After the long silence, the photoshoot, the comparison with every half decent footballer of the 21st century, the dozen boys christened Dustin, the pop-up barbers and the Japanese drum ensemble, Dustin Martin jogged to the Punt Road end and got down to business. His opening goal was as inevitable as it was familiar – the steps short, the spine straight, the nostrils flared, the kick straighter than Lyle Shelton.
Martin has always been one of those athletes who has tempted footy writers and pundits towards zoomorphism. He’s been compared to a lion, a shark, a crocodile, a rhino and a bull. During the week Sam Mitchell told his young players not to be swallowed up by the occasion, by the crowd, by the man. It was Martin’s event, he told them, but it was Hawthorn’s time.
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