He used to be frawleyudud until Dan passed away, then changed to this dimmauchamp after the flags, but I told him yesterday to change from 'dimmauchamp' to 'dimmauchump'.....and he did.
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Dustin Martin
- Thread starter Rosy
- Start date
Who cares. Duz is washed up. Huns and Dimmessiah can take their own risk recruiting him. We now have a new generation of kids under Ooze. Move forward.
Maybe. That would certainly answer the question if that were the case.
But then you'd still have people shitting the bed over why he wasn't a one club player, regardless.
If it was just him and Judas Hardwick it wouldn’t be so bad, but we’ve got Dustin, Rioli, Baker and Bolton bailing. West Coast are diabolical at present and they don’t even have a coach. GC don’t have any supporters or culture. Our CEO has left. Players don’t seem to be happy with the coach. Fitness is terrible. No discernible game plan. We can’t score even close to 100 points and can’t buy a win. People will drop off. By the time Tassie comes in we could be fighting for survival if we don’t see something to be hopeful about.
My Aunt passed away a few years ago....
She grew up in Berlin and was approx 8yo in the final months of the War (45)
One day as they exited a shelter and walked down a street that was litle more than rubble and burning - she tripped - whereby her father grabbed her hand tightly, pulled her up and abruptly said:
"always look forward - NEVER look back..........." (she had tripped over a dead body)
This entire Dusty story is a web of conjecture, bias, judgements and ill informed opinion that is simply a storm in a teacup (IMHO)
From a footy (premierships) perspective lets just hope that the RFC is looking forward ..................
..... and if Dusty is likewise doing so - then so be it (he's earned it)
She grew up in Berlin and was approx 8yo in the final months of the War (45)
One day as they exited a shelter and walked down a street that was litle more than rubble and burning - she tripped - whereby her father grabbed her hand tightly, pulled her up and abruptly said:
"always look forward - NEVER look back..........." (she had tripped over a dead body)
This entire Dusty story is a web of conjecture, bias, judgements and ill informed opinion that is simply a storm in a teacup (IMHO)
From a footy (premierships) perspective lets just hope that the RFC is looking forward ..................
..... and if Dusty is likewise doing so - then so be it (he's earned it)
I've posted before. A club wins 3 out of 4 flags. Seniors lose hunger and want change elsewhere, not all of them but some. Dimma leaving caused this exodus because seniors are used to him as a mentor and his game plan. We even had others leaving as early as Rance, Shedda, Astbury when Dimma was around. IMO, he *smile* us up after that fARC loss in 2022.
Benny's a lawyer, he picks his words very carefully, he's knows what he's saying is ambiguous because he knew there was a possibility Dusty ends up at the GC.
It may or may not come to fruition that GC and Dusty come to an arrangement but there has been enough smoke all year, as there has been with Rioli, that a move to the GC has been on the cards for a long time.
It may or may not come to fruition that GC and Dusty come to an arrangement but there has been enough smoke all year, as there has been with Rioli, that a move to the GC has been on the cards for a long time.
And how do we know the players jumping ship aren’t the issue? Conveniently leaving when it gets tough. This notion that’s it’s always someone else problem other than the players is BS.
Do you think Ooze and co told all players, especially the seniors, that no more 4+ contracts will be given could be the case?
Missing the point Red. It’s not about going to another club. It’s the way it’s been done.
Us fans deserve better.
Either way doesn’t matter. Dusty is cooked. If he wants to go to GC that’s up to him. Who knows his motivations. Maybe he wants to squeeze a few more bucks out of the tail end of his career. Maybe his manager does. Maybe he wants to help his old coach out
The question should be ‘do we want him to stay’. We all have great respect for D Martin but I think the answer is no. Times up. Thanks for everything. Best wishes RFC
The question should be ‘do we want him to stay’. We all have great respect for D Martin but I think the answer is no. Times up. Thanks for everything. Best wishes RFC
Hope he gets fatter with all the take away shops there and turns into a Darren Jarman.
I'm not saying anything's especially broken, just that the focus should be on why all these blokes are leaving. Not how they are leaving.
Who cares about crying over "oh Dusty was retiring...now he's not...wha wha wha"..."I feel betrayed". Rubbish. Not the issue.
