Nick Riewoldt an emotional, match-winning, great of the game, writes Mark Robinson

IT WAS the day Nick Riewoldt knew his career was over. Mark Robinson takes you behind the scenes as one of the game’s greats announces his retirement.

St Kilda star Nick Riewoldt announces his retirement.

IT was on the day of the Sydney game two weeks ago when Nick Riewoldt knew his career was over.

Fastidious in his preparation, Riewoldt went to his hotel room at the Pullman at 2pm, as he does at every interstate game, to have his customary hours’ sleep.

But sleep didn’t come.

Instead, Riewoldt stared at the ceiling and thought about what he would say at his retirement speech.

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“It was a kind of penny-drop moment,” he told the Herald Sun.

He played that night, only average in an average St Kilda performance, and returned to Melbourne the next day.

“I was thinking I’d just played my final interstate game.”

On the Tuesday at training he spoke to coach Alan Richardson and they organised catch-up at Riewoldt’s house the same night.

Nick Riewoldt with his wife Catherine, and sons James and Will.

“We had the conversation and that was it,” Riewoldt said. “It was over.”

It became official on Monday when Riewoldt announced his retirement after 17 seasons, 330-odd games, and a mountain of awards and platitudes.

He’s been an intriguing player and competitor, Riewoldt.

Saints fans simply love him.

After a period of mediocrity and confusion after the Malcolm Blight debacle, the arrival of Riewoldt at the end of 2000 gave Saints fans hope and belief.

Not one player can transform a footy team, but in Riewoldt they had a player who would become superstar/leader/match-winner and who never left an ounce of effort on the field.

It’s too simplistic, almost disrespectful to say Riewoldt beat his opponents because he had a bigger tank.

Riewoldt had talent. He had super hands. He had drive. Was agile, fit and good below his knees. He had pride in himself and the jumper. He had a rich reservoir of courage. And he would compete for every ball possible.

How can we forget that mark against the Swans, running headlong into a pack and surging over teammate Stephen Milne. He’s taken another 2921 grabs, often thrusting those long arms so high above the pack.

He could be a beautiful player.

Riewoldt the person off the field was stark in contrast to Riewoldt the competitor on it.

On the field, he had what the Gen Whatevers call a resting bitch face. Sometimes, it seemed football was a job more than a passion to Riewoldt. But that was his DNA. Compete and compete again. No time to rest. Let’s ball up and go again. At times, he couldn’t hide the pain and other times, it seemed he couldn’t overly enjoy the good moments.

Off the field, Riewoldt is charming, respectful and funny in his earnest way. One way to discern between superstar players is to see how they act with regular punters. Riewoldt always asks: How are you going? It means a hell of a lot.

Asked about the contrast of characters, Riewoldt said: “It’s hard to sit here and pontificate about yourself, but throughout my entire career all I know is I’ve invested really strongly in (football) and I feel like when you put yourself out there and take that emotional risk and invest so heavily in being as good as you can possibly be and you’ve done that work, you want then to be able to capitalise on that.

“That’s why I think at times that’s what you’ve seen on the football field.

“That played a role in this decision taking as long as it did, from my point of view, that desire to fight and scrap and just get every last inch out of myself.’’

Nick Riewoldt watches son James kick the football after he announced his retirement.

That focus on the field helped create his signature look — there’s that resting bitch face again — and probably not all opposition fans liked what they saw.

Maybe it the Aryan-type look of him: Blonde. Tall. Athletic. Single-minded. Maybe it was because he vented his frustration at teammates for their mistakes, when he had a couple of flaws himself, namely his goalkicking.

The haters would reckon he was a sook.

He is complex soul Riewoldt because he was emotional as well as manic.

When Grant Thomas was sacked at the end of 2006, Riewoldt could be seen at Thomas’s house about midnight, crying on the shoulder of his former coach. That wasn’t sooking, that was a deep-seated care for the man who lost his job.

He cried at the Gabba after busting his shoulder and being physically attacked by the Lions gang.

He cried after losing the Grand Final in 2010.

Does it matter that he’s emotional? Of course not.

Nick Riewoldt and Lenny Hayes after losing the 2010 Grand Final.

If opposition fans found Riewoldt hard to warm to for so many years, his efforts to raise money for Maddie’s Vision in honour of his sister, should’ve corrected that opinion.

Maddie was proud of her brother when she was alive and if only she could know what he and the family have done since she passed. She would be damned prouder.

Those close to Riewoldt would know how much losing Maddie and how much starting a family helped him realise the importance of football against the reality of life. From afar, it seemed to soften him as a person. Not soften him as a competitor, mind you.

The reality is Riewoldt was a great player for a long time. He wasn’t as good as Wayne Carey, didn’t win flags like Jonathan Brown, didn’t play rough ‘n’ tumble like Dermott Brereton and couldn’t dance like Lance Franklin.

No, Riewoldt was different again.

His star might not have shone brighter, but it shone longer than the others and in front of family, friends and teammates, he was a contented man.

“Thank you all for coming ...,” he started and his smile lit up the room.