Lights Out for Neon
She's always buzzing just like
Neon, neon, neon, neon
Who knows how long, how long, how long
She can go before she burns away – John Mayer
New York City was an intimidating place for a wet-behind-the-ears Tasmanian to find himself on his first real adventure outside our sunburnt country.
It was April 2003, Collingwood were starting a new season strongly after their first Grand Final loss of the millennium the previous September, MAD magazine was about as close to social media as you could get and I had spent my first afternoon in the ‘city that never sleeps’ sporting a cold sweat, scrambling from phone booth to phone booth along the strange streets and alien avenues of Manhattan Island.
My carefully pre-arranged digs had fallen through at the last moment and I was having to scratch up every quarter and dime I had to throw at a payphone to even find a bed on my first night in the Big Apple.
Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of, I can assure you. At that point, everything around me was overwhelming.
Cars screaming past from the wrong direction. Buildings taller and more imposing than I’d ever seen. Yellow buses. Screaming Italian-Americans in sharp three piece suits. Shifty looking hot pretzel vendors trying to sell me food I’d never seen before. Shoe-shine guys nastily sneering at my lack of leather kicks and general “My life’s in my backpack and I’m not paying you to polish my shoes” look.
In fact, I’m fairly sure I saw every NYC cliché you could hope to mention that first afternoon and, from my place pounding the pavement, every one of them was out to get me.
That was until I took a fateful turn down a seemingly blind alley and happened onto West 43rd Street, all the while in search of a hostel that wasn’t all the way up in Harlem.
With a guidebook map in one hand and a camera in the other – doing my very best to belie any signs of panic and to slot in smoothly alongside the other tourists that swarm the city daily – I glanced up for a street sign to make sure I was on the right track.
What I got was more than just a street sign. It was a sign. It was manna from heaven in Manhattan.
I was standing on Leon Davis Avenue and suddenly I felt safe.
In my mind, the good burghers of New York had named a whole city block after my favourite Magpie, the then corn-rowed ‘Neon’ Leon Davis.
Visions of him goosing opposition defenders with pace and sleight of hand, slotting seemingly impossible goals from practically anywhere and generally lighting up the Collingwood crowd flooded back.
I was in a genuine Happy Gilmore-style ‘Happy Place’ gazing up at that street sign, Davis’s burgeoning highlights reel flashing through my mind and my trusty 35mm Nikon SLR snapping away without a care for the film I was burning through (yep, these were pre-digital camera days, folks).
I might have looked strange taking pictures of this street sign when I could just as easily have been photographing more prominent addresses – be they Wall St or Madison Avenue or otherwise.
West 43rd Street hardly rolls off the tongue, after all.
But I can’t have looked as strange as the football department and Collingwood FC look tonight. That is if the rumours of Davis’ impending departure from the Magpies turn out to be true.
The whispers have been doing the rounds for a few weeks now, but deep down in my black and white core I dared not believe them.
Bouncier than a bodgy cheque, Davis had rebounded his way back into the hearts and minds of all Magpies’ fans in 2011. Plenty of good judges had him pinned for a repeat performance next season.
We all know the story of Davis being dropped for the 2010 Grand Final Replay. His failure to register a possession in the 2002 decider is another infamous tale.
But it’s time we scratch those from the memory bank. Those aren’t the memories Davis will judged by. I far prefer to think of the 2009 and 2011 All Australian versions.
It’s a throwaway line now, but I never lost faith in the mercurial marvel wearing No. 1, regardless of Grand Final failures or flaky seasons.
He was a gem and his loss to the club will be felt next year, if only that he counts, alongside Chris Tarrant, as one of the old school – the last remaining survivors of the doomed campaigns of 2002-03.
His 223 games in black and white started the season after he was picked up by the then cellar dwellers in the 1999 draft.
He became a firm favourite with the football department and fans alike and will live long in my memory as a smooth mover with natural gifts and a player as easy on the eye as any in the league.
It seems homesickness – and, potentially, a smaller than hoped contract offer – has conspired to send ‘Neon’ Leon back home to the West.
We’ll read more about this story in the coming days, but there will be no spite or bile from the black and white army.
How could there be?
Davis served with a smile on his face – and put a smile on ours, over and over and over again.
The WAFL will be richer for having him, and Davis will be richer for being closer to family and friends.
Farewell, Leon.
And if you ever get the chance to visit NYC, take a stroll along West 43rd and keep an eye out for your sign. When you see it, think back on your superb career with the Magpies.
That’s exactly what I’ll do next time I get back there. But hopefully next time I’ll have already found somewhere to stay, too.