The issue is why he and others don't want to play for us. Maybe it's a good thing ie clean house. Dunno. But that's what I wanna understand. Not whether Dusty said he's retiring ...now he's not boo hoo hoo.
And why they’re going to places that aren’t travelling all that well. I’ve long thought that when you get things right off field, they start to work on field. It happened with us. From the outside looking in, it appears like we’re doing as well off field as we are on field. Took us a very long time to get it right, no evidence that this time that it won’t be a long, slow painful process. The player exodus is the start of the decline.
Nothing to do with the way it's been done Cloking Faces. You don't even know exactly what's been done or not done as the case may be. Crying over peanuts.
It's about WHY he doesn't want to play on with us. That's far more important to me, personally. Couldn't give a rats about retiring/now not retiring especially when the former is less than clear.
I will not be going up there again, out of principle
Hopefully no tiger fans will
*smile* em
For those interested in this take of dusty retirement
From the following source
www.thesaturdaypaper.com.au
Dustin Martin greets fans at the MCG following his final AFL game on August 24.
CREDIT: AAP IMAGE / JOEL CARRETT
Roger Federer’s last match was a coronation. He’d designed it that way, though few would have begrudged him. It was the 2022 Laver Cup, a tournament established by Federer himself, and his knees were such that singles were impossible – Federer’s last fling would be in a doubles match, glamorously partnered with his great rival Rafael Nadal. The two had 42 grand slam singles titles between them, and though they lost that evening, the moment was Federer’s.
The same year, Serena Williams announced her retirement via a personal essay in Vogue magazine, accompanied by a series of glamour shots. Though 40 years old, Williams confessed her reluctance to quit tennis – in contrast, she said, with Aussie Ash Barty, who had retired earlier that year as the world No. 1 at just 25 years old. “I know that a lot of people are excited about and look forward to retiring, and I really wish I felt that way,” Williams wrote.
In his final game, Kobe Bryant raged against the dying light – or, as he put it, “Father Time”. Where you or I might privately resent ageing, Bryant publicly gave it a name and then spat in its face.
It was 2016 and Bryant was 37 when he played his farewell game for the Los Angeles Lakers. It was the last game of the regular season, and neither the Lakers nor their opponents, the Utah Jazz, could qualify for the NBA playoffs. Thus, now playing in a dead rubber, the Lakers could dedicate themselves to the glory of Kobe. On his home court, liberated from the bandages that had swaddled various limbs for most of the season, his teammates obsessively fed him the ball while engineering his isolation with brutal screens. That evening, Bryant imperiously displayed both his rare gifts and his capacity for indulgence, scoring 60 points from a staggering 50 shots.
Martin quietly, peacefully, almost invisibly, resigned himself to the absent hunger. He had no desire to inflate the moment, to transform it into a personal, or even public, tragedy.
It was very different for Dustin Martin, who announced his retirement last month. One of the modern era’s great Aussie Rules players, his 2017 season – marked by a premiership and the Brownlow and Norm Smith medals – has claim to being the greatest individual season ever.
There was no essay, poem or glamour shoot. No ghostwriters, retirement merch or the employment of a boutique marketing agency to help “leverage the moment” so it might “consolidate his brand”. There was no corporate prattle or public hand-wringing. No pre-emptive announcement to help transform the season into a farewell tour. In fact, there was not even a farewell match. Remarkably, there wasn’t a press conference either: on the morning of August 6, Martin told teammates of his intention and then, quietly, released a statement through the club.
There were hints this was coming. Unlike the undying competitiveness of Williams and Bryant, Martin’s appetite for the game had seemed to dwindle. There was Father Time, but there was also the question of hunger, and it seemed as if Martin had to crawl to his 300th game in July. He had done it all and felt that there was nothing left to prove. Unlike Bryant – who could supercharge his competitiveness by summoning resentments – Martin quietly, peacefully, almost invisibly, resigned himself to the absent hunger. He had no desire to inflate the moment, to transform it into a personal, or even public, tragedy.
I’m not suggesting Dusty Martin’s retirement is morally superior to those mentioned earlier. But his indifference to self-aggrandisement, preferring his privacy to offering false felicity to the footy media, was infinitely refreshing.
