"The powers that be decided we needed a national competition," Lois said. "Sydney is the biggest city and it had no Aussie Rules footy, so at the end of 1981 South Melbourne - the Swans - were moved to Sydney to become the Sydney Swans."
"Sounds reasonable," Clark said hesitantly.
"Not if you barracked for South Melbourne it wasn't," Lois said darkly. "When Sydney played at home, there were only five games in Melbourne on a Saturday - and lonesome figures dressed in the red and white of South Melbourne were scattered amongst the crowds at the other games looking like the fallout of a master plan that didn't include them."
From Part 6 ...
Lois settled back on the couch and rewound the tape. She was going to watch at least the first quarter. Maybe more. Because if she went to bed now, if she tried to sleep ... no amount of willpower was going to be able to drive those amazing eyes from her mind.
So, she would fill her mind with football. And there would be plenty to fill it with - Hawthorn had beaten Collingwood by thirty-three points.
The tape reached the beginning, and Lois waited for the magic of football to drive all else from her mind.
An hour later, she stopped the tape, having watched half of the game.
It was a great game, bursting with highlights. And her Hawks had been magnificent.
But even they hadn't managed to totally drive the memory of that smile from her mind.
Part 7
Clark walked into the Herald Sun office the next morning and was immediately waylaid by Banjo. "Word to the wise, mate," he said. "Steer clear of Browny for a bit."
Clark glanced to the door of the editor's office but could see nothing unusual - not that he was sure what he was expecting to see. "What's wrong?" Clark asked Banjo.
"Flinders is in there."
"Lois?"
"Yeah ... they're having a blue about her story."
"Is Lois all right?" Clark's question was out before he could stop it.
"You don't have to worry about Flinders, mate. She can handle herself." Banjo nodded to Clark's desk. "Go and start up your computer, and if the door to Browny's office moves so much as a millimetre, make sure you're flat out like a lizard drinking."
Clark's question didn't progress beyond an open mouth. Banjo had hurried across the room and was now staring intently at his computer screen. Clark turned to his desk and, despite knowing he shouldn't, was unable to stop himself from tuning in to the conversation on the other side of the door.
"No, Lois!" Browny said in a voice that sounded like it had been fortified with steel. "You will write the story I told you to write, not some half-baked idea you dreamed up."
"It's *not* half-baked," Lois said in a voice Clark barely recognised. "It's a logical extension to the story you gave me and -"
"Write the story I told you -"
"... and it makes much more interesting reading than -"
"... I told you to write or don't -"
"... than a story that has already been done to death by everyone from -"
"... or don't write anything at all except your letter of resignat -"
"...by everyone from the chief writer of the Football Record to the illiterate parent who puts together the weekly newsletter for the Tongala Under-Tens."
There was silence then, and Clark had to fix his eyes on his still-blank computer screen to stop himself from turning and looking through the closed door.
Then he heard a roar that seared through his super-sensitive eardrums. "KENT!"
Clark leapt from his chair and was within one step of Browny's door when it suddenly swung open and the tornado that was Lois Lane charged past him. He hesitated, torn between wanting to check on Lois and needing to answer Browny's summons.
The second roar of his name decided him, and with a final glance to Lois's fast receding back, Clark entered the office. He quietly closed the door and faced Browny.
The editor appeared remarkably unruffled. "Rubber," he said, in a tone totally devoid of the anger so evident just a few moments ago. "I've been reading some of your work."
Clark hoped his work hadn't contributed to Browny's bad mood and that had somehow translated into trouble for Lois.
"You don't have much experience in Sport," the editor noted. His voice was calm, but his rolling laughter seemed ominously absent this morning.
"No, sir."
"And you seem to specialise in the touchy-feely human interest stuff."
"Not always," Clark said, feeling defensive. "I write the hard news stories as well."
Paul Brown didn't seem convinced. "I have a story for you, Rubber," he said. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and perused it. "Bessie Bellchambers. She's a lady in her seventies who grew up barracking for South Melbourne. The interview is all teed up - she's expecting you there about ten this morning."
"What sort of story do you have in mind?"
"I want to know how it feels to have your club moved interstate," Paul said. "I want to know if the loss is still felt fifteen years later. I want to know if she feels bitter or sad or robbed or angry or apathetic ... and I want you to write it."
