was loosened from its joints. The publican reached for the cup again.

He could have filled it with tears.

It was a Collingwood pub again.

John Harms' column appears every Wednesday during the footy season.