And who could blame him? Last week, a “major” story – solemnly dissected in columns and televised panels – was the appearance of young Hawthorn forward Jack Ginnivan in a pub the day before his team’s elimination final. Never mind that Ginnivan had permission from his coach, that he nursed a soft drink and that it was an early night. “For the second year in a row, Jack Ginnivan’s pre-match escapades have caused a stir before a big final,” wrote The Roar, before a copy-and-paste of the various nitpicking and faux-solemnity of pundits.
Funnier, though, was the scolding by former Port Adelaide star and provocative boor Kane Cornes: “I don’t know why he would put himself in that position and cause a distraction,” he said on SEN radio. “He’s caused us to be talking about this now.”
Spare my blushes, Kane. He caused you to talk about it? Might you not have some agency in the matter? And, if you’re curious about causation, might the gig you’re happily employed in – ceaseless commentary and engagement bait, produced not with thoughtfulness as a guiding principle but rather volume and immediacy – not be a more realistic influence than young Jack?
It’s hard to figure if Cornes’s comment was craven or ignorant. Did Ginnivan plant the story himself? Did he arrange for a friend to take pictures, then pass them to news outlets? Did he make the decision to print them? To discuss them on televised panels?
There are three things for me here, and I reckon Dusty Martin’s onto them too: one, the profound triviality of the issue; two, the fact commentators complain that modern players are cautiously dull and platitudinous while behaving in a manner that encourages precisely that; and three, the pretence – or is it obliviousness? – to the media’s own influence. Ginnivan drinking a soft drink was an issue because the media made it one.
It reminds me of Paul McCartney’s wise and truculent confrontation with a reporter in 1967. The journalist was admonishing McCartney – under the guise of moral concern – for revealing his use of LSD. “Don’t you believe that [your use of LSD] was a matter that should have been kept private?” the reporter asked.
“I was asked a question by a newspaper, and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell him the truth,” McCartney replied. “I decided to tell him the truth... but I really didn’t want to say anything … I’m not trying to spread the word about this.”
Undaunted by self-reflection, the reporter blithely continued: “Do you think that you have now encouraged your fans to take drugs?”
“No, it’s you who’ve got the responsibility. You’ve got the responsibility not to spread this now. You know, I’m quite prepared to keep it as a very personal thing if you will too.”
So, no, I can’t blame Dusty for not courting the media. And I certainly don’t begrudge his keenly guarded privacy. But I can commend him for what was, oxymoronically, a spectacularly modest goodbye. It was almost as rare as his talent.
This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on September 14, 2024 as "Dusty’s goodbye".
From the following source
Dustin Martin’s spectacularly modest goodbye
When sporting superstars retire, it is usually accompanied by a grand event or gesture in their honour, something Richmond’s Dustin Martin had no interest in when he gave the game away.
Dustin Martin’s spectacularly modest goodbye
CREDIT: AAP IMAGE / JOEL CARRETT
Roger Federer’s last match was a coronation. He’d designed it that way, though few would have begrudged him. It was the 2022 Laver Cup, a tournament established by Federer himself, and his knees were such that singles were impossible – Federer’s last fling would be in a doubles match, glamorously partnered with his great rival Rafael Nadal. The two had 42 grand slam singles titles between them, and though they lost that evening, the moment was Federer’s.
The same year, Serena Williams announced her retirement via a personal essay in Vogue magazine, accompanied by a series of glamour shots. Though 40 years old, Williams confessed her reluctance to quit tennis – in contrast, she said, with Aussie Ash Barty, who had retired earlier that year as the world No. 1 at just 25 years old. “I know that a lot of people are excited about and look forward to retiring, and I really wish I felt that way,” Williams wrote.
In his final game, Kobe Bryant raged against the dying light – or, as he put it, “Father Time”. Where you or I might privately resent ageing, Bryant publicly gave it a name and then spat in its face.
It was 2016 and Bryant was 37 when he played his farewell game for the Los Angeles Lakers. It was the last game of the regular season, and neither the Lakers nor their opponents, the Utah Jazz, could qualify for the NBA playoffs. Thus, now playing in a dead rubber, the Lakers could dedicate themselves to the glory of Kobe. On his home court, liberated from the bandages that had swaddled various limbs for most of the season, his teammates obsessively fed him the ball while engineering his isolation with brutal screens. That evening, Bryant imperiously displayed both his rare gifts and his capacity for indulgence, scoring 60 points from a staggering 50 shots.
