A Love Letter To Every Man I Saw Crying About Sport This Weekend

Hey, Dustin Martin. I see you. I see the neck tatts and the signature “Don’t Argue” shove and the family links to a bikie gang and the … oh shit, okay I just learned about the chopstick thing. But I also saw you screw up your face like a constipated baby pug and weep while holding Richmond coach Damien Hardwick after the Grand Final siren, and now I think I love you.

Dusty, I saw you scream with glee and run to find your mates and hold them so close and so hard you all fell to the ground and had a little cry. I know you’re a shy dude. I know there was a lot of pressure on you. I just want you to know that you looked great and you should do it more and masculinity can be a prison, baby.

Also, you’re not alone.

Hey, Brendon Gale. I see you. I’m new to the game and didn’t know you were the CEO of Richmond FC or a former player, but I saw you were Important — I saw your nerves, your staunch upper lip and your resolve.

I saw it all slip away as the Tigers pulled more than 40 points ahead with seven minutes on the clock. I’ve re-watched the footage ten times today because it is honestly better than Grey’s Anatomy. These few seconds of video carry more emotional heft than Jack’s death in Titanic, the first ten minutes of Up, and Thomas J not being able to see without his glasses on combined. But like, in a happy way.

Hey, Matthew Richardson. I also see you. I watched you on the sidelines, steeling yourself for the possibility of the team you love — the team you gave your career to — losing this. Anyone with any Richmond cred knows that look; a brow furrowed so tight you could crack a beer open on it. Then, the release…

Oh my god Richo #AFLGF pic.twitter.com/Wcqc3hXemV

— Ethan (@ethan_meldrum) September 30, 2017

Richo, that face is immortal. That face is such a perfect and balanced representation of grief, happiness, surprise, fear and ecstasy that it could be the work of a Renaissance master. This face is a modern-day Mona Lisa or Girl With The Pearl Earring. Who is he? What is he thinking? It’s otherworldly and yet innately familiar. We might not be able to put it perfectly into words, but we can feel it in our bones.

Hey, 60-something men drinking warm Carlton in the full laneway next to an overflowing pub on Bridge Road. I see you. I see you leaning against the wall because standing feels like a lot right now. I know you’re feeling this more than the rest of us — you’ve waited 37 years. All those ninth-place finishes. All the losses that seemed impossible. All the hope. Your kids are calling you and they’re crying too. You bought them the first scarf, taught them to never let go of the team.

Sure, I would have taken a high-five but, ahh okay, a big hug works too.

Hey, young guys standing on Swan Street traffic bollards and singing all night. I couldn’t not see you. You made a point of that. I don’t really mind though. You’re holding each other around the shoulders and gripping tight for both love and dear life (um, how’s your balance after 12 tins?). I saw the kisses on the cheeks and the tears on each other’s shoulders. Some of you absolutely got capsicum-sprayed later, but you copped it together with matching Dusty haircuts and it was for your own sake (GET OFF THE ROOF).

Hey ladies, I know it wasn’t just the men crying. Despite the bravado and the branding and the serious problems, I know that AFL is not just for blokes and you’ve all been there since the start too. But it’s not so notable to see you vulnerable; to see the tears and give you a big hug.

I see you all and more importantly, I fucking get it. You should be proud.

Earlier this year I was up in the nosebleeds at a Swans vs Tigers game at the MCG next to a tough-looking young guy screaming his lungs out for Dusty and Bachar and Rioli. We were 36 points up and killing it, before it slipped like it so often does.

We let Sydney back in and they steamrolled us to nab a narrow victory; a former Richmond coach would go on to label it “mental disintegration”. This young guy got quiet. He buried his face in the scarf, graciously offered congrats to the Swans supporters around him and slinked out at the siren. My boyfriend later found him with tears in his eyes over the bathroom sinks.

Dudes, you should all cry together more often.

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Meg Watson is the Editor of Junkee. She tweets @msmegwatson.