Footy Cards

‘Come outside, I want to show you something,’ Dad beckoned me through the back fly-screen door. I followed him curiously. He’d been out in the backyard gardening and my 6 year old imagination lulled me into thinking that maybe he’d found some sort of hidden treasure: A bag of marbles, a vintage Fanta yo-yo or some Matchbox toy cars, left behind by the Kelly Gang as they passed through Watsonia en route to hold up the Greensborough RSL. Dad gave no further clue to the mystery as I followed in his wake towards the rear of our backyard. He didn't seem angry, but equally he wasn’t exuding the level of excitement one would expect to see if you were leading your youngest son towards a discovery that would soon turn our backyard into a nationally significant archaeological dig. When he rounded the rear of the garage and purposely made for the fence, my confusion faded and my heart sank.

‘Have a look down there,’ he gestured towards the gap between the wooden fence and the brick wall of the garage. Knowing full well what he was pointing at, I stepped forward and sheepishly glanced at the evidence of my own crime. ‘What’s all that?’ he asked rather unnecessarily. Under the weight of insurmountable evidence and incontrovertible guilt, I opted for a straight answer. I honestly can't recall what I said in that moment, so I’ll use my fathers own words when he told his version of the story in his speech at my 21st birthday. ‘I looked down between the fence and the garage, to see half a dozen or so, half eaten cornflake’s packets, discarded!’

At the time, Kelloggs were printing Victorian Football League player cards on the back of the box. To be honest, Cornflakes wasn’t even on the podium of my preferred breakfast cereals. Coco Pops were in the gold medal position, with Rice Bubbles and Weetbix interchangeably fighting it out for silver and bronze. However, from the moment the promotion first began, I was a Cornelius Rooster convert.

I went supermarket shopping with mum on Thursdays after school. I usually made suggestions as we traversed the aisles, but I don’t recall being a demanding pest, apart from the tantrum I threw when mum rejected my compelling argument to replace sultanas with Wizz Fizz as my healthy play lunch snack. However, during ‘Cornflakes Gate’, things changed. Not only did I insist we get two Cornflakes packets each week, I argued that we didn’t really need to top up on the other cereals. My fear was that the family’s consumption of Corn Flakes would be diluted if there were other options. Mum indulged my new passion for the cereal that I’d previously shown little interest in, but there was one cruel caveat. I wasn’t allowed to cut the cards out of the box, until the packet was finished!!

(An intact side of a 1971 Kellogg’s packet in Victoria. Collingwood’s Peter McKenna & Melbourne’s John Townshend, were two of the best exponents of tying their own shoelaces in the VFL)

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To speed up getting to the bottom of the box, I’d have a big bowl for breakfast and every afternoon, I’d almost make myself sick, force-feeding myself two or more bowls. The situation was exacerbated by the changing dynamic in our household. My older brother’s Chris (16) & Paul (19) who ordinarily devoured cereal morning and afternoon like they were part of a human experiment, had burgeoning love lives, and had become distracted from their usual output, or input as it were. My sister’s Michelle (9) & Annette (21) made no impression on the stockpiling cereal, so I surmised that if I was ever going to be able to use the kitchen scissors to cut out the likes of North Melbourne’s Doug Farrant line dancing at the Arden Street Oval and Footscray’s Gary Dempsey mid transition to werewolf, I’d have to increase my intake considerably.

(Doug Farrant midway between through executing an Applejack into Ball Change)

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(Gary Dempsey defying tradition by morphing into a werewolf in full sunlight)

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It was slow going. Too slow. It took an eternity to finally cut out my first set of cards. The thought of having to wait that long and eat that many bowls of cornflakes again, was dispiriting.

The first time that I threw a pack down the side of the garage, it was almost empty. However, with each packet I became more brazen, and by the time my crime spree was uncovered, the packs were barely half eaten. Don’t get me wrong, I was still eating Cornflakes to the exclusion of all other food groups, but as I hadn't been caught, I got cocky.

That fateful day, dad had already decided on sentencing before he’d revealed my cereal cache of shame. I was to count the packets then go to my room to calculate the cost of what had been wasted and I would not receive pocket money until the debt had been cleared. In hindsight, this was a brilliantly executed, fit for purpose punishment, that mum probably concocted.

