After a few days of trade period, a fortnight of Trade Radio, 11 months of trade speculation, and a few thousand variations of the phrase “it’s an interesting one”, I’d reached the point where I genuinely believed that I was about to be traded to Essendon. My internal monologue thrummed with trade-speak – the hedging, padding, euphemistic language that’s used to buy time and fill space. Even when walking the dog or purchasing a hammer, I was exercising my options, in good dialogue and monitoring the situation.
For a few years, trade period was like that old Del Amriti song Nothing Ever Happens. But this year there were captains, club champions, Coleman and Norm Smith medallists up for grabs. Still, very little of interest was confirmed until the final 15 minutes. It was like one of those Olympic track cycling races where everyone was sizing one another up, biding their time, looking over their shoulder and working their angles, before one mad, final flurry.
