The Richmond skipper calls. One of their rookies has been in a car crash. Can I get there? Sure, I say. It’s 1.30am.
He rang the captain. That’s a good sign. There’s hope for him. Sometimes they don’t call anyone, try to get away with it. If they’re lucky, the papers don’t send a photographer, there are no fans with mobiles who recognise them.
Rookies get off lightly that way. Any senior player who smashes his car or is thrown out of a nightclub is bound to be snapped by everyone in sight and facebooked.
Lygon Street, That’s bad. No serious injuries, that’s good.
Police are there, if they’ve breathalysed him and he blew over 0.05, it’s a disaster. Career over before it begins. Players have been dumped for less.
There is a mercifully small crowd. The usual late night young and legless. It is drizzling, the road slick.
I find the kid being interviewed by the police. The car is totalled into a pole. A girl is sitting on a bench on the footpath with the ambos. She looks shaken, but OK.
I introduce myself to the constable. She looks at me with complete disinterest. The kid, Kelly is his name (an outside midfielder with raw pace picked at #17 in the rookie draft) is wide-eyed, possibly just over excited, possibly more. Maybe he has realised his new lifestyle is hanging by a thread.
The AFL has a protocol for this situation, and just about any other one you could dream up. The days of letting the clubs handle player behaviour are long gone. Pay-offs and cover-ups are not part of the new code. No-one expects squeaky clean but what it boils down to is fewer bad column inches in the Herald than league or soccer.
It shouldn’t be hard to out-perform the NRL, which sets a new benchmark every year (with rape and assault over-represented on the rap sheet). But this summer has been a hot one.
Kelly has no idea who I am or why I am here. I guess he slept through his induction. I’ll bet he took notes when the slide of the Ferrari went up in the financial planning session.
After the police have finished with him I take him aside.
Are you OK? Yeah, no worries.
Did they charge you? I think so. Who are you again?
(Jesus.) I’m from the AFL. Who’s the girl?
I dunno. I met her in the club.
Is it your car? Nah, it’s hers.
Were you driving? Yeah, she was too pissed.
OK, I’m going to put you in a cab. I want you to go home. Where do you live?
Dockside.
Do you have a key? Yeah.
I hail a cab and put him in it. Give him my card.
Go straight home and go to bed. Call me when you wake up.
You’re from the AFL? Am I in the shit?
Big time.
Bullshit. I didn’t do anything.
Just go home and get some sleep.
I tell the cabbie Dockside and the cab leaves, taking the cocky little bastard off into the cold, dark night.
I don’t see any press. I try the constable again. He’s been charged but she’s not saying anything more.
She looks at me curiously. She doesn’t know who the kid is and wonders why I am there. I tell her I’m a friend of the family. The protocol calls for full disclosure but there doesn’t seem to be any reason to bring football into it. What did he tell her his job was? Student if he was quick, probably more like gigolo by the look of him.
The ambos have finished with the girl. I introduce myself and sit next to her.
Are you OK? Yes.
What’s your name? Kristen. Where’s Jason?
He’s gone home. You should too. Where do you live? Bayview.
How old are you? 18.
Do you live with your parents? Yes.
Can you walk? Yes, I think so. I want to see Jason.
He will call you. Does he have your number? I don’t know.
Give it to me. Let me get you a taxi.
I write down her number and put her in a taxi. I give her my card, the plain one.
The girl’s new Corolla is winched onto the back of a tow truck. Her father will be thrilled.
It’s 3am by the time I get home. Friday morning. I love pre-season.