As I rounded the rear of the garage to return to the house, I looked up to see a phalanx of people peering out of the kitchen window. The rest of my family, some of their friends and what I presume was a contingent of local media. There was some attempt to withhold laughter as I made the walk of shame, but the cork was out of the bottle by the time my bedroom door closed.

As you’ll see from the samples posted here, the cards aren’t of the highest quality. The football jumpers, grass oval and footballs are crudely hand touched over the drab, original print. The colours were a bit off too. Even 7 year old Damo knew that the Carlton Blues jersey didn’t have a purplish tinge, but that didn't dampen his desire to have his first set of footy cards: An obsession had been born.

(Carlton’s Adrian Gallagher executes an awkward punt kick, just as he is beamed up to the Starship Enterprise.)

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( Richmond’s Roger Dean was the first VFL player to trial wearing denim shorts.)

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(Geelong’s Ken Newland proposing to his girlfriend with a giant football shaped ring.)

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(Despite playing most of this career without a face, Carlton’s Brent Crosswell became one of the greats of his era.)

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By the commencement of the following football season I had cleared my debt and my addiction started anew. This time my vice came in the more streamlined form of Scanlen’s Football Cards. To get my prize, I didn't have to endlessly gorge on a cereal that I could barely keep down. I merely walked down to the milk bar in Beewar Street, bought the packet & opened it. The cards came with a stick of pink gum that gave the top card a dusty white coat & a sweet odour that stays with me to this day. I found chewing gum confusing as a kid. What kind of madness was a lolly that you had to spit out. It made no sense. I was also told that swallowing the gum was hazardous, so in the early days, I’d toss the gum in the bin rather than risk getting my stomach pumped at St Vincent’s Hospital.

(Sniff this picture for full effect)

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With a myopic fervour, I began to build my collection, one packet at a time. The collectors would gather at ‘play’ and ‘big’ lunch, on the slope between the old church and the almost completed new church at St Mary’s Greensborough: The recently hung modernist, two dimensional sculpture of the Madonna & Christ peering down at our bartering.

(When we weren’t swapping footy cards, a popular game was to throw tennis balls through the gap in Jesus & Mary’s looped arms. When the ball dropped out, we would collectively yell, ‘Mary did a poo.’)

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One day I was approached by an older kid who went through my swaps. Most of us would have a ‘keep’ pack and a ‘swap’ pack, containing doubles that they we were prepared to offload. You’d flick through your pack displaying what was on offer, while the interested onlooker chanted … ‘got it, haven’t got it, got it, got it, haven’t …’ and so on. But this big kid had no swaps. In fact, he just had the equivalent of a couple of packs - a lightweight. I almost gave up on him, but then I spotted St Kilda ruckman, Carl Ditterich lurking in his deck. I offered him one of my many doubles, but he shook his head.

‘Carl Ditterich is worth 5 other cards. It’s rare!,’ He snatched my swap pile out of my hand and proceeded to fleece me of 5 cards before handing the rest back to me. I watched him walk away with my cards and my innocence. Once I stopped crying, I vowed to adopt a policy of not trading with anyone older than Grade 3. A policy that I still adhere to, to this day.

(I once saw Carl Ditterich shopping at the Preston Market. I was initially starstruck, but eventually worked up the courage to say hello. Bizarrely, he seemed unaware of the gaslighting incident involving his footy card in the St Mary’s Greensborough playground)

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Through pure weight of purchase and an obsessive dedication to the swap market, I found myself closing in on the full set of 66 cards. I needed only Melbourne centreman, Stan Alves and Geelong ruckman Ian ‘Bluey’ Hampshire. As I negotiated the last tricky pass to the summit, another incident restored my faith in humanity. Luke Elder & I sometimes walked home from school together. One afternoon we paused in front of the Greensborough Veterinary Surgery to go through the swapping routine. He had Stan Alves, but there was nothing in my swap pile he needed. Despite it not being one his doubles, he simply shrugged and gave me Stan Alves. Despite my best efforts, I didn't even receive a reply from the Pope after I’d petitioned to have Luke canonised. Subsequently, the position of Patron Saint of Trading Cards, still remains vacant.