"OK," Clark agreed, glad that this story didn't seem to require an extensive knowledge of football and hoping his relief wasn't too obvious. He stood and took the proffered piece of paper. Beside the lady's name, there was an address in Albert Park. Clark looked to Browny, hoping he would offer further details about getting to the interview.
Browny's attention had returned to his computer, and when he did look up, he seemed surprised that Clark was still there. "Ah ... of course," he said. He gulped in a big breath and screamed, "Flinders!"
Clark heard Lois sigh, and he tracked her agitated footsteps as she crossed the newsroom. A few seconds later, the door opened, and she stormed past him like he wasn't there and faced Browny, the set of her shoulders radiating hostility.
"Flinders," Browny said in a controlled tone. "You are to drive Rubber to this address in Albert Park and wait there while he does his interview. Then you are to drive him back."
Clark stepped forward. "Really, it isn't necessary. I can take a cab."
Browny's eyes volleyed from Lois to Clark. "You will not be taking a taxi," he said in a tone that definitely didn't invite argument.
Clark wished he could see Lois's face. More, he wished she would turn so he could try to communicate that this wasn't his idea.
"I have a deadline," Lois informed Browny in a tight voice.
"You have an hour to get whatever you have to me," Browny said in an equally tight voice. "And then you will drive Rubber to his interview."
"My story's not ready yet."
"If you had the time-management skills of a koala, it would have been ready Tuesday," Browny snapped.
Lois turned, swept past Clark, and closed the door firmly enough that the sound of it pulsed through the room.
Clark turned to Browny, expecting anger, annoyance, or at least a significant reddening of his countenance.
Browny looked up to him with a calm smile. "That girl ..." he said. "I swear she'll be the death of me."
Clark had not been expecting the affection so clear in the editor's voice.
Perhaps Browny read his expression because his smile opened further. "You didn't think I was really about to tear her apart, did you, Rubber?" he asked.
"You ... er ... sounded angry with her."
"Fair enough, too. I told her to write a story, and she gives me something else completely." Browny smiled as if at a secret thought. "A better story, but don't tell her that."
Clark wanted to jump to Lois's defence and demand to know why Browny hadn't told her himself, but the editor lifted his hand to stall Clark's words.
"I run this department like a footy team," he said. "I train them so that they do what they are told. If I ask for a story, they give me that story and they do it exactly as I ask - just like footballers do exactly as the coach asks. They train doing it that way so when it really matters - the last five minutes of a close Grand Final - doing it properly is instinctive."
Clark had no response - not one he was willing to share anyway.
"And the better the player, the more important that they follow the team rules," Browny said.
Clark searched Browny's face for deeper meaning.
"And Flinders is one of the best I have," he said quietly.
"The best?" Clark said, his surprise lifting his voice.
"That surprises you?" Browny said, straightening in his chair. "Why? Because she's a woman? Because she's young? Because she's never played a game of footy in her life?"
"It doesn't surprise me that she's good," Clark said. "But from what Lois has said ... I'm not sure she realises you have such a high opinion of her work."
Browny relaxed again. "Good," he said.
"She thinks she is on the bottom rung of the ladder," Clark said.
Browny nodded as if that wasn't really news to him. "She probably thinks that's why she gets all the dud games."
"That's exactly what she thinks," Clark said, hoping his openness wasn't going to come back and bite him with Lois.
Browny chuckled softly - the sound totally incongruous with his usual manner. "The top games every week are televised - some live, some delayed," he said. "Anyone interested can easily watch those games. The lesser games aren't televised, so if - for whatever reason - a fan can't get to the game, he has to rely on the newspaper reports for information about how his team played."
Clark thought he was beginning to understand.
"There isn't a person in this newsroom who can write up a game like Flinders Lane," Browny said. "She sees things no one else sees; she writes with the flair of someone who not only watches the game but *feels* it. She writes as someone whose passion for the game is evident in every word, but her love never dulls her perception." Browny chuckled, and his stomach wobbled. "So long as I keep her away from those Hawks," he said. "Because with them, all she can see is brown and gold heroes."
"Perhaps you could tell her why she gets the lesser games," Clark suggested softly.
Browny's reflective mood shattered with a loud guffaw. "No chance of that," he said. He pointed a stubby finger at Clark. "And don't you tell her either, Rubber," he said sternly. "Not unless you want to spend the next three months cleaning the dunnies instead of watching footy."
