JOCK: By God it won’t. If you’re looking for a scrap, Rowe, you won’t find me shirking the issue. What role have you been taking in this, Laurie? Have you been stirring the lads?

DANNY: No he hasn’t.

LAURIE: They’ll be out on the field tomorrow no matter what happens tonight.

JOCK: My God, I never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d hear the word ’strike’ uttered in this room. Look at those pictures on the wall, Danny. Cheeta Ryan, the greatest centreman of all time, Warren Oates, only five foot seven but with a heart as big as a pumpkin. Mike Lenehan, Terry Dunstan, Sandy Forbes. Great names from a great club and you’ve got the honour of the tradition they created resting right there in your hands.

DANNY: Yes, and the shit from the present administration right up our nostrils.

JOCK: Don’t get too cocky, Rowe. You’re not indispensable.

TED: Just remember that any player found guilty of a gross misdemeanour can lose every cent of his provident fund.

DANNY: Bullshit.

TED: That’s true, isn’t it, Gerry?

GERRY: No. Look can we—(get back to the)

JOCK: Do you know what I want to do? I want to turn all those photographs around so they don’t have to look down on this shameful scene. How would Harry Payne feel if he knew that the word ‘strike’ was being bandied around in this hallowed room. Just tell me that. How would he feel? The man who kicked three superhuman goals in the dying minutes of the ’23 grand final and won us the flag. He’d think it’d all been for nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s turning in his grave right now.

DANNY: He isn’t even dead.

JOCK: Harry? I went to his funeral last year.

GERRY: That was Harry Treloar.

JOCK: Shit yeah. There’s so many of ’em dropping off I get confused, but it doesn’t alter my argument. Dead or alive, what’s happened here today is an insult to their memories. Those fellas up there on that wall are worth ten of your modern bloody player. All we hear from today’s lot is whinges. About the administration, about money, about every bloody thing. In my day the greatest honour a man could ever have was to pull a purple and gold guernsey over his head. Those men up there didn’t think about money. They got two and six a match during the Depression and would have played for nothing.

DANNY: Jesus, Jock.

JOCK: Well maybe not two and six, but not very much more and they would have played for nothing.

DANNY: Well they were stupid. If I’m out there risking a fractured skull or a ruptured spleen for the amusement of a pack of overweight drunks in the grandstand bar then I want to get paid for it.

TED: That’s what you think of—