No bull, Richo is serious
By Martin Flanagan
April 19 2003
The Age
Our day at the footy began with us driving to the game listening to an argument about Richo's face, a commentator saying it was a disgrace that Richmond had named him when it knew all along he was not going to play.
A Richmond official was remonstrating, saying its advice had been he could play if the swelling from his broken cheekbone had gone down. The argument went on and became a sort of game in itself. Richo's like that, a character in the vaudeville of the game. Sam Newman appeared dressed up as him at the start of this week's Footy Show.
Not that my daughter and I had gone to see Richo play. We went because it was Wayne Campbell's 250th. Leigh Matthews once remarked that there are two sorts of quickness in football - mental and physical - and Campbell had both. But the fact he also plays with a poker face means his personality remains largely hidden.
My daughter started following Richmond about the time Campbell started playing for them. When she was 15, she got chronic fatigue syndrome. For a couple of years, there was not a lot of fun or social activity in her life but she kept following the Tiges, even if she did fall asleep on my arm during games. When she could, she attended training as she had before. Campbell never saw her that he did not stop and talk to her, did not give her time. In a way he would not have known, he helped her through those years. That's why we went to the game.
The Tigers won, of course. The key moment occurred in the second quarter when a wall of white water dropped out of the sky. In seeking to describe Fremantle's performance thereafter, I am reminded of the opening lines of Rod Stewart's song Mandolin Wind: "When the rain came, I thought you'd leave, Cos I knew how much you loved the sun."
The Tigers, meantime, played a brand of football you do not see much any more, either because of drought or games being played indoors - they slogged it out.
After the game it was back to the players' gym for a celebration on account of the 250th. Up on the wall are the Tigers' premiership teams, mighty names from the past, such as Mike Patterson, Fred Swift and Royce Hart. They played in the 1967 grand final, the first I listened to, standing on the other side of Bass Strait with a transistor held to a steel girder to boost the wireless reception. Richo's father, Alan "Bull" Richardson, played that day. Bull was not much of a kick, often preferring to handpass, but as the name implies he was a power in the packs.
We stood around talking to Richmond people such as Nathan Bower and Benny Gale and then, as Richo was passing, Benny offered to introduce us. He was quite a sight. The right side of his face was blown up, literally, like a football and tinged the colour of a plum, but his manner was affable.
Richo's career has been notable. He has probably had more advice and more specialist coaching than any player in the history of the game, yet he continues on his sporadically brilliant, error-prone way. From his critics, who see him as being temperamental and selfish, he also cops as much abuse as anyone in the game, but in certain respects I do not believe he has been given his due.
One is how hard he tries when he is trying. Once he drops his head, it might be a different matter, but it's certainly not the case that he is interested in matches only while things are going his way. I might not have seen whole games where he has held Richmond together in adversity, but I have seen long passages.
Another of his notable qualities is the way he keeps coming back from injury. On Saturday night, looking at his distorted visage, I said: "You weren't really going to play, were you?" He looked at me through an eye with a mass of red around the pupil, and said: "If the swelling had gone down, I would have."
I thought at first he was joking. He was not. Others might laugh, but Richo is serious about his footy.
By Martin Flanagan
April 19 2003
The Age
Our day at the footy began with us driving to the game listening to an argument about Richo's face, a commentator saying it was a disgrace that Richmond had named him when it knew all along he was not going to play.
A Richmond official was remonstrating, saying its advice had been he could play if the swelling from his broken cheekbone had gone down. The argument went on and became a sort of game in itself. Richo's like that, a character in the vaudeville of the game. Sam Newman appeared dressed up as him at the start of this week's Footy Show.
Not that my daughter and I had gone to see Richo play. We went because it was Wayne Campbell's 250th. Leigh Matthews once remarked that there are two sorts of quickness in football - mental and physical - and Campbell had both. But the fact he also plays with a poker face means his personality remains largely hidden.
My daughter started following Richmond about the time Campbell started playing for them. When she was 15, she got chronic fatigue syndrome. For a couple of years, there was not a lot of fun or social activity in her life but she kept following the Tiges, even if she did fall asleep on my arm during games. When she could, she attended training as she had before. Campbell never saw her that he did not stop and talk to her, did not give her time. In a way he would not have known, he helped her through those years. That's why we went to the game.
The Tigers won, of course. The key moment occurred in the second quarter when a wall of white water dropped out of the sky. In seeking to describe Fremantle's performance thereafter, I am reminded of the opening lines of Rod Stewart's song Mandolin Wind: "When the rain came, I thought you'd leave, Cos I knew how much you loved the sun."
The Tigers, meantime, played a brand of football you do not see much any more, either because of drought or games being played indoors - they slogged it out.
After the game it was back to the players' gym for a celebration on account of the 250th. Up on the wall are the Tigers' premiership teams, mighty names from the past, such as Mike Patterson, Fred Swift and Royce Hart. They played in the 1967 grand final, the first I listened to, standing on the other side of Bass Strait with a transistor held to a steel girder to boost the wireless reception. Richo's father, Alan "Bull" Richardson, played that day. Bull was not much of a kick, often preferring to handpass, but as the name implies he was a power in the packs.
We stood around talking to Richmond people such as Nathan Bower and Benny Gale and then, as Richo was passing, Benny offered to introduce us. He was quite a sight. The right side of his face was blown up, literally, like a football and tinged the colour of a plum, but his manner was affable.
Richo's career has been notable. He has probably had more advice and more specialist coaching than any player in the history of the game, yet he continues on his sporadically brilliant, error-prone way. From his critics, who see him as being temperamental and selfish, he also cops as much abuse as anyone in the game, but in certain respects I do not believe he has been given his due.
One is how hard he tries when he is trying. Once he drops his head, it might be a different matter, but it's certainly not the case that he is interested in matches only while things are going his way. I might not have seen whole games where he has held Richmond together in adversity, but I have seen long passages.
Another of his notable qualities is the way he keeps coming back from injury. On Saturday night, looking at his distorted visage, I said: "You weren't really going to play, were you?" He looked at me through an eye with a mass of red around the pupil, and said: "If the swelling had gone down, I would have."
I thought at first he was joking. He was not. Others might laugh, but Richo is serious about his footy.
