An earthquake hit Melbourne, The Taliban took Kabul and the Demons won their first grand final in 57 years. All that was immaterial, of course. The countdown to trade period was on in earnest, and the boys at Trade Radio were already pulling 18-hour shifts. Day or night, you could tune in and hear a variation of the following conversation - “I wouldn’t say he’s elite…but I wouldn’t say he isn’t elite either.” “He has huge upside SOS.” “Oh massive upside, Damo.” “500k is unders, don’t you think Lordo? “Definitely overs for me Kaneo.”
In Show Me the Money, a three-part documentary that premieres on Stan on Thursday night, the trade period, the draft, the deals and the horse trading are examined in considerable detail. Craig Hutchison, the man behind Trade Radio, calls the period footy’s equivalent of The Shawshank Redemption. Indeed, for some of us, it’s akin to six weeks bunked down with Bogs Diamond. But it’s increasingly popular. It rates its socks off. Every October, otherwise functioning adults will bail you up with seven-way trade scenarios – complete with diagrams, arrows, and six players you’ve never heard of. Ultimately, it’s less about selling hope, and more about providing content.
Despite the title of this documentary, money is almost never mentioned. Instead it’s all about picks, swaps, poker faces and hedged bets. It’s about player managers, who often carry themselves like real estate agents. When they’re not on the golf course, they’re on the driving range. They’re a study of how many intonations of the word “mate” you can squeeze into a single sentence. To their credit, they generally have their players’ – sorry, their clients’ – best interests at heart. So many of the players are dealing with very real and very normal problems – a homesick partner, a new baby, a boss that hates them. Their manager is there to help, to cut a deal, to facilitate a new start.
In many ways, the players are peripheral. They’re names on a whiteboard. They’re bargaining chips. They’re shopped around for chickenfeed. They’re swapped for a “future third”. While Rory Lobb and Jeremy Finlayson’s sporting careers are being decided, they’re out fishing. When Bobby Hill’s dreams of returning to Melbourne are scuppered at the last minute, he’s in the tattooist’s chair. We meet Luke Dunstan, who’s fallen out of favour with his coach, and out of love with the game. “Clubs aren’t willing to give up collateral,” his manager tells him. “It’s shit for you guys – it’s not really player friendly. Unfortunately, it’s just the way the system works, mate.” They discuss his options. Gold Coast seem vaguely keen. He could get some work as a carpenter. Out of nowhere, the reigning premiers snap him up.
So much of the language emanating from football clubs these days is about the communal – about connection, about playing your role, about leaving your ego on the hook. But in reality, especially during trade period, it’s every man for himself. It’s George Costanza when the fire alarm goes off.
The young draftees are a bit less jaded. They’re “full of upside”, “first round locks”, “contested ball beasts” and “young men of outstanding character”. They’re all “pretty excited to get stuck into it”. When they make their debut, there’ll be the obligatory social media video - neatly packaged and suitably soppy. Some of them will be set up for life.
But many won’t make it. Many careers will fizzle out. They’ll have “little currency”. They’ll be shunted from club to club. They’ll have that youthful vim sucked out of them. They may be left to rot on the Gold Coast, or out at Casey Fields. The coach might hate them. Their brains might be mush by 25. They might not actually be that good. They’ll be farewelled with a two-sentence press release.
Even if you’re the top pick, there are no guarantees. From the moment he was drafted, Tom Boyd hated football and all its associated bullshit. Jon Patton had three knee reconstructions, left Hawthorn amid complaints that saw him apologise for his inappropriate behaviour towards women, and is now selling real estate on the Gold Coast. Paddy McCartin suffered concussion after concussion, had to re-train his neural pathways and only recently was offered a lifeline on Sydney’s rookie list.
The draftees in Show Me the Money are so knowing, so polished. But they’re just boys. They’re the Covid generation of draftees. They’re the unraced colt who hasn’t been seen at the trials. One sobs when his number isn’t called out, and his good mate is snapped up. One is flanked by his grandparents. As each club bypasses him, he slumps a little further in his seat.
For Jason Horne-Francis, there are no such indignities. He has a pet turtle, a teenage moustache, a manager who once won Big Brother and a highlights reel that can make your brain yelp. He also has one of those footy heads – a calm, assessing, distant look that suggests not a scintilla of self-doubt. Luke Hodge had it. Joel Selwood still has it. Writing about both of them in The Age, Tim Boyle noticed “a glimpse of the wilderness behind their eyes”. “It’s not a thinking place,” he wrote. “But a deep cave of fortitude.” Horne-Francis is in the system now. He’ll be tagged, harassed and analysed to within an inch of his life. He’ll carry the hopes of a football club. He looks like he can handle it. But in the spirit of Trade Radio and Show Me The Money, that’s just a guess.
