In 1995, the previously undefeated Carlton hit a flat spot, dropping games to the bottom two sides. At training on Monday, captain Stephen Kernahan stopped the group mid lap and growled in that gravelly gutted voice of his – “we’re not losing another fucking game!” They completed their lap, beat Hawthorn by 102 points that weekend, won their next 16 games, and coasted to the Premiership. They were one of the great teams, a team that bridged the semi and fully professional eras, a team that pretty much coached itself, a team whipped back into shape with six guttural words.
That wouldn’t cut it as man management these days. In 2022, football clubs stress the importance of culture, of connection, of roles, of safe environments, of talking through your problems. Melbourne would have done a lot of that this week. In the space of a fortnight, they’ve had two losses, injuries, illnesses, criticism of low crowds, leaked text messages, drunken sledges, haymakers, infected hands, community service penalties, an integrity department investigation and a conga line of question marks. What the fuck, as Steve Kernahan would no doubt ask, is going on here?
