Recently, as I picked up my morning coffee on the way into the football club, I realised that before I was rookied by the Bulldogs ‘The West’ didn’t really mean that much to me.
But that has changed. On my first day at the club I met Rohan Smith. Within a month I had met John Shultz, and soon after that I shook Charlie Sutton’s hand for the one and only time.
Even though I was just a skinny kid from St Kilda, these true Sons of The West cared enough to make me feel special about crossing the bridge and joining their community.
Now, my life is almost completely Footscray-centric. I live, work and study entirely within the 3011 postcode.
There are lots of great coffee places in the west, but I get mine at Sims supermarket on Barkly Street, partly because the coffee’s good, but mostly because the people are great.
Joe is one of my favourites.
I don’t know much more about Joe than his appearance: about 5-foot 10 inches tall, solid build with a few tatts – and that he seems to go to the supermarket at the same time as me at least once a week. Our conversations usually run a similar course. We review last week’s game, I predict we’ll win the next one, and he asks me when I’m getting back into the team.
He usually finishes by telling me that Brad Johnson is his all-time favourite player, but that “this Dahlhaus kid goes alright!”
I’ve realised that even though Joe hasn’t played 300 games, won a Brownlow or captained a premiership side, he’s just as much a Son of The West as Rohan, John and Charlie.
Like them, Joe cares about his community, and he makes me feel good about being part of it. Maybe it isn’t extraordinary acts that make a true Son of The West; maybe its extraordinary people. People like Joe.
