What you didn’t know about Leigh Matthews

LEIGH Matthews has done everything in the game. He talks of being addicted to achieving, selfish, obsessed, unable to be fulfilled, and having a natural instinct to beat his grandchildren at chess.

Leigh Matthews with his grandson Ky Hasell, 8, having a kick in the park in Fitzroy Gardens in Melbourne.

LEIGH Matthews has done everything in the game, but acts like he hasn’t done a thing. He talks of being addicted to achieving, selfish, obsessed, unable to be fulfilled, his most exhilarating moment, and having a natural instinct to beat his grandchildren at chess.

Hamish: As far as I can tell, Woodstock has never ended for you — you’ve either been playing, coaching or talking about the sport you love since 1969.

LM: They say you’re fortunate when your hobby and your passions become your livelihood, and that’s what has happened in my life.

H: Do you feel fulfilled from your career?

LM: I’ve been really fortunate in terms of individual and team success in the sport, so that’s nice, but the thing is, and I use a quote from Michael Voss: “It’s like you’ve got an empty hole inside you that can’t be filled.” I’ve had a really terrific career, and can’t complain, but that doesn’t mean I feel fulfilled.

H: Do you think you could have ever been satisfied?

LM: No. The antidote for complacency is a short memory. If you had a good game, and the team played well, it was a nice feeling for a day or so, but it never lasted. It was gone quickly. So what you were always striving for was filling the empty hole, temporarily, on the next occasion that you could.

H: So effectively you were addicted to success, and no matter how much you achieved, you would have always wanted more?

LM: In a nutshell, yes. Addicted to trying to achieve, and winning, and then feeling good. It is a high, and you just crave these feelgoods. It’s like a natural drug. Unfortunately, as we know, people try and take artificial substances to try and get that feel-good high, but I got it from football. Sometimes. I mean, I was involved in 800 games of football and lost 300, so I did a fair bit of winning, but a lot of losing too.

H: So what is it that gives you the high? Is it victory? The adulation of supporters?

LM: I think in the deep part of your soul, the adulation is good, but the feel-good part of it comes from doing something great on the field. Particularly if it’s a close game, you get this high that I’ve never felt in any other part of my life. It’s an incredible buzz, but it’s not for a long period of time.

H: No time for skateboards or Facebook for you as a teenager. You played your first game, got married, became a father, played for Victoria, played in a premiership and won your first best and fairest, all before you were 20.

LM: I had a real breakout year in ’71 and it might be just coincidental, but I got married the year before, and became a father early that year. I’m sure it was a settling process in my life. Married, father and a premiership — a lot certainly happened in ’71.

H: Do you feel you prioritised your football over your family?

LM: Yes, my whole life was based around my sport. The modern footballers are still obsessed like that I’m sure, but they train during the day, and get home to see their kids and family. In the part-time era you worked during the day, went to training and got home around 8 o’clock at night. It was harder to give quality time to those around you, because you had such a drive for this unhealthy obsession.

Leigh Matthews chaired off in the 1985 losing Grand Final.

H: Did you miss a bit of your girls growing up as a result?

LM: I feel like I did, but I also think most parents think their kids grew up overnight. I’m sure both my girls, who are now in their early 40s, feel like they were loved, but that Dad was distant.

H: From what I have seen you are an exceptionally involved grandfather.

LM: I think all grandparents think they have a wonderful chance to have young kids around again. Our own kids grow up so quick that it’s great to have that youth around again.

H: What’s the proudest moment of your career?

LM: When you ask that question, I think of probably the best game I’ve played. Easter Monday, 1973, I think it was. I kicked 11 goals against Essendon at Waverley. I think that was probably my proudest moment in a way, which is a selfish thing, not a team thing. I’ve a great belief that individuals are basically very selfish creatures.

H: Were you a selfish footballer?

