If you sit close enough to the fence at Richmond games, you’ll hear him. On the interchange bench, he’ll scream at the runner; “Get me on!” When he calls for the ball, you’ll hear the slap of his hands; “Here!” Mostly it’s an unintelligible but unarguable demand. He roars, they give, and then he strikes.
Off the field however, we’ve never really heard much from Dustin Martin. He’s never let us in. In Konrad Marshall’s books chronicling Richmond’s premierships, he was a mostly silent presence. Those who love him – his family, his junior coaches, his mentors and his teammates – always mention his shyness. In interviews, the impression has always been of a man looking for exits.
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