Martin quietly, peacefully, almost invisibly, resigned himself to the absent hunger. He had no desire to inflate the moment, to transform it into a personal, or even public, tragedy.
It was very different for Dustin Martin, who announced his retirement last month. One of the modern era’s great Aussie Rules players, his 2017 season – marked by a premiership and the Brownlow and Norm Smith medals – has claim to being the greatest individual season ever.
There was no essay, poem or glamour shoot. No ghostwriters, retirement merch or the employment of a boutique marketing agency to help “leverage the moment” so it might “consolidate his brand”. There was no corporate prattle or public hand-wringing. No pre-emptive announcement to help transform the season into a farewell tour. In fact, there was not even a farewell match. Remarkably, there wasn’t a press conference either: on the morning of August 6, Martin told teammates of his intention and then, quietly, released a statement through the club.
There were hints this was coming. Unlike the undying competitiveness of Williams and Bryant, Martin’s appetite for the game had seemed to dwindle. There was Father Time, but there was also the question of hunger, and it seemed as if Martin had to crawl to his 300th game in July. He had done it all and felt that there was nothing left to prove. Unlike Bryant – who could supercharge his competitiveness by summoning resentments – Martin quietly, peacefully, almost invisibly, resigned himself to the absent hunger. He had no desire to inflate the moment, to transform it into a personal, or even public, tragedy.
I’m not suggesting Dusty Martin’s retirement is morally superior to those mentioned earlier. But his indifference to self-aggrandisement, preferring his privacy to offering false felicity to the footy media, was infinitely refreshing.
And who could blame him? Last week, a “major” story – solemnly dissected in columns and televised panels – was the appearance of young Hawthorn forward Jack Ginnivan in a pub the day before his team’s elimination final. Never mind that Ginnivan had permission from his coach, that he nursed a soft drink and that it was an early night. “For the second year in a row, Jack Ginnivan’s pre-match escapades have caused a stir before a big final,” wrote The Roar, before a copy-and-paste of the various nitpicking and faux-solemnity of pundits.
Funnier, though, was the scolding by former Port Adelaide star and provocative boor Kane Cornes: “I don’t know why he would put himself in that position and cause a distraction,” he said on SEN radio. “He’s caused us to be talking about this now.”
Spare my blushes, Kane. He caused you to talk about it? Might you not have some agency in the matter? And, if you’re curious about causation, might the gig you’re happily employed in – ceaseless commentary and engagement bait, produced not with thoughtfulness as a guiding principle but rather volume and immediacy – not be a more realistic influence than young Jack?
It’s hard to figure if Cornes’s comment was craven or ignorant. Did Ginnivan plant the story himself? Did he arrange for a friend to take pictures, then pass them to news outlets? Did he make the decision to print them? To discuss them on televised panels?
There are three things for me here, and I reckon Dusty Martin’s onto them too: one, the profound triviality of the issue; two, the fact commentators complain that modern players are cautiously dull and platitudinous while behaving in a manner that encourages precisely that; and three, the pretence – or is it obliviousness? – to the media’s own influence. Ginnivan drinking a soft drink was an issue because the media made it one.
It reminds me of Paul McCartney’s wise and truculent confrontation with a reporter in 1967. The journalist was admonishing McCartney – under the guise of moral concern – for revealing his use of LSD. “Don’t you believe that [your use of LSD] was a matter that should have been kept private?” the reporter asked.
“I was asked a question by a newspaper, and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell him the truth,” McCartney replied. “I decided to tell him the truth... but I really didn’t want to say anything … I’m not trying to spread the word about this.”
Undaunted by self-reflection, the reporter blithely continued: “Do you think that you have now encouraged your fans to take drugs?”
“No, it’s you who’ve got the responsibility. You’ve got the responsibility not to spread this now. You know, I’m quite prepared to keep it as a very personal thing if you will too.”
So, no, I can’t blame Dusty for not courting the media. And I certainly don’t begrudge his keenly guarded privacy. But I can commend him for what was, oxymoronically, a spectacularly modest goodbye. It was almost as rare as his talent.
This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on September 14, 2024 as "Dusty’s goodbye".