LM: Yep, but I was very lucky because my first coach, John Kennedy, taught us “you can be as selfish as you want, just don’t act it”. When I eventually coached I just assumed that all players were totally selfish. That they were only in it for what they could achieve. And that was a pretty good starting point to try and provide the win-wins you need, to get an individual to contribute to the team. So no, I was a very selfish player, very selfish.

H: You once said “the way I played football was like going to war. I wasn’t doing it for fun. If I wanted to have fun, I’d have played tennis”. Did you not enjoy playing?

LM: I enjoyed moments of achievement, but I didn’t just enjoy the fun of it. Stimulated yeah, challenged yeah, but fun? No. It was like war, and the opposition were the enemy.

H: Given how humble, considered and logical you are off the field, you must have been the greatest case of white line fever the game has seen.

LM: I wasn’t. I know there were some incidents that happened on the absolute spur of the moment when I inflicted violence on other players, that happened. But I didn’t. White line fever means you sort of go crazy ….

H: No I didn’t mean that, I mean in a completely respectful way. If my daughter walked in here and met you today, she wouldn’t believe you could be so ferocious.

LM: Well yeah that’s true. What I think of myself as a civilian is very different to what I was when I went over the white line. I transformed into a ruthless competitive animal in a way, and every now and then that bubbled into some violent acts. When I wrote my book a few years ago, as a 60-year-old looking back at my 20s, I thought that couldn’t be me, that had to be someone else. When I crossed that line, it was like the dark part of my soul.

H: Is there anything more depressing in footy than standing defeated on the MCG on Grand Final day?

LM: No, that’s the extreme. I’m very happy I never lost a close Grand Final though, that would be soul destroying. No matter how many you won, to lose a Grand Final on the siren would be crushing.

H: And from a victory standpoint, when is the most exhilarated you’ve ever been?

LM: Probably the 2002 Grand Final, as that was the one that went to the absolute wire. There was no countdown clock, we were nine points in front but the game was right in the balance.

I didn’t even hear the siren, I just saw the crowd on the other side stand up. That was probably the greatest exhilaration I ever felt. Relief, and exhilaration.

As Sheeds said, he only had eight hours of joy in his coaching career. The two hours after each Grand Final win.

Matthews wins three premierships in a row with the Brisbane Lions.

H: Not much of a return on investment — eight hours in a 20-year career.

LM: Not great, but those are the ultimate moments though. It doesn’t mean you don’t get highs and lows along the way. The thing with a coach, as soon as the siren goes, you either feel fantastic, or crap. Immediately after the game, you have to go down to the rooms and wind up the game, and start next week’s preparation. When you lose the Grand Final, there is some relief in that you don’t have to do that straight away.

H: I heard Ross Lyon say recently “coaching sends grown men to places they should never have to go to”. Does that resonate?

LM: It does — absolutely — but you do have to remember that it is only a game. Sometimes that’s the only consolation. In terms of dark places it sends you, I know my personality profile, I survive best by just withdrawing into myself. For that first half day after a loss, people would know to let me just be by myself. That’s the great football cycle.

H: Some of the senior coaches were surveyed last year and the words that kept coming up were depressed, sleep-deprived, anxious and lonely. Doesn’t sound too healthy?

LM: You could argue that’s part of it; you’re stressed because you’re responsible.

H: Do you feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility?

LM: Absolutely, but logic says you can’t be totally responsible, but everyone thinks I am, therefore, I accept that I am. Even though you’re not, no coach ever has been.

The coach is generally the figurehead of the team, so if the team is going well he’s a genius, if not he’s a dud. It’s a bit different these days because there are coaching staff, so there is delegation.

But coaches have always been control freaks. The loss of control is a horrible feeling. I used to hate the five minutes before the start of a match because at that point it’s all out of my control and there is just waiting.

Once the game starts, you get a little bit of control back. But that complete loss of control — it’s very unnerving.

H: Are you feeling responsible to the fans?

LM: I never worried about what the external people were thinking. I was only worried about what I was thinking. It might be that selfish thing again — I was trying to make the team successful, but I was really trying to make the team successful for me, not for the fans.

