After the Dockers’ spectacular win over the Swans in the preliminary final, Fremantle’s streets erupted in chaotic celebrations that resembled the wild scenes in New York after the Knicks’ drought-breaking NBA championship. Maybe not that bonkers, but the port city’s CBD became a vibrant sea of purple as hundreds of jubilant fans danced, hugged and partied in the pouring rain. Although the explosive chants of “MCG, MCG” from the hollering horde seemed to terrify several bus drivers trying to weave through the purple pandemonium.
Despite the vibrancy and frenzied fervour, violence or mayhem didn’t mar the euphoria, because the stoic supporters were too delirious that their beloved club was in another grand final. The celebrations were a testament to the Dockers’ supporters who have remained fiercely loyal, despite many false dawns, painful defeats and endless waiting. For east coasters, watching the rambunctious revellers shut down the heart of the city on a Friday night would seem baffling and bemusing.
It was just a preliminary final win, so why all the hoopla and fuss? But the Fremantle faithful have been left bloodied and bruised over the past 32 years chasing their place in football history. For decades, Dockers devotees have been bullied and mocked by the supporters of their bitter rivals, the West Coast Eagles, who have pocketed four flags along the way.
Hard-nosed Freo fans also harbour a deep resentment towards the AFL, which put out the welcome mat for the Eagles but turned its back on the Dockers when they joined the competition in 1995. Being underdogs from day one has left a few scars with supporters. The club has built its identity around perseverance and resilience, which embodies the working-class ethos of the town of Fremantle.
For battle-hardened fans, a first premiership would be more than a sporting achievement. It would be a moment of relief, joy and immortality because it would fulfil a dream many feared would never happen. Everywhere you walk around the place, people share the unwavering belief that the Dockers’ drought could finally be over.
A palpable buzz hangs in the air because fans feel a deep-seated connection to a club that once called Fremantle home. The city is literally painting the streets purple. Even an ever-opportunistic local real estate agent (decked out in a Dockers’ guernsey) stuck a flyer in my letterbox that read “It’s Wharfie Time” to sell my house.
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