At first, it was a bit of a joke. It was the West Australian picturing him in Eagles-branded chef whites with the tagline, “Superstar teen sensation reveals sandwich based lunchtime ritual”. It was the 52 back pages in 60 days. It was the “Harley Judd” and “Prince of Perth” headlines. It was, mostly, all in good fun.
Then, it was all about his football. It was Nine’s Kate Halfpenny, in a rare deviation from complaining about Harry and Meghan, writing a column titled, “Watching Harley Reid play footy has made me feel hopeful again”. And yes, he really was a wonderful player to watch in his debut season. He was straight off the peg. To watch him on his hands and knees, seizing a dead ball, standing up like a surf life-saver in a flags race, skating away from seasoned footballers and taking a nonchalant bounce was to see the sport at its best.
Then came the reality – the hard tags, the reports, the first “why can’t he be more like Nick Daicos” hot takes. By the end of the season, and the game against Carlton in particular, Reid clearly needed a spell.
This season, we’re seeing a frustrated and distracted footballer. He flops. He wrestles. He mouths off. He engages with dickheads in the crowd. Everyone seems to be worried about him. Everyone has a solution. The West Australian reckons he needs a mentor, and suggested Dustin Martin.
Apart from the fact that Martin lives on the other side of the country, and doesn’t really present as the mentoring type, it has merit. The Richmond great was all over the shop in his early days. Underpinning a lot of the coverage – and it’s there with Reid as well – was a kind of “why can’t you be more like the outstanding young men of character,” which is usually code for “private school kids”.
Martin was too good to fail, in a way, and the Tigers put the right people and structures around him. But he still could have slipped through the net. Daniel Connors, one of Martin’s best mates, is one who did. Five years after Richmond cut him loose, he was interviewed on the morning of the 2017 grand final. “They’re in a grand final and I’m up here in the mines in Kalgoorlie,” he said.
Martin and Reid are similar players to some extent, but the environment has changed considerably since the Tiger’s early years. The money flowing into the game is astronomical and Reid is going to be courted, feted and paid an absolute bucket-load. It’s why this column isn’t a “won’t somebody think of the children” type lament.
Reid is going to be fine. He’s going to make a lot of money. Try telling a 19-year-old who’s doing an underwhelming university course, working for a tight-arse boss or living with their parents to feel sorry for Harley Reid and they’ll laugh in your face.
But with that money comes more scrutiny. In the past month alone, there’s been an increase – an absurd one, frankly – in the number of football analysis TV programs. Each show takes itself more seriously than the last. Each, in the past fortnight, has played amateur psychologist to Reid.
These shows have their audience, and maybe even their purpose, but they’re never more ridiculous than when they’re scrutinising the habits of a second-year player. In the end, it’s perfecting the art of shouting over one another to create the illusion that what you’re talking about actually matters. It’s standing in front of a screen with a jigger, or a laptop, and some behind the goals vision, and explaining the bleedin’ obvious. It’s highlighting the piddling indiscretions of a 19-year-old, and then crossing to four betting ads.
A few grabs I caught from this week’s offerings: “gettable”, “self-sabotaging”, “clearly not fit enough”, “an embarrassing effort”, “playing with a real chip on his shoulder”. “I’m concerned for his career,” Nick Riewoldt said. “Go and watch Nick Daicos,” Matthew Lloyd suggested. “Are we going to create someone who’s going to spend their 30s on the psychiatrist’s sofa?” Caroline Wilson asked. “Did you watch the game, Caro?” Kane Cornes replied.
So many of the top draft selections in recent years have been inscrutable, cosseted, almost metronomic. So many of them were educated at the kind of schools Lloyd now coaches at. Reid isn’t really that footballer, or that personality. He’s more combustible, a bit more challenging to rein in, a bit harder to predict how his career will pan out. And that’s fine. Not all talented players have the emotional regulation of a Scott Pendlebury or a Nick Daicos. Unlike Pendlebury, not all players are in their saunas and cold plunge pools at 5am on Christmas Day.
I understand why a coach would want to chip away at some of the rough edges. And I understand the unease from West Coast fans – that he’s a bit of a flight risk, and that their club might end up doing all the heavy lifting before he heads back home.
But I don’t understand why the governing body is issuing a “please explain” to a kid that flips the bird, and not to the grown adult who baits him. And I don’t understand why some members of the media – especially the former players who weren’t exactly saints in their playing days – need to tut-tut like hall monitors every time he gets in a wrestle.
Harley Reid will turn 20 in a few weeks’ time. He’ll get better. He’ll grow up. Hopefully a few of the people abusing and analysing him will too.
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