Nobody Plays as Hard as Matthew Richardson
“Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?
I climbed to Dharamsala too, I did.
I met the highest Lama,
His accent sounded fine
To me, to me”
– Oxford Comma, Vampire Weekend
The Officer’s Club tends to attract a strange and excitable crowd most weekends. Particularly during footy season, when the warm glow of the plush interior, known crowd and heavy action is at its most inviting. Winter winds tend to make a man crave the security and warmth of home and for many, The O.C is as close to home as anywhere. A strange aura of human connection rings silently but if we indulge in a moment of pause, we can all feel it.
From Saturday morning, sometime before the first of the Metropolitan races and from time to time earlier if there is a ball game worth betting on, through to Sunday evening, The O.C is usually abuzz with the sounds of money changing hands and ice filling abnormally large tumblers and high volume conversations with bookmakers of both a legal and illegal nature and murmurs of secrecy and horrible cursing of The Fates and the penetrating shrill of The Victor and the hammer pounding the nail. It is quite the scene. High profile socialites and kind hearted vagabonds, wisened magistrates and house husbands from Hull, somber accountants and immigrant Russian Generals, mustachioed poets and lonely middle aged florists, ginger-haired trademark experts and sleazy political puppet-masters, among others, can be found and most likely will be found at The O.C during the winter months. We are all fellow travelers, itinerant gamblers and drinkers who have embraced flagitiousness and turpitude, and at some core level we appreciate the sense of solidarity that The O.C brings. Vice reigns supreme but the usual guilt of indulgence is replaced by a steely resolve of invincibility, a belief that in numbers we are infallible. We can get our kicks in concert and the cost will never be too great. We are buying in bulk.
Discussion tends to be of a high brow nature and the service is nothing short of exceptional. Cigars are offered free of charge to all winners and Willie, the sharp-suited bathroom attendant with the dry wit, is always prepared to recite Keats or Byron or Wordsworth or even Blake for a small tip and a kindly smile. Help yourself to the candy jar and stay awhile. It is all rather civilized. Even in times of great despair and tragedy (and for The Gambler, such despair and tragedy can occur many times and perhaps even more throughout the course of an evening) there is an air of nobility that can be seen through the steamy window panes. Even if our words and actions descend into the gutter, and they are wont to around midnight after some harsh defeats and single malt whiskey, our pursuits are somewhat decent.
The simple pleasures of solidarity and civility quickly deteriorate, however, when thoughts turn to Australian Rules football and the Richmond Tigers are scheduled for their weekly appearance. It seems to invoke a nasty guttural reaction, some form of molecular metamorphosis in the very nature of the room that turns decent men into their most hideous base selves and leads to vile scenes of stupidity and ugliness that most could not handle. The trigger for such base vulgarity is the man known as Richo.
When Matthew Richardson hits the screen, a nasty polarization sweeps the room. There is no middle ground. And no aptitude for negotiation.
Comments from the irrational and ignorant tend to taunt and mock Richo. Some take delight in highlighting, without invitation, that they enjoy watching Richo play as he will inevitably cost Richmond dearly. Others, who claim to have a knowledge of the sport and whose claims of same are at best debatable, rattle off inaccurate and ill considered diatribes about Richo’s petulance and selfishness and assert that he, among other things, has cost the Tigers at least two wins a season. His goal-kicking is mocked, his pride is questioned, his attitude slammed and his achievements derided. The focus is on his flaws. These fools who get their kicks from cheap attacks on Richo can’t see the forest for the trees.
Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? And who gives a fuck about a frayed edge on the portrait of one of the great Australian Rules footballers?
Those overcome with insecurity and personal anxiety, that’s who. The same pedants who find it necessary to point out irrelevant grammatical omissions such as the use, misuse(,…for the pedants) or under-use of the Oxford comma are the same narrow-minded gimps who, for a fleeting moment, feel the large penis they have always desired when they lay into Richo.
Now I am no Australian Rules football expert. My drug is rugby league and like smack, it is an all-consuming addiction. There is room for little else. I do, however, have an astute understanding of greatness and courage and flawed brilliance and most importantly, the human condition. I climbed to Dharamsala too, I did. I met the highest Lama, His accent sounded fine. When you spend your days riding city buses and reading Sylvia Plath, you tend to develop a comprehension of the Big Picture. I understand Richo and I understand those who get their thrills in stomping on his reputation.
It is a very difficult notion to grasp that anybody who has ever watched Australian Rules football could not have the utmost respect for Matthew Richardson. He is a man to be revered, whose loyalty and determination are things to admire unreservedly. But there are plenty out there. I am just eternally grateful that The Fates did not bestow such narrow mindedness on your favourite wordsmith.
There is no doubt that Richo has his flaws, like nearly all of us. He has a tendency to get a little nervous from set shots and occasionally his heart-on-the-sleeve behaviour can be misconstrued. But these are nothing more than blips on his radar of greatness and they certainly don’t define Richo the man or Richo the footballer. That is because Richo is the personification of heart. No player has the phenomenal ticker that Richo has. He runs all day and then runs some more. He tackles hard, he scraps like a junkyard dog, his bread and butter is the contested mark and few show as much endeavor on second and third efforts. His loyalty to the Richmond Football Club and the game in general can never be questioned, nor can his natural brilliance and his ability to change the course of a game. Despite being matched-up against the usual horde of taggers and despite rarely receiving any love from the umpires, he remains tenacious and always willing and rarely lets the Tigers down. Few players are as inspirational. There is certainly nobody that plays as hard.
And there is no better sound in Australian Rules football than hearing the caller of the day scream “RICH-ARD-SSSSON” as the big man takes yet another screamer.
Like most true champions, age has not diminished his impact. He won his first Jack Dyer Medal last season and he will win a long overdue Brownlow Medal this year. Last season he did it with, for lack of medical definition, a broken face. This season he is getting it done on the wing and with heart and up front and with courage, as graceful and dangerous as a snow leopard in heat.
It is all very simple really. Matthew Richardson is a sporting God and represents all that is good and sound and beautiful in the sport and those who get their jollies laying the jackboot into him only highlight their own personal inadequacies and a fundamental misunderstanding of life when speaking out against him. They are pedants and narks and they will be the first to tell you about the failing of a profound piece of literature because the author did not adhere to the Chicago Manual of Style rules guiding the use of the Oxford comma.