It’s been a horrific three or four days. The best way I can deal with these things is that I can write stuff down, so I’m going to read a piece I’ve written about Danny Frawley. Bear with me, this is the only way I could have come back and done today. Danny Frawley walked through life with a perpetual smile and nose for mischief. They were amongst his most endearing qualities that saw him as a friend or anyone he came into contact with.
He had fun written all over him. Laughter was the fuel that drove him and he was relentless in his pursuit of it, and he didn’t discriminate in terms of where the laughs would come from, everyone was fair game; none more so than himself. I knew him as an opponent first but not long after as a work colleague at the AFL and then even more quickly as a friend and enduringly as a source of unbending support and loyalty which I cherished each and every day, which is not to say we lived in each other’s pockets. We worked together through the footy seasons, the promotions and development area of the AFL, and more recently, through various media organisations for the best part of 30 years.
As I sit here today and I try and make sense of the tragic circumstances of the 9th day of September that saw him taken away from us so swiftly and brutally, I’m trying desperately to define my relationship with him so that the sense of grief and life can have some perspective to understand why it hurts so much. I arrived at the conclusion that’s because he was just so relatable to me.
As I said last night, there’s few people that I love as much as my brother. I don’t see him every day. I can often go weeks at a time without seeing each other. But when we do get together, we’ll pick right up from wherever we left off last. He makes me laugh, we share common interests. He’s got a depth in him which I’ve enjoyed witnessing as he got older. He loves his family unconditionally and his loyalty and support to me is humbling. It’s a relationship that has never needed work. On reflection, that’s what it was like with Spud. Not to the same depth, family’s family but the sentiment was the same. Being in his company was just so comfortable. I loved his sense of humour right from day one, I took great delight in being able to wind him up and let him loose in any number of circumstances, he took little convincing, he took none.
During our AFL days, we did clinics and promotions Monday to Thursday and then we went into the office on Friday, which happened to coincide with the weekly press conferences of coaches for the weekend’s game of the round. They were held next to our office and there was a door which connected our room to theirs. Now, Spud’s eyes lit up when he could hear anyone from Mick Malthouse and Denis Pagan or Leigh Matthews and David Parkin earnestly taking questions from the assembled media. He quietly opened the door and start making strange noises and would lob scrunched up balls of paper over the sponsor sign onto the coaches’ table during the conference. It was childish school boy behaviour but with Gavin Brown and myself giggling uncontrollably, it was all the encouragement he needed. After a few weeks, the media pack were awake to his antics and their muffled laughter drove him on. I think it took a sharp refute from Mick or Denis to finally pull him up. He still had it 20 years later in the Triple M commentary box. The Saturday Rub with JB (James Brayshaw) and Damian (Barrett) and myself and Spud were the most enjoyable times I’ve had in media. We’d call games of footy until the legs of quaddy were on. I’d be left one out in the special comments booth as he waved his form guide over his head like a maniac trying to get onto the subject of his latest bit of mail.
He was never happier than when he discovered something throughout the week that could potentially embarrass us. He’d covet that information like the nuclear code and try and recruit one of us as his co-conspirator. Barrett was his favourite target, never more excited than if he had materialed that in his own mind would expose him as getting ahead of his station life. Inevitably though, the joke would always seem to backfire and he would be the one in the crosshairs. Whether it’d be the time we discovered he sent an email complaining that his make-up wasn’t as dark as his colleagues or the time we found out he had undergone significant dental work or the fact that Jim used to introduce him as a member of St Kilda’s Team of the Century, which he happily responded to, only for us to discover that he actually wasn’t in the team. He was the target of our relentless ribbing. His response was consistent. Deny, deny, deny until it became obvious he wasn’t going to get away with it. Then he’d resort to violence. JB or Damo were his targets. Any feature in the paper was manna from heaven for him. When I returned to Melbourne for a short time was arguably his greatest triumph. He went after me relentlessly declaring that I was making it all about me, spending what seemed like a whole afternoon giving it to me about the clothes I wore for a particular interview and finishing on the sunglasses for good measure. He had me cold that day, I had no comeback. He walked away from the box that afternoon as satisfied as any premiership coach.
He also took great delight in bringing back to earth any of the media that he thought were getting too big for their boots. He especially targeted those he thought were good at giving it out, but not so good at receiving it, something he could never be accused of. Occasionally, he went too far. We were all guilty of that at times but most occasions there’d be a follow-up phone call. “Mate, hope you’re alright. I was just having a bit of fun.” We were oblivious to the mental health challenges that he later came to champion. I remember along with Jason and James going over to his house the first time he used to come to these challenges. We had no awareness, no understanding of the issues he was dealing with. I was shocked at the state he was in. He was open and honest with us and we walked away knowing that he had a real struggle on his hands but also that he had great love and support around him with his wife Anita, his beautiful girls and his greater family and friends.
The Spud we knew and loved, he did return to us. He took some time but he bounced back. He became an unbelievable support for myself.I had my own battles. He was the very first person to reach out. We stayed in touch constantly and he badgered me about the importance of talking and sharing how I was feeling. I’ll never forget his empathy and compassion and I know I’m not the only one to benefit from his love and counsel.
In recent times, I visited him at his latest venture which is a horse training facility in his beloved Ballarat. He was excited about his plans for the future and his passion for this new vocation. So obvious that I felt he’d arrived at a truly happy place. When I told him I bought a farm, he was more excited than me. He knew I had no idea what I was doing and was forever telling me what sort of tractor I had to get, how often I had to slash or fertilise my paddocks, how to cut down trees. I knew I could plead ignorance and he could come and do it for me. Until now, I can’t.
It is utterly and impossibly heartbreaking to know that’s the case. That he won’t be in the commentary box this weekend, that he won’t be on our television screens on Sunday night, that he won’t be sending through his horse racing tips on Saturday morning, that he won’t be there waiting with a beer after the Grand Final at the September Club, that he won’t be bragging to us about the achievements of his beautiful girls, that he won’t tell us stories any more about Plugga (Tony Lockett) or Harvs (Robert Harvey) or Loewey (Stewart Loewe), that he won’t be there to hang it on us for whatever we’ve done lately. Or that the phone won’t ring, and I won’t look down and see Spud show up on my screen and I won’t have that feeling again where I know that no matter what happens for the next 30 seconds or next 30 minutes, I’ll laugh like I’ve not laughed before for that day. Today just seems that life won’t be as much fun again without Spud Frawley in it.
Listen to Garry Lyon's tribute in the player below: