Frocks, Fake Tans And The Odd Best-And-Fairest: Brownlow Night
Once a year the game stops pretending it’s about contested possessions and hip-and-shoulders and turns itself into a fashion parade with a vote count bolted on the side — and once a year I sit there, tinny in hand, wondering when exactly footy decided it needed a red carpet at all.
The Brownlow Medal count rolled around again this week, which means the usual carnival of sequins, spray tans and blokes who spend four months a year getting abused from the outer suddenly looking like they’ve wandered off a Vogue shoot. Good luck to them, honestly. It’s one night. Let them have their moment before someone gets reported for something silly in round four next year.
The Red Carpet Circus, Ranked By A Bloke Who Doesn’t Care About Fashion
I’ll admit up front — I am not the target audience for this content. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a designer gown and a doona cover with sleeves. But even I can appreciate the effort that goes into it, because footballers spend the whole season looking like they’ve been dragged through a bin, and then for one Monday night in September they scrub up like they’re auditioning for a Bond film.
The partners, fair dinkum, carry the whole event. Every year some poor player stands there next to his other half looking like he’s about to be sent off for a HIA while she’s absolutely nailed the brief. It’s the eternal order of things. The players get the medals; the partners get the credit for making the night watchable.
Somewhere In There, There’s Actually A Vote Count
Buried underneath all the glamour is, allegedly, the most prestigious individual honour in the game — the actual Brownlow Medal, awarded to the best and fairest player as voted by the umpires. You’d be forgiven for forgetting that bit, because by the time the count actually starts half the room’s three cocktails deep and the cameras are still panning around looking for someone’s ex.
Richmond fans of my vintage don’t get overly emotional about the Brownlow. We’ve watched it long enough to know it rewards a very particular type of player — the classy midfielder who racks up touches in games that are already decided, rather than the bloke doing the unglamorous stuff each week that never rates a single vote from three blokes standing 30 metres off the play. Not bitter. Just observant.
The Fashion Non-Story That Becomes The Story
Here’s the bit that gets me every single year — the actual vote count becomes a footnote to the frocks. You’ll see wall-to-wall coverage of who wore what, who’s dating who, whose stylist clearly deserves a bonus, and then somewhere around 10:45pm someone remembers to mention, oh yeah, and so-and-so won the medal by six votes.
It’s become the AFL’s version of the Met Gala with a leaderboard attached. And look, I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing — the game needs its glitzy nights, its bit of glamour, its moment where players aren’t just numbers on a stat sheet getting torn apart by keyboard warriors like yours truly. But it does feel like the tail’s wagging the dog a fair bit these days.
Spare A Thought For The Bloke Who Has To Sit There All Night
There’s always one poor unit who’s clearly in with a red-hot chance, sitting there in his good suit, nursing a mineral water because he can’t crack a beer until it’s mathematically impossible for him to win, watching every vote read out like it’s a Tribunal hearing on his own career. Some years that bloke wins it and the room erupts. Other years he finishes third and has to sit there smiling for the cameras while dying slowly inside. Football is a cruel game even when you’re not getting knocked around at half-back.
And spare a thought too for the partners who have to sit through three hours of vote counting in heels that were clearly not designed for extended wear. That’s a genuine feat of endurance that deserves its own medal, in my humble opinion.
Where Are The Tigers In All This?
Richmond, in typical fashion, have had our moments on Brownlow night over the years without ever quite dominating the leaderboard the way you’d want given the flags we’ve stacked up recently. We’re a premiership football club, not necessarily an individual-award football club — which I’ve made peace with, mostly, on the good days. Premierships are what get remembered. Nobody at the Tigers’ three flags parades was chanting about anyone’s Brownlow tally.
Still, it’s nice having a genuine contender in the mix most years, even if the count itself tends to reward the sort of stat-padding that our premiership sides, built on pressure and structure rather than individual brilliance, were never really designed to produce. That’s not sour grapes — that’s just maths.
The Verdict
Look, I’ll watch the red carpet stuff with one eye while doing something more useful with the other, because that’s the right amount of attention it deserves from a bloke whose real interest is whether the list looks right for round one. The fashion’s fine. Good on everyone involved. The players look sharp, the partners look sharper, and somewhere in the middle of it all a genuinely excellent footballer will get handed a medal that means a great deal to him and not a whole lot in the context of where his team actually finished on the ladder that year.
That’s the Brownlow for you — equal parts glamour, mystery voting logic, and a gentle reminder that individual brilliance and team success are two very different pursuits. Enjoy the frocks. I’ll be checking the injury list.