Clark nodded.
"Now, get your Yankee backside out there and work up some questions to ask this old dame," Browny said. His words were delivered sternly, but Clark could see the twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes, sir," he said, turning to leave.
"Rubber!"
The sharpness of Browny's tone grounded Clark's feet. "Yes?"
"You call me 'sir' one more time and I'll find something for you to do that will make you beg to clean the dunnies."
Clark controlled his smile. "OK ... Browny."
He stepped out of the editor's office and glanced in the direction of Lois's desk. She was pounding her keyboard so hard that he half expected to see smoke rising from it.
Clark sat down and picked up a pen, figuring his most prudent move was to have his questions ready when it was time to go to his interview.
He really didn't want to risk further aggravating Lois's mood.
||_||
"Lois, I'm sorry about this," Clark said as she drove him to his interview in her Jeep.
Until this point, Lois hadn't said enough for Clark to be able to discern if any of her anger had dissipated, so he was assuming it hadn't. She glanced sideways. "It's not your fault," she said in a voice that was much closer to normal than he had dared hope.
"I heard what happened with your story," he said, hoping she would detect his empathy.
"Meh ... it was my own fault," she said easily.
"It ... it was?"
Lois shrugged. "Browny told me to write the story. I did a bit of extra research and hit upon similar issues back in the archives of history and thought it was remarkably relevant to the current situation, so I sat up the other night researching and writing. I should've known what Browny would say."
"There's no scope for initiative in Browny's newsroom?" Clark asked. "No room to be creative, to run with an idea?"
Lois sighed. "There's plenty of scope but not without first running it past Browny - and not with a story he's already pencilled in."
"OK," Clark said, deciding he would take that as a warning.
"We're a team, you see," Lois said. "It's like footy - there are team rules, and if everyone follows the rules, the team will be successful. But if someone runs off on his or her own tangent, the team collapses."
"I'm ..." Clark searched for the right word. "... surprised you are taking it so well."
"I was angry this morning," Lois admitted. "And it's Thursday."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning there's a very important game this weekend that Hawthorn have to win if we are going to have any chance to make the finals." She shot him a small smile. "Last week we beat Collingwood, so Monday and Tuesday were good days." She grinned with triumph. "For me, not for Gazza and Bluey."
"Yesterday was a good day too," Clark said.
He hoped she would agree, but she didn't. "Have you got your questions ready for Bessie?" Lois asked.
"I have some ideas," Clark said. "Do you have any suggestions?"
"I would try to get her talking as much as possible," Lois said. "I would ask her why she barracks for South Melbourne. I would ask about her childhood memories of going to games. I would ask who her favourite footballer was. Then, when she's established exactly how much she loves her club, I'd ask how she felt when they were moved to Sydney."
"OK," Clark said.
"And I wouldn't take notes," Lois said. "Not while you're there. I'd put it all on tape - that way you'll seem involved in the conversation, and she'll probably be more open than if your eyes are constantly on your notepad."
"Good idea," he said. "Thanks."
"Try to make it more of a conversation than an interview," Lois suggested. She pointed to her left. "That's the Lake Oval where South played their home games. Beyond that, you can see Albert Park Lake."
Clark looked to where she pointed and saw an old grandstand in significant disrepair. A new grandstand stood next to it, highlighting the dilapidated condition of the older one.
"The ground is used for soccer now and has a new name," Lois said. "The old grandstand is all that is left of the old Lake Oval."
"It doesn't look safe," Clark commented.
"It's not used any more," she said, the regret heavy in her voice.
A minute later, they pulled up at an old single-fronted clapboard house in a small street.
"Do you want to fly solo?" Lois asked. "Or would you like me to come in with you?"
Clark didn't want her thinking he was completely incompetent, but he knew the story would be better if Lois was there offering suggestions during the interview. "Would you mind coming in?" he asked.
"Of course not," she said.
They walked along the little lavender-edged path and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, it was opened by a tiny woman with steely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. "Mrs Bellchambers," Clark said, offering her his hand. "I'm Clark Kent."
Her hand was almost swallowed by his much bigger one. "Please call me Bessie," she said. She turned her eager eyes to Lois and smiled. "And you must be Lois Lane," she said.
