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With your national competition and a selection policy based on the randomness of talent instead of the randomness of maternity wards, it’s unlikely that Fremantle will ever see a player as Fremantle as Shaun McManus again. Growing up he would have wanted nothing more than to play footy for East Fremantle. To play in a Derby, kick a few goals and belt someone from South Fremantle, or vice versa, would have been the ultimate. He would have bought pies at Culley’s, realised his mistake and thrown them in the bin around the corner, gone to the trots at Richmond Raceway and backed the horse his relatives weren’t pulling up, swum at Port Beach just outside the flags where there were less people, and avoided heading north of the river, except for the occasional overseas trip to North Fremantle.
He’s not just a link back to the early years of the Dockers, or the pre-AFL passion. He’s a link back to the birth of the state. The notion that a man can stand up, without fear of upsetting brands or markets or ticket holders and say – I'm from Fremantle and I hate you because you're not.
You see, back in the day, when Perth was just a patch of dirt by a river infested with glorified black ducks, the knobs in charge decided they'd put all the convicts on the other side of the river, right near the quickest and easiest escape route. Not only that, they thought it would be a good idea to let the convicts build their own gaol. A few years and a lot of escapes later, those who decided not to bugger off through the underground tunnels were set free, where it was expected that they'd make their way north and join the rest of the colony, who at that point were putting together a proposal to bring the colony closer to the river foreshore (it was third of such proposals in the few years they'd lived there...and it never got up).
Instead, they walked out on the Point Walter sand bank (then known as Point Glass Eyed Jim) gave Governor Stirling a big ‘Up Yours’, went back and set about getting their revenge on the establishment – by living well.
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There's no doubt that that same convict blood flows through the veins of Shaun McManus (probably not from the 1800's but he’s a Miller, chances are someone's seen the inside of a jail). He’s never been afraid to point to the line in the sand (somewhere in the middle of Leighton Beach) and want nothing to do with anyone who stood on the other side of it (and the obviously the Protestants on his side).
It’s a system which has worked for well over a hundred years. But then something happened.
That dream was taken away from young Shaun and thousands like him. A group of cold hearted, money hungry nineteen eighties businessmen got together and saw a dollar and a glimpse of glory in buying a sporting franchise. They stole all Macca's heroes out from under him, put them in a canary yellow jumper, put a grumpy Victorian in charge of them and corrupted them down to the depths of their souls. His heart would have been broken.
But then along came a freewheeling, free thinking, saviour with a heart of gold. His name was David Hatt and he set about returning hope to youngsters like Shaun by giving them a new dream. A dream of joining a new club from Fremantle, playing in front of the entire country, kicking a few goals and belting as many Eagles as you could without catching hepatitis.
Sometimes a person must surrender to a higher calling, and with no dream of playing against South, bashing a few blokes and kicking a goal, or vice versa, he was called up to pull on the Purple of the Fremantle Dockers and use his God given powers to fight the forces of pure, unadulterated evil.
Every time Shaun McManus has set foot on the Derby stage, there’s been no doubt about how much he wanted to destroy the bastards from across the river. To hurt them, to hurt their supporters and to make media dignitaries squirm their way out of the pockets of West Coast Eagles Inc.
Sure, it didn’t work out for the first few years, but his infamous tenacity saw him battle on. He was there when the Dockers finally put them in their place, he was there when Dale Kickett made sure that place was a hospital bed and he’s been there as good has finally triumphed over evil, when the Eagles have had their most success Fremantle but have barely been able to kick a goal against their cross rivers betters.
Chances are that once again, Fremantle will dominate all day on Sunday and cruise through to a crushing victory against the Eagles, the crowd will rise every time Shaun McManus gets the ball, he'll receive a hero’s welcome and a heroes farewell as he's carried from the ground to thunderous applause and a great day will be had by all – but that's just not good enough.
Back in the 90's a young Victorian kid by the name of Jess Sinclair arrived at the club. Con Regan took him under his wing and by the time Jess made it out for his first Derby, he knew the score. Despite having a body with the structural fortitude of a Kinder Surprise toy, Jess flung himself at the biggest, toughest bloke the Eagles could muster. Jess spent the next 6 months in traction recovering but he did it with a smile on his face because he knew that Johnny Worsfold had a nasty egg shaped bruise on his head, and he was the man who'd put it there.
But the club has let its self down in recent years. They've stopped fuelling the hatred in players who don't any better. There's still work to be done by Macca, a baton to be passed. He has lessons still to teach and examples still to set. There are kids going into the Derby this week who think focussing on the ball, working till their guts explode and using their perfected skills is enough to get through such a game.
There are blokes running out there who think being available to play next week is something to hang their hat on, rather than a humiliating sign that as many of the other mob left the ground conscious as they did.
There are players who will step onto Subiaco Oval on Sunday thinking it's just a game for 4 points. It's not a game for 4 points, it's a battle against the forces of evil. There can be no pity shown for the opposition, no duty of care, no mind for the welfare of others. The head is not sacrosanct this weekend, it's a target.
We've tried shunning them, we've tried ridiculing them, the AFL has even tried putting them through a mafia style investigation and yet still they continue peddling their propaganda, corrupting the young and old with no sense of humanity. There are too few Dockers who are prepared to go a Jess Sinclair this week and do as much damage to the opposition as they can, just because they can. Shaun McManus has one last chance to show them how it’s done.
If an Eagle leaves the ground on his own two feet (unless he's missing one of his other limbs) it's loss for Fremantle. If an Eagle is carried from the ground without leaving litres of his own blood on the soaking into the Subiaco turf, Shaun McManus's career has all been for nothing. It's time for him to finish the job, pass on what he’s learnt and fight the good fight – because you don't count the dead when God's on your side.
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An era will come to an end on Sunday. Shaun McManus, the last of the first Dockers will go around one last time before stepping into the shadows of retirement. You won't see a player like Shaun McManus again. Sure, there will be blokes with stupid hair, players who see the boundary line as more of a loose guideline than a fixed state, players with hearts comparable to Phar Laps and instincts for getting the ball that make you question the notion that we evolved from monkeys and not kelpies. You'll see all those attributes which your outsiders will rave about and criticise him for but Macca's greatest appeal to your rank and file Fremantle supporter is that he's a living link to a time gone by us.
