At age 25, but with the mind of a ten-year-old fan-child, I bought a puppy and named the newest love of my life after my favourite Hawk.
I thought we’d call our new little son Buddy.
Buddy gets married and moves away, Buddy has a baby and bills to pay…. Only old people will understand.
Lance “Buddy” Franklin.
Why do we do that? Our sporting heroes as pet names?
Steven May – the editor of My Daily Growl, not the Melbourne full back – says “owners who name their pets after a public figure tend to want that constant reminder and connection.”
So, what happens, Steven, when your dog turns five and you no longer want to be connected to him because the hero you’ve honoured through naming rights has chased the cash of a rival team and abandoned you?
HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH THAT, STEVEN!?!?
Lance Franklin hoists the 2013 premiership cup with Jarryd Roughead. (Photo: Quinn Rooney/Getty Images)
The day after the 2013 grand final, Buddy Franklin’s last for the Hawks, I cried – for two reasons.
- I’ve never been so hungover in all my life.
Winner’s booze after attending the GF at the MCG hits you different. We were denied access to the Transport Bar at 6pm for being too drunk, went across the road to Young and Jackson’s, and drank eight bourbons in 60 minutes; then went back to Transport where we were granted immediate entry. Security guards in Melbourne are special.
2. My heart was broken.
I had a mate who was working for the Swans, and he rang to tell me Buddy to Sydney was a done deal.
I was devastated. We won a flag together. We’d gone back-to-back!
I cried. Then vomited.
You know those projectile fluorescent yellow ones? To this day, I still can’t work out if it was the Sambuca or the shock of my favourite player departing my team.
Through Franklin’s 182 games as a Hawk, he won two flags, was named to four All Australian teams, won two Coleman medals, kicked 580 goals and 422 behinds, catapulted the club to record membership year after year, stole the hearts of all supporters, collected 1853 kicks, 945 marks and 908 handballs, whilst picking up 219 free kicks and GIVING AWAY 387.
That is a career worth of stats and a ridiculously large contribution to make for a club.
His departure still hurts.
I know we are a hard fan base to feel sorry for with the arrogant hashtags of dynasty times #fourthorn and #alwayshawthorn; but we are sad right now.
Watching Buddy kick his 1000th goal and be celebrated as a Sydney Swans footballer still doesn’t feel right. And we need your love.
For Hawks fans, that remarkable contribution brought with it a lifetime of memories.
Let’s start with the arrival of BIG GAME BUD – 7 goals against Adelaide in the 2007 Elimination Final.
I was involved in a pre-season practice match on the day and lied to my coach about an injury so I could depart the field and watch the last quarter.
Buddy kicking goal number seven from his career hot spot – the left half-forward flank from outside 50 – with only seconds on the clock to give the Hawks a three-point lead, and the win, was one of the clutchest sporting moments I’ve ever seen.
His dominance in 2008 brought with it a year-long personal joy I’ve only experienced from two other athletes: John Barker for the Hawks in 2001, and Dirk Nowitzki in THAT year for the Dallas Mavericks in 2011.
Buddy’s ’08 brought the first 100-goal season since Tony Lockett in 1998. And perhaps the last ever?
The underdog premiership. The start of a dynasty. And one of the most extraordinary days of my life.
I happened to be travelling through India at that time and was extremely fortunate to have landed an invite to the AFL grand final party at the Australian Consulate in Delhi.
Boag’s Draught cans – the taste of home – party pies, Samboys, savs, and all things Australian were a welcome sight after spending five weeks living on a diet of fresh-cooked corn kernels with a sprinkling of cracked pepper.
As the final siren sounded and the realisation that the Hawks had achieved greatness, I grabbed the closest person to me and screamed wildly. The sheer joy I was feeling was overwhelming; particularly for the chap who was caught in my man hug. It was so tight, his blue and white scarf popped from his neck and onto the ground.
From the Consulate, a group of us found ourselves at a bar in Connaught Place, where I re-enacted in the street Stuart Dew’s three minutes of bliss.
Sadly, on that day, our celebrations of the Hawks’ victory were abruptly brought to a standstill with a smack in the face of perspective that could not have provided a more sobering realisation of the time and place.
A madman dropped a tiffin box from the back of a motorcycle in the middle of the Mehrauli’s Electronic market, called Sarai – 17 kilometres away from our location.
Inside that box was a bomb, and as people ran to inspect its contents, it was detonated, killing three Delhi locals and injuring 23 more
A local policeman entered the bar and informed us that we were to return to our hotels, and not leave, as the city was under attack.
We knew nothing more: the rickshaw drive back to the hotel was a harrowing one.
Our connection to our footy teams, and our favourite players, is as unique as Lance Franklin’s kicking arc.
They take us to places and provide us with experiences – good and bad – that exceed most other relationships that fill our lives.
We never miss a game, we feel nervous watching the replay – even when we know the result – we honour our teams and star players with naming rights to our kids, dogs, pets, passwords, and number plates. Heck, I was willing to get sacked from my professional cricket career so I could watch the last quarter of that 2007 elimination final.
The experience of having Lance Franklin on my team as my favourite player? It saw me hiding in the toilet of a wedding reception so I could watch his 13 goals against the Roos; it had me over-spending on BUDDY memorabilia at every drunken auction I attended; it guaranteed me great times, celebratory beers, laughter, and a hit of dopamine every time Lance went near the ball.
It took me to Delhi to cry with joy and then experience the very worst of humanity.
Lance Franklin of the Swans celebrates kicking his 1000th AFL goal. (Photo by Cameron Spencer/Getty Images)
It now sees me helping my elderly dog off the couch each morning with a pat on the head and a “morning Bud”, because, at 14, his back legs are giving out on him. It’s a Retriever thing.
Like my dog’s life, I wanted desperately for Franklin’s connection to Hawthorn to last forever. I wanted him to give my Hawks the unconditional love that my Buddy gives me.
But the world doesn’t work like that.
Hawthorn traded Sam Mitchell and Jordan Lewis for a paper clip and a bite of Adam Simpson’s croissant. Loyalty is dead in the modern game, and I see now that Lance was right to accept that king-sized offer from Sydney.
It was life-changing for him: he married his wife, they’ve started a family, and his footballing legacy has only been enhanced by the rejuvenation of the box-office Swans and what he has done to their membership, crowd numbers, merchandise, sponsorship, and the general growth of the game in New South Wales.
My dog Buddy is a lot like Lance – he too is one of a kind.
I’ll be the saddest of all when he is gone.