Lois nodded. "It's good to meet you, Bessie," she said.
"I enjoy reading your reports," Bessie said.
Lois smiled, and Clark felt the good humour return to his world. They followed Bessie down a long corridor with a worn carpet runner and into a room that looked like its decor belonged in the forties. Bessie gestured to two arm chairs upholstered in a floral pattern. They were arranged around a little table covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with a teapot and cups and a plate of chocolate-covered square blocks dotted with coconut. Lois and Clark sat down.
"Would you pour the tea please, young man?" Bessie asked. "I have mine with milk and no sugar."
As Clark busied himself with the teapot, he hoped either Lois or Bessie would carry the conversation for a few moments, leaving him free to organise his thoughts in preparation for the interview ahead. From all he'd seen so far, Bessie Bellchambers certainly seemed like the perfect interviewee - but Clark really wanted this story to be something that would please Paul Brown.
Lois broke into the short silence with a little squeal. "Lamingtons!" she said. "Did you make them, Bessie?"
"That I did," Bessie said. "Made fresh this morning."
"Oh, thank you," Lois said. "There is nothing like home-made lamingtons. The bought ones just don't compare."
Bessie smiled. "Too right," she said. She handed Lois a delicate plate and offered her the chocolate blocks.
"Clark is American," Lois said. "I doubt he's ever eaten a lammo before."
Clark finished pouring the three cups of tea. "I've never seen them," he said. "But they look delicious."
"I'll give you the recipe," Bessie said. "You can take it home to your mother."
"Thank you," Clark said with a smile. "Do you mind if I turn on the tape recorder?"
"Soon," she said. "Eat your lamington first, and then we'll talk."
Clark bit into the block and discovered it was a sponge so light his mother would have be proud of it. Inside was a generous layer of strawberry jelly. He guessed the outside had been rolled in melted chocolate and then covered in coconut. It was delicious.
When he had finished eating and declined Bessie's offer of a second lamington, Clark asked again if she minded him turning on his recorder. This time Bessie agreed, and he took a deep breath. "I understand you barrack for South Melbourne," he said.
Bessie's blue eye shone, and her face lit. "Since I was a little tacker," she said. "I was born in 1925. By the time I was four years old, my dad was taking me to the footy every Saturday. I loved it. I loved everything about it. I loved the colour, and I loved the cheering, and I loved the excitement, and I loved the smell of liniment when the players ran out, and I loved sitting on my dad's shoulders and watching the game."
Bessie's smile turned poignant. "The best day of my life," she said. Her voice wobbled a little, and she took a moment to gather her composure. "The very, very best day of my life was Grand Final Day, 1933. My dad got us tickets - there were over 75 000 people there that day. Mum packed us vegemite sandwiches and a bottle of orange cordial, and she made lamingtons for us to eat at half time. I was eight by then and too old to sit on my dad's shoulders, but half way through the last quarter when we knew we were going to win, my dad said to me, 'Up onto my shoulders, Bess, you don't want to ever forget seeing the Bloods win the Grand Final.'
"He hoisted me up onto his shoulders and when the siren went, I couldn't see much at all because I was crying like a baby. When my dad took me down, I saw his eyes were red and damp too. He stood me in front of him and put his hands on my shoulders, and just kept saying over and over again, 'We did it, Bess, my girl, we did it'."
Bessie reached into the sleeve of her pink cardigan and pulled out a lacy white handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes before continuing. "We knew it was special - to see South win a flag - we knew it was special, but deep, deep down in our hearts, we thought we would see another one together. We had a good team, and we had Bob Pratt to kick our goals and we thought ... we thought there would be another one."
Again, Bessie dabbed at her eyes.
"The Swans haven't won a flag since that one in 1933," Lois said quietly.
Bessie twisted the corner of her handkerchief. "Six years later, the War began," she said. "My dad was nearly forty but he wanted to serve his country - he wanted to go. He wanted to do his bit to ensure that all the wonderful things about being an Australian were protected. The last thing he said to me before he left was to make me promise that I would always love South Melbourne. He said, 'Bessie, my girl, if I don't come home, you make sure you always cheer twice as loud 'cause you'll have to cheer for me too.'"
Bessie faced Clark with a brave smile. "I'm still cheering for him," she said. "My dad never came home."
