RON BARASSI celebrated his 75th birthday on Sunday, 27 February. Geoff Slattery recalls a few of his early encounters with the original supercoach...

Dear Ron
 
Happy birthday. Who can believe that you are now closer to 80, than 70? But we all know that your ageing mind will always sit much closer to that of Peter Pan's than anybody else who has ever lived (or not, in the case of young Peter, the fantasy created by J.M. Barrie).

It's worth quoting Wikipedia's definition of Peter Pan, so that those who have been brought up in an era of digital madness, with little connection to literature or reading of any sort, will understand the reference: "Peter Pan is a character created by Scottish novelist and playwright J.M. Barrie (1860-1937). A mischievous boy who can fly and magically refuses to grow up, Peter Pan spends his never-ending childhood adventuring on the small island of Neverland as the leader of his gang the Lost Boys, interacting with mermaids, Indians, fairies, pirates, and (from time to time) meeting ordinary children from the world outside."

If that's not you Barass (save the mischievous reference) then I don't know you at all. You can fill in your own definitions of the mermaids, Indians, fairies, pirates and ordinary people you've met along the journey - they know who they are!

Just like PP, you've refused to grow up in the best sense of what that means, at least to me.

You've always represented the beauty of childhood: eternal optimism and joy of every minute of every day.

You've never accepted what has been, but what might be.

You've never believed that life is not about discovery, adventure, vision, or having a go; or, in your life, all four mixed together.

You've never treated yourself seriously, although you've never treated the game you love and have given so much to, with anything but the utmost seriousness.

And you're not a one-dimensional sports nut: for game, read country, region, our world. Your ambition for mankind knows no bounds.

I've treasured every moment we've had the opportunity to get together and chat about anything and everything.

That said, the first time we met was one I dreaded. It was round one, 1977, and you were the revered coach of North Melbourne, and already a legend, although the concept of Hall Of Fame was still 20 years away.

I knew you only as the figure that was painted for all us normal footy fans by the media - as a giant, the leader of the pack, somebody that a very green cub reporter needed to be wary of.

You made us scared to ask questions, lest we be seen to be dumb. In your presence, we were.

How could any young'un dare to question a person of your prestige, experience, acumen? Remember these were the days when reporters - particularly young ones - knew their place in the world.

I bought a tape recorder to make sure I wasn't doubly dumb, and get your quotes wrong; to my surprise I was the first in the pack to think that accuracy of quotes was a fundamental. Soon enough, recorders were de rigueur.

That was then, in early days of season 1977.

North was one of the teams of that year, and my gig for The Australian was to report on the leaders, not the also-rans. I saw so much of North Melbourne that year, I could have been considered a fan.

As understanding of my job grew, so did my confidence, and I got to know that your public persona was not the real you.

It was a wonderful year to be around North and the game.

A case in point I'll never forget is round 22, a do or die affair between North and South Melbourne at Arden Street. It was an important game for the Roos: If South Melbourne lost, Carlton, considered something of a nemesis for North, would take the place of the Swans in the five.

The Roos led by 23 points at the last change, and looked home, but the Bloods raced away to win by 10 points, after a six-goal to one last quarter.

The press box was alive to conspiracy: "They lay down. They didn't want Carlton in," was the refrain. Believe it or not, this was a considered view.

We waited for you in the old coach's room at Arden Street, the same room in which you addressed the players. We had a sentry on the door, waiting for you to stride down the corridor - Bacardi and Coke in hand - after your usual post-match discussion.

As soon as you approached, we - veterans and learners of the press box - all lay on the floor.

The door opened. I'll never forget the look on your face. "What the *&%$ is going on?" you said.

Scot Palmer, already a veteran 35 years ago, spoke up: "Well you lay down, so are we."

Nothing of what you said was reported which tells you something of the way sport and media interacted in that era.

For some years, I had the tape of your outburst - an outburst that was about protecting the integrity of you and your team - locked in a cupboard. Much to my regret, the cupboard and the tape have disappeared, but the memory will never die.

Not just the memory of that tirade, but also the fact that once we'd all calmed down - as Paul Keating might have said, 'follow a good lie down with a Bex' - I remember the good humour and banter that followed. Those were the days.

A few weeks later it was a very different meeting of minds at the end of that famous draw with Collingwood in the 1977 Grand Final.

We were in the dingy bowels of the MCG, in the old Olympic Stand. Nobody knew what to do, least of all those of us in the media.

You sat in the rooms, astride many unopened cases of yet to be sparkling wine, an empty look on your face. Even you couldn't find much enthusiasm for that moment: a draw in a Grand Final is like standing at an intersection with all the roads leading nowhere.

Through that week it all changed, and you took hold of North Melbourne, and led them to an amazing victory, one that may never be achieved again; the Roos had to play three straight finals and then two Grand Finals to achieve a mighty premiership.

Through the years, you've mellowed. The aggressive approach that came with your coaching is now focused only on yourself.

I note with some amusement that you're now in full training for your next Grand Final as coach: getting yourself fit to live to be 100. More regret that I lost that tape, so you could hear for yourself the full fury of the fiery Barass of your vintage years; you might need some haranguing along the way if you're going to make the ton.

It's only 25 years, and 25 years ago you'd just finished coaching Melbourne, ready to embark on the next great journey of your life; reflection, travel, learning, laughing, cajoling (still), loving life, and watching so much of your vision of the AFL coming to fruition through your years with Sydney.

In a time when the world of AFL and sport is yearning for role models, you're still it, Barass.