Coaching can take grown men to dark places. Justin Longmuir was in that place late on Saturday afternoon after the AFL grand final. During the presentation, he began to topple over, like someone suffering abdominal pain or warming up for a pilates class. In reality, it was probably a body going into shock. We shouldn’t use words like “grief” when we talk about losing a game of football. What happened to Fremantle and Longmuir was akin to someone running over the family pet. Longmuir, a farmer, would scoff at such a comparison. But the hardest thing for anyone associated with Fremantle is finding the right measure of hurt – do you hide under the doona for a week, do you skip the country, do you employ a bit of gallows humour, or do you take pride in how well they played? There is no precedent or playbook for how to respond to a loss like that.
Chris Fagan was in a very different place. At first, he was utterly wrung out. Those around him seemed conscious of giving him space. It took him several minutes to gather himself, to actually enjoy himself. Within half an hour he had reverted to type – deflecting all praise, commending the opposition, reminding his players to be humble.
And he was leaving breadcrumbs. This was a man who had almost certainly made up his mind to call it a day as senior coach. For any of the 100,000 people present at the MCG, the half hour after the grand final was not a time to be making rash life decisions. But Fagan had made his decision.
“There’s a little bit inside of me who’d rather walk away when the team’s on top,” he said. “It’s sort of the dream way to finish.”
The temptation to stick around for another year was obvious. If the Lions win again in 2027, they’ll join the Collingwood side of the Depression era as the only VFL/AFL club to win four premierships in a row. When Leigh Matthews’ team set after that honour in 2004, they were limping to the line. They were old and banged up. Their opponents Port Adelaide were still smarting after several poor Septembers.
This Brisbane side is perfectly placed to contend for years to come. They’re blessed with talented young footballers that we’ve barely seen yet. And they’re a team that needs a challenge, a hook to get through the winter grind. With the greatest respect to the great Collingwood team of a century ago, it’s slightly harder to win four in a row these days. There’s six more clubs for a start and the competition is ostensibly designed to bring down the best.
But Fagan was cooked. He hinted at stepping aside after the 2024 premiership, and again the following year. The closest he came was probably halfway through the 2024 season, when the team was out of the eight, when his health was in decline, and when the Hawthorn racism allegations still hung heavily. “The Hawthorn thing,” he called it.
Fagan is in many ways the most unlikely multiple-premiership-winning coach we’ve seen. He hadn’t played VFL or AFL football, though he’d been a very good player in Tasmania. At Hawthorn, he’d been the yin to Alastair Clarkson’s yang. He was the one who pulled him into line, who tapped him on the shoulder when he was out of control in the box. But the task before him at Brisbane seemed beyond his capabilities. For years, it had been a place to get out of as quickly as possible. They didn’t just need an injection of talent. They needed pastoral care.
He was patient, forgiving of mistakes, and always realistic about where they sat. Even when they spiked, they were an infuriating team at times, and he could be a cranky coach. They were loaded with talent but prone to self-immolation. They lost several close finals because of tardy goalkicking. For years, they struggled to work the locks at the MCG.
But they were always on an upward trajectory. Indeed, the chart of their progress since he arrived is almost unprecedented. From wooden spoon, to quick spike, to close cutthroat finals losses, to grand final heartbreak, to the three-peat. All through that, Fagan didn’t look and sound like other coaches. He wasn’t like Chris Scott or Luke Beveridge, trying to manipulate a game by shifting magnets. He wasn’t like Ross Lyon, with full control of the club. He didn’t change how the game was played like Clarkson or Damien Hardwick. But his ability to connect with, believe in, push back on and get the best out of players 45 years his junior was remarkable. Don’t be fooled by the “bewildered uncle” routine either. There was a hard side to Fagan, an obsessive side, a brutal side when it was warranted. This was a group that needed a kick up the backside every now and then. There was a little of bit of Clarkson in him right to the end.
Fagan always said he suffered from impostor syndrome, even after he won his first premiership. He isn’t talking like that any more. He’s talking like a man who has done it all, who has built from scratch one of the greatest football teams we’ve ever seen, and who steps aside with nothing more to prove. The one-word question on everyone’s lips following the grand final was “HOW?” Five days on, and 10 years since he was appointed, there’s another question – how the hell can anyone top that?