Clark swallowed down the lump that had risen into this throat. "I'm sure he would be very proud of you," he managed.
Bessie smiled sadly. "You know, with every year that passes, with every year that goes by and makes that day slip further into the dim annals of history, it becomes more special. I saw our last premiership with my dad - that's worth more than all the money in the world."
Clark really didn't want to risk bringing her close to tears again, so hesitated to ask about South Melbourne being moved to Sydney. He didn't need to.
"At least my dad was saved from seeing his beloved South Melbourne shunted off to Sydney," Bessie said. "At least he was saved from that."
"How did you feel?" Clark asked.
"Like my heart had been ripped out," Bessie said dolefully. "There is so much more to a club than just the players and coaches. There are the people who clean the boots, and the people who prepare the food for the players, and the people who look after the ground, and the people who mend the jumpers after every game, and the people who do the hundred-and-one little things that need to be done. Those people love the club - their hearts beat to the rhythm of our song. The players went, the coaches went, the trainers went, but you cannot tear out a heart. Not when that heart doesn't want to be moved."
"You don't think Sydney has a heart?" Clark asked.
"It has a heart," Bessie said. "But it's not South Melbourne's heart. That is still here. Will always be here. They think they can simply pick it up and cart it away, but they can't."
"Do you still go to the games?" Clark asked.
"Every game," she said with a tinge of pride. "Every game in Melbourne. I have to ... I promised my dad."
"I notice the Swans are almost certain to play in the finals this year," Clark said.
"Yes," Bessie said with a soft sigh. "Yes, this year, the drought may - finally - be broken."
"How will that feel?"
"You know, young man," Bessie said. "I don't know how it will feel. I imagine an old woman will feel differently to a young girl perched on her father's shoulders. I don't know if it will mean less because it's Sydney and not South Melbourne. I hope I will be able to see only the colours and the old South Melbourne spirit and not see the name." She grinned suddenly. "In truth, I probably won't be able to see much more than I could in 1933 ... and it will be me saying, 'We did it, Dad, we did it.'"
Clark cleared his throat and, at the same instant, heard Lois doing exactly the same thing. "Who was your favourite player?" he asked.
Bessie's infectious grin broke out again. "Bobby Skilton," she said with great affection. "He wore number fourteen and there was never a player like him. He was quick and had absolutely no fear. He won three Brownlows, and it should've been six." She winked at Clark. "I cried again the day he retired. Imagine that - a woman of forty-six crying her eyes out because Bobby had retired. But I knew there would never be another like him. And I was right. There never has been."
Clark asked a few more questions and discovered Bessie had never married - "one bloke was interested, but he barracked for Carlton, so that was never going to work" - and had taken dozens of children to the football on the proviso they wore red and white and cheered for the Swans. Those children, now grown, ensured she always had a ride to the footy. Clark again raised the topic of the move to Sydney and asked how she had felt the first time her club had played a home game in the city to the north.
"Sad," Bessie said. "Sad and empty and bereft. I still put on my red-and-white scarf, and I sat on this chair with my bag at my feet packed with vegemite sandwiches and a bottle of cordial and watched it on the telly, but it wasn't the same." She sighed. "It's been fifteen years now, and it still feels strange to be watching the footy on the telly." Her eyes twinkled suddenly. "Although now I do get up and make myself a cup of tea at half time."
Clark figured he had more than enough for his story, so he thanked her and turned off the tape. Bessie offered them another cup of tea, but, conscious that it was Lois's time as well as his, he declined.
Bessie looked at Lois. "Young lady," she said. "Would you do a favour for an old woman?"
Lois smiled. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "Of course," she said.
"I know you're a Hawk," Bessie said. "But I also know you love football, and I was wondering if you knew the South song."
Lois nodded. "Of course I know it," she said. "It's a beauty."
"Would you sing it with me?" Bessie asked.
Lois didn't hesitate. As Clark watched in surprise, she knelt beside Bessie's chair and put her hand on the old lady's arm. "I would be honoured to sing it with you," Lois said.
"You start," Bessie said.
Lois smiled. "Ready?"
Bessie nodded. They looked at each other and began.
Cheer, cheer the red and the white Honour the name by day and by night Lift that noble banner high Shake down the thunder from the sky What though the odds be great or small Swans will go in and win overall While her loyal sons are marching Onward to victory.
