A young Anthony Madigan.



Anthony Madigan is a lifelong Port Adelaide supporter. Thanks to Anthony for allowing the club to publish this article. 


THE tears I’ve cried since 1962 have been evenly shared between family and the Port Adelaide Football Club.

I started barracking for the Magpies when I was nine. My sister Sharon kept Port scrapbooks and I copied her. I cut out photos from The News including headshots of Jack Cahill from his used-car ads and stuck them in my book with Clag. On Fridays I rode to the newsagent to buy The Football Times; they often ran out, ruining my weekend. I got called a wharfie at school. And later, a feral.

My brother Michael handed down his prison-bar jumper to me. I listened to Port matches on the ABC with my dog Sam in the backyard of our cream-brick home in Port Pirie. Whenever the Magpies made a comeback, I would rush inside the kitchen where Mum was making chicken curry and tell her, “They’ve kicked another one.” She always smiled.

I watched the fuzzy replay on TV with Grandma, a Sturt fan, and then sat in the gutter under the street light with Damien Sandery and the Sayners. Damien’s dad Fred took us to Alberton, which was just like the ‘Snake Pit’ at the Federal Hotel. Fred smoked Winfields all the way there and all the way home.

Mum took me to Adelaide in the Leyland P76 to watch the 1976 Grand Final between Port and Sturt. We had to go to John Martin’s first, wandering through racks of bras and frocks. We got to Footy Park late; there were 66,987 people there. The red coats pushed us over the fence into the crowd. We got abused. We lost. It was quiet on the way home, a KFC thrift box a small comfort. My sister Angela had stuck Sturt posters on my bedroom door and walls.

I cried myself to sleep.

I was back at Footy Park 12 months later to see Port beat Glenelg. Russell Ebert lifted the Thomas Seymour Hill Cup and said, “It’s taken us a bloody long time, but by geez it’s worth it.” They played The Carnival Is Over by The Seekers.

One day in 1988 I heard on the radio that Mark Williams’ brother, Anthony, died in an accident. On my 15th birthday Angela gave me a card “from Russell Ebert”. It was the best thing I ever had. It was fake. I got a footy signed by Russell for my 21st.

I moved to Adelaide in 1993. Didn’t want to go; knew I had to. It opened up a new world. I toasted countless Magpies flags at The Lakes Resort Hotel. I was at the Power launch at the Entertainment Centre in 1996. I watched the first Showdown in our Edwardstown home and had a better time than Christmas Day. I worked for Hickinbotham and we paid Matthew Primus $160 to visit display homes. When I left, Alan Hickinbotham gave me a signed Port jumper. Michelangelo Rucci wrote a book called Dynasty and my friend Alison got Fos and Von Williams to sign a copy. Through Brett, my brother-in-law, I got to know Greg Quinn, Bob’s son, and family. I worked with Ashleigh Ebert – Craig’s daughter and Russell’s niece. I met Russell at an interview for a book Michael and I wrote called Bush Legends. There’s only one shedful left.

I was at the MCG in 2004 when the Power beat the great Brisbane in the Grand Final. I got tingles down my spine when Norm Smith Medallist Byron Pickett bounced the ball down the ground. The Aboriginal boys turned it on. When I got home I climbed the roof and stuck a Port flag to the finial. I still use my Grand Final ticket as a bookmark.

Jess was born. She got a Sherrin and a Port guernsey.

I was back at the G in 2007 when Geelong beat us by 119 points – a record loss for a Grand Final. Cats fans ridiculed us at The Cricketers Arms. My mate Daryl and I hardly said a word on the long drive home to Adelaide.

Jack was born. He got a Sherrin and a Port guernsey.

One Saturday night in 2012 I sat in the rain among the tarps in the outer with 13,000 others at the arse-end of the world. No money. No fans. No leadership. No hope. The club I’d followed since I was knee-high to Tim Ginever was dead.

Driving through Uraidla one Monday morning I heard the news that a Port player had been killed in Las Vegas. It was John McCarthy, 22. I drove to Alberton to see the shrine and sat in the Robert B. Quinn Grandstand and stared at the ‘RIP’ message on the scoreboard. No one wanted to coach Port. Except Ken Hinkley. He and Kochie saved us. For the next two years Boak, Gray, Wingard, Ebert & Co turned it on. Shivers down the spine. The crowds returned and a club on its knees was put back together again.

Jess and Jack wore Port jumpers to a recent match against West Coast at Adelaide Oval. In the last quarter it was obvious we were going to lose. There were tears. Not from me this time. Nothing a cuddle with our puppy Ollie (named after Ollie Wines) couldn’t fix.

From godforsaken West Lakes to Shanghai – The Pearl of the Orient.

From forgotten club to the centre of attention in the AFL.

Unbelievable.

Von will be there in spirit on Mother’s Day, homemade Port rug over her knees.

Port Adelaide has made me laugh and made me cry since those Saturday afternoons in the backyard with Sam all those years ago.

I won’t be in China, but I’ve dusted off a Russell Ebert Four Medal Port to celebrate Port playing its first overseas match for premiership points in 147 years.

It’s taken us a bloody long time, but by geez it’s worth it.

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