H: The Brisbane move was an eye-opener, even to you. How was the reception?

LM: Yeah, well I moved to Brisbane and the property steward picked me up in the “Bear-Mobile”, which was the van they carted the equipment around in. Didn’t make me think many great things. Thereafter, no one was ever picked up in the Bear-Mobile.

Grand Final joy in 2003 with captain Michael Voss.

H: Life, and football, have a habit of keeping us grounded. Did Peter Crimmins’ passing three days after the 1976 Grand Final affect you as much as anything during your career.

LM: I think Darren Millane did more so. With Crimmo, we knew for some months, that he was in a bad way. Darren’s death came much more out of the blue, of course. The aftermath was just so gigantic — there were about 1200 death notices in the Herald Sun.

This young, vibrant 25-year-old who lost his life. Unfortunately many others lose their lives in similar circumstances, but he was such a public figure. You can’t speak of football and death in similar parameters, but it would have been terrible to think that you had to play the following week; I don’t know that you could have.

At least in terms of the job at Collingwood, we had six months to sort of recover from the shock and loss. The main loss is, of course, for family and immediate friends.

H: How hard was playing in your last year?

LM: I always say to players, who are thinking of playing their last year, it’s going to be a crap year. Hirdy, I think retired after winning a club championship, but most people retire because physically or mentally, they can’t do it anymore. Anyone that has enjoyed their last year would be a rare person I would think. It’s a frustrating time and very tough on your mind.

H: If you were AFL CEO for a day, what would be on the top of your ‘to do’ list?

LM: I think the AFL has made a mistake in allowing the explosion of football department spending. The draft and the salary cap have been useful, but when you have a cap on the players but not the coaches that’s where the rich clubs spend their money. It’s like an arms race. The AFL has started to tackle that in the last year or two, but the genie’s out of the bottle. That’s football’s greatest problem.

H: You’ve always been very good with your advice. Would you continue to tell players not to have unprotected sex in January?

LM: Yes, seems very logical to me, I don’t know why you’re laughing about it! I think it’s the most logical thing to say — try not to have your wife going into labour in September. All that means is be careful in January, simple advice. Brad Scott thought I was joking but I wasn’t.

H: The nickname Lethal — was that for your ability around the goals, aggressive nature or a combination?

LM: A combination I think — but probably the nature. Mum never liked it.

H: Did she watch you play?

LM: No, she was one of those mums that would come and watch you play high school footy, when no one else was there but her. She watched me play reserves at Hawthorn, but once I started playing seniors, she got too nervous and couldn’t go. My dad would have gone to almost every game.

Matthews with Collingwood captain Tony Shaw in 1990.

H: Is the story true about yourself and Justin Leppitsch in the lift?

LM: Allan Jeans used to talk about the myths and images of football — and that the truth is in very short supply.

H: And in this case?

LM: It was actually true. It was about 8 o’clock after we’d won our third Grand Final, and about eight Crown Lagers had been consumed, so we were all very happy. We were on the way up to the lift and Leppa being cheeky said “What would you be without us, Leigh?” and all I said was “All I’d be is the Player of the Century!”

H: If you and Chuck Norris played a game of pool, who do you think would win?

LM: Ha. I’ll give you another analogy — the thing I have to fight is when I’m playing games with the grandkids. I have to fight the temptation to win. I still want to win. I just have to fight that urge, even playing a game of chess, anything. The point is, I have a natural instinct, this will, to win against my grandkids, and I hate it.

H: You have two daughters. If one came home and said to you that she was engaged to one of the players who you had coached, who would you hope it was?

LM: That’s an unfair question. What you should ask is who is the first person that pops into your mind? And that’s Simon Black. Just an unbelievably wonderful young bloke.

H: Agreed. Thanks for your time, and everything you’ve given the game.

LM: Thanks Hamish, fun to talk about it again. Hope the tape worked, I did one of these with Pat Rafter once and when I got back to the office I couldn’t find the tape!

Originally published as What you didn’t know about Leigh Matthews