The song had started tentatively but finished with gusto, and Bessie and Lois shared a smile and an impromptu hug.
"Thank you, dear," Bessie said. "That was the first song my dad ever taught me. We sang it together more times than I could count."
"Thank you for talking to us," Lois said.
Bessie looked at Clark. "If you pass me that pen and paper from the shelf," she said, "I'll write down that recipe for your mum."
As Clark reached for the shelf, he was able to hide his smile. He'd never heard his mom referred to as his 'mum' before.
As Bessie wrote, Clark looked at Lois, and they shared a smile.
A few moments later, Bessie tore the page from her pad and offered it to Clark.
"Thank you," he said as he carefully folded it and put it in his wallet. "I'll be sure to give it to her."
"I know you will," Bessie said with a smile.
"How do you know?" Lois asked. When Clark turned to her, she was smiling.
"I know a well-brought-up boy when I meet one," Bessie said. "You are a credit to your mum."
"Thank you," Clark said, hoping Lois wouldn't notice the warmth he could feel spreading across his cheeks.
Bessie showed them to her front door and stayed at her doorway, waving until they drove away.
"What did you think?" Lois said.
"I think I understand a whole lot more about the forlorn South Melbourne supporters in their red-and-white jerseys," Clark said sombrely.
"Jumpers," Lois said. "Or guernseys. We don't use the word jerseys."
Clark nodded. "Well, I understand more now about what they lost."
"Sydney are - and South Melbourne were - officially the Swans, but many of the old-timers refer to them as the Bloods." She grinned suddenly. "A swan is hardly the most ferocious of birds."
"That's true," Clark said, returning her grin and realising how good he felt simply because Lois was smiling again. "I loved your song."
Lois scrunched her nose. "It was such a small thing to do, yet it brought her so much pleasure."
"It did," Clark said. "I recognised the song - it is very similar to the fight song of the University of Notre Dame in Indiana."
"Really?" Lois asked, looking surprised.
"Yes," Clark said. "Do all clubs have a song?"
Lois nodded. "The recently formed clubs usually have sophisticated songs - sometimes with chorus and verses - but somehow they don't quite grab your throat the way the old ones do."
"Will you sing the Hawthorn song for me?" Clark asked.
Lois chuckled. "Don't push your luck, Kent."
"You sang with Bessie," he cajoled.
She ignored his request. "If Hawthorn don't make the finals, I hope Sydney win the flag," Lois said. "I hope they win it for all those people like Bessie who have stuck fast to their club despite everything."
"Sixty-three years is a long time to wait."
Lois flicked back her hair. "I reckon you'll write a great story."
"I hope so," he said. "Thanks for all your help."
Lois smiled suddenly and looked sideways at him. "Bessie liked *you*," she said in a teasing tone. "Your 'mum' will be pleased to hear that Australian women have noticed your manly charm."
There was only one Australian woman Clark wanted to notice him. "Bessie is a very kind lady," he said.
"Are you going to tell your mom what she said about you?"
"No."
Lois giggled. "Here's a promise, Kent," she said. "If I ever meet your mother, I'm going to tell her what Bessie said."
Clark smiled but said nothing. There was something very wonderful about the thought of Lois meeting his mom. He was sure they would like each other, but more than that, it would mean he and Lois had become far more than colleagues.
They drove the rest of the way to the office in silence. Clark planned his story ... and couldn't forget the soft Aussie accent of a brave little woman who had lost so much that she loved.
||_||
Glossary
Blue - a blue - an argument.
Cordial - sweet, strong fruity drink that is diluted with water.
Dunny - toilet.
Flat out - busy. Flat out like a lizard drinking - humorous (?) simile.
Tacker - child.
Taxi - cab.
Teed - teed up - from golf - to set up something.
Tongala - a small town in northern Victoria (approximate population 1600).
The Brownlow Medal - the highest individual honour in the AFL awarded to the 'fairest and best' player each year. Named after Charles Brownlow, Geelong player and administrator. The medal is informally known as 'Charlie'.
RL footballers.
Bob Pratt - South Melbourne full forward (played 1930-1939 and 1946)
Bob Skilton - Played 1956-1971 for South Melbourne, won the Brownlow in 1959, 1963 and 1968.
