‘Ronald Dale, I love you’: Norm Smith’s son, Peter, on the great Ron Barassi
Peter Smith had a lifetime box-seat to two AFL legends – one was his dad, Norm, and the other a great mate he describes as “the brother he never had”.
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Peter Smith, an only child, was four when Ron, also an only child, came to live in his Pascoe Vale home.
The next few years were not always harmonious.
Once, when Ron launched a mighty kick in the street, the football twisted the power lines, causing houses to black out, and the smaller kids to scatter.
Ron slept in a single bed in a narrow bungalow out the back.
Young Peter may have thrown stones on its roof to annoy him.
He may have called Ron names for his Italian heritage.
As Smith remembers it, seven decades later, Ron, who was almost 12 years older, was forever chasing him to deliver a “non fair dinkum” clip over the ear.
There were the usual home life wranglings between the pair, and some not so usual.
Peter flirted with wearing the number of player Bob Johnson on the back of his new Melbourne Demons jumper.
Until Ron, in disgust, threw the jumper at him.
Soon enough, Peter changed to number 31, the number of Ron, as in Barassi, who would star in five premierships by the age of 25.
Peter Smith would grow up, play against Ron as a Melbourne player after Barassi moved to Carlton, then under him when Smith, too, went to the Blues.
Smith was the son of Norm, who with Barassi is among the most celebrated figures in football.
He would be Barassi’s runner at two clubs (once, Barassi called him a “f**king idiot” in front of a few thousand spectators), and an employee for six years when Barassi owned an office furniture business.
Smith, now 76, has had a lifetime box-seat to two of the AFL’s biggest ever stars.
One was his Dad.
The other he calls his brother.
Norm Smith, as a coach, always said he had to be harder on Barassi (as well as his own son) because he didn’t want to be accused of favouring them.
He once chided a young Barassi for 30 minutes in the car because he feared that Barassi thought he was better than others.
As Barassi’s wife, Cherryl, has often told Smith: “You can blame your father for Ron turning out the way he did.”
There was little money but much love in that little house in Shedden St, where Barassi bunked down for about five years.
In keeping with the era, this love was not actually expressed.
“I think Norm loved Ron, but back then you didn’t say that,” Smith says.
“And I think Ron knew how I felt about him without me telling him.”
Smith was one of the 17 mourners who attended Barassi’s private funeral in Malvern on the Friday after his grand final week death.
It was a simple service, without fuss, a sad farewell in contrast to the very public celebration, steeped in football, set for the MCG this Friday.
Smith’s memories serve as snapshots of the off-camera charms of a very public figure.
There are all the walks taken together over the decades.
And the table tennis matches at Barassi’s then Heathmont home – until recently, Smith would still stir up Barassi by falsely claiming victory in most of them.
And all the lunches – Barassi loved lunch, even when Smith occasionally managed to sneak to the counter and pay before Barassi could.
Barassi was a tough man who was scared of hospitals.
He didn’t visit Norm Smith in Smith’s dying days in 1973 – he just couldn’t.
Barassi was uber competitive, even with backgammon games.
He had a passionate temper, all right.
Yet from childhood to old age, Smith was always thrown by Barassi’s knack for moving past heated words as though they had never been exchanged.
Barassi was always kind to strangers, even when they wanted too much of his time.
Women stopped to thank him after Barassi intervened in a St Kilda assault of a woman in 2009.
Smith thrives on the resilience of his generation.
But he’s hobbling about after numerous surgeries on his hip.
A father of three, he regularly visits his son’s grave in the Fawkner cemetery.
He is still numbed by the unexpected death of his wife Tina at home during the pandemic.
Then Dora the dog died in his arms.
Then there was the loss of Barassi, who had always explained to him that he had taught Smith everything Smith knew.
He recalls how Barassi, not long before his death at 87, greeted Smith with a trademark fist, then kissed his forehead.
And how each mourner at the private funeral stood to farewell their friend and loved one.
“You were the brother I never had,” Smith said.
“Ronald Dale, I love you and I will miss you.”
Smith reads this out at the big table in his Ocean Grove home.
Then he swears under his breath.
“It still gets me,” he says, dabbing at the tears on his cheeks.
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