Seconds out from quarter time at the MCG last night, Sam Mitchell walked the boundary line like a man out for a Friday evening stroll. Those who coached and played with him at Hawthorn say he was the calmest footballer they’d seen before and during big games. His opposition number was coiled, clenched and up for a scrap. Mitchell, as always, had the faintest of smiles, his hands behind his back, a human graphing calculator, a man who does his best work with a clear head. His team was two goals down, but this was the look of a coach who had the game where he wanted it.
Mitchell was his team’s best player the last time Hawthorn met the Western Bulldogs in a final. It was also his last game for the club, and the night the great Hawthorn era was officially snuffed out. That evening, the Dogs were four goals down in the second term, but Luke Beveridge was confident they had the game under control.
On Friday night, the Hawks surgically cut the Dogs open. They broke them in every facet of the game – in the ruck, on the ground, in the air, and on the switch. They broke them the way they’ve been breaking teams since early winter. They broke them with precise kicking and with leg speed.
And they broke them with a unique form of pressure – not the manic, frontal brutality of a Carlton or GWS, but just that steadfast commitment to close down space and to never allow an easy kick. All night, the Dogs were panicked and rushed, forced into hack kicks and fruitless dumps, which James Sicily picked off with glee.
The Hawks had the athleticism and the diligence to execute it all over the ground – at centre square stoppages and even in their full forward line. And when the Dogs would get the staggers and the Hawks would strip it back, they’d spread in all directions, at high speed and with a common commitment and relish.
Unlike the Dogs, the Hawks weren’t seeking a scrap, a knife fight. They wanted the ball in motion, in their hands, on their terms, at their pace. And that’s precisely what they got. No team sprints harder to make position. No team is more prepared to go so wide to attack.
But they’re more than an athletics squad. They’re tough. It was personified last night by Jai Newcombe, who finished with 35 touches, most of them hard earned. They excel at grappling and standing up in tackles. And none of them shirk contests. Whether it was Nick Watson’s run-down tackles or Connor Macdonald’s bone rattlers, they were by far the tougher team.
For many of the Hawks, it was their first final. It was for Massimo D’Ambrosio. He has trodden a troubled track to this point. Overlooked in his draft year, bedevilled by injuries and not given enough opportunities at Essendon, he has played exquisite football at Hawthorn. Essendon didn’t show enough enthusiasm to hang on to him. It cost the Hawks pick 61, and he delivered in spades last night. He’s one of so many smart acquisitions they got for peanuts and who have thrived under Mitchell. And he’s one of many extraordinary kicks in this Hawthorn side – Impey, Sicily, Scrimshaw and a host of others – who take risks, have good special awareness, and can slice a team open by foot.
It was Watson’s first final too. Mulleted, shorter than many of the Auskickers and possessed with not a scintilla of self-doubt, he ran rings around the Dogs all night. And Lloyd Meek imposed himself on his first final immediately, working over Tim English and galumphing forward with great effect.
The Hawks were by far the youngest and most inexperienced team of the eight finalists. But they don’t present as a group of young men encumbered by the past, or their birth certificate or a 97,000-strong crowd. Jack Ginnivan spent the Thursday night at the London Tavern just up the road. Most pundits weren’t quite sure whether to be outraged or amused by it. It depended on his output the following night. Whatever it was, it was quintessential Jack, and so was his scrambling sealer and chug chug celebration.
It was a dirty night for the Bulldogs. You can never quite be sure which version of them is going to turn up. There’s always a chance they’ll roll out one of those turgid performances where there’s no energy, no cohesion, and no resemblance to what they were the previous week. The dirty Dogs have their telltale ticks– the midfielders dragging their feet and their forwards missing easy shots.
But this night was all about Hawthorn. They’d be looking at their upcoming opponent, Port Adelaide, and licking their lips. It’s hardly been violin time for Hawks fans but it’s been a trying few years, particularly for those accustomed to a few flags a decade. They had the bulk of the crowd last night and celebrated their first finals win in nearly a decade with gusto. This footballing powerhouse is back, and this brash, young team seems capable of anything.
