Richmond grand final victory 2017: Roar emotion from the fans weeping in the stands


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It started just after three-quarter time. Nothing major at first, just a few damp eyes.


When Jack Riewoldt, the spearhead, booted the first goal of the last quarter, that’s when they knew. The tears began to stream down faces lined with years of heartache.


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Normally reserved with the media, Richmond Tigers players let it all out after winning the AFL grand final.


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Tigers express joy; in expletives


Normally reserved with the media, Richmond Tigers players let it all out after winning the AFL grand final.


By the time Dusty kicked the final goal – it had to be Dusty – the dam wall was gone. Not just broken, absolutely blown to pieces.They were in raptures in the back of the Punt Road end, a place where the yellow-and-black faith runs stronger than anywhere.


It’s tough as teak in the standing room area, ‘Tiger tuff’ as the banner goes. People who are not prone to weeping unless absolutely necessary.


It is here, under the brutalist concrete of the Great Southern Stand, where they have gathered every second week for the past 37 long years. That’s how long it’s been since the last one, back in a time when Richmond fans could almost count the number of recent premierships on two hands.


It can’t have been as sweet as this. That’s what a drought does, makes you think the rain will never come. Then when it does, at the time you least expect it, you stare up at the sky in wonder.


The rainmaker was the man in number four. The one with the tattoos. “Strong and bold” is their catchcry and he is the strongest and boldest of them all.


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Unstoppable again, he claimed the footy trifecta: a Brownlow, a Norm Smith, and a premiership medal in the one year.


There won’t be enough beer in Richmond, a place not short on pubs, to toast him.


Victoria’s top cop was said to be rethinking his decision to leave open Melbourne’s most important thoroughfare, Punt Road. He may not have any choice now.


In phalanxes, they marched to the MCG through the old suburb of Richmond. Past the terrace houses and workers cottages, beyond the high-rise apartment developments and old factories.


They crossed Punt Road, so named as it used to be where boats would ferry people across the Yarra. After the game, they carried their dreams, now realised, back to the oval that adjoins that motorway for a party that will stretch on for days.


When the siren finally came, the roar bounced around the stands until it built into a crescendo of thunder.


As it sank in at the back of the Southern Stand, long suffering fans hugged each other and called fellow travellers who had the misfortune not to be there.


The reactions told the tale. They grabbed each other and embraced like long-lost friends. They threw their arms in the air to relish in the glory. They held their faces in their hands, laughing like only premiership winners laugh. 


One or two just walked away, shaking their heads with a little smile on their face like they couldn’t quite believe it. But yes, it had happened.


Then came the club song, a tune so catchy even their worst enemies hum it under the breath. It boomed out from the PA but you could barely hear it among the faithful. They had been belting it out long before the verdict was official, full-throated and proud until they could sing no more.


Finally, it was Tiger time.

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