(Stan Alves looking very much like he is carrying a vomiting baby.)

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I can't recall who, but someone also gave me Bluey Hampshire. Bluey was a gargantuan ruckman, with a lived in face. His over all look on the footy card gives the impression that he turned up to training half pissed, having not slept for days. Fittingly this particular card looked like it had been through the wash. When I flicked through the full deck, the tatty corners of card number 62, was a reminder of life’s imperfections. I kept thinking a better copy would turn up. It never did.

(Ian ‘Bluey’ Hampshire regretting the previous night’s lock-in at the Corio Hotel.)

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You are probably wondering what financial planning went into a recently bankrupted 7 year old, managing to get the set before most of his peers. It was simple really. I used my lunch money on tuckshop days, spent every cent of my pocket money & got some Preps to cough up money on the false promise that I could get Miss Susan to say their name on TVN 7’s, ‘Romper Room’

From 1972-1977, I got the full set of VFL football cards. In 1974 I joined forces with Stevie Jones, but by season’s end, he’d lost interest and generously allowed me to keep the cards*.

(*Update - Since publishing this piece, lawyers acting on Stevie Jones behalf have filed an injunction and this claim is being disputed)

As well as the Scanlen’s cards, I had a scattered collection of other series. Mobil made a limited series of large footy cards. You’d get a single card when you filled up and dad would surprise me when he came home from work: These were a prized possession.

(Footscray’s Bernie Quinlan hovers above the Western Oval taking a chest mark)

For a couple of years, Sunicrust Bread put small cartoon footy cards in each loaf. Illustrated by Melbourne cartoonist William Ellis Green or WEG as he signed, his Footy Funnies featured Aussie Rules euphemisms, vernacular & puns, rather than recognisable players. On the back there was an explanation of the etymology and factoids of questionable, historical provenance. These cards fed my burgeoning interest in comedy, sport & history. I was obsessed with them.

Here were some of my favourites.

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I kept all of my cards in a large, solid cardboard box under my bed. Due to my reputation in the extended family for collecting, I became a magnet for other people’s long-forgotten collections. My nana dug out some old VFA, VFL & Wills Cigarette cards that my grand-dad had stashed away. Her sister, Aunty Dolly passed on some Giant Brand Licorice cards, featuring Test & Sheffield Shield Cricketers from the 1930’s. The selection featured a Don Bradman card.

Into the collection soup went some NSW Rugby League cards donated by family friends from Sydney; some NFL cards sent to me by my pen friend, Doug De Croix from Illinois, and a half hearted attempt to collect Planet of the Apes cards.

(I have no idea who this character is. Weirdly, I don’t think I watched a single episode of the show, but other kids at school were collecting them, so I wanted in.)

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By mid high school, the collection had stagnated, but I still took pride in my horde and the box remained safe and close at hand under my bed, until …

It was 1984. I was 19 and mid way through my second year of my Diploma of Education - Primary at the Institute of Catholic Education - Mercy Campus, Ascot Vale, where I was majoring in having the time of my life. It was a Tuesday night and I’d just got home from footy training at Old Paradians. I’d had a big weekend so I’d opted for an early night, but sleep didn't come easily. Something was amiss, but I wasn’t sure what. A repressed memory slowly surfaced and I slid my hand under the bed to fish around for the box, but it didn't come to hand. I jumped out of bed to have a look. It was not there.

In a state of panic, the rest of the memory began to take shape. At that time, my nephews Ben (10) & Sean (7) would visit each Saturday morning with my brother Chris, on their way to play basketball down the street at Watsonia Tech. They would sometimes ask if they could play with the cards and I would acquiesce. On this particular occasion, whilst I was passing in and out of a beer inspired delirium, it seems they had exchanged the word ‘play’ for ‘keep’.

The next day I rang Chris to check that my hunch was fact. He concurred that the boys did in fact ask me for the cards, and that I had said that they could keep them. I argued that the truth was being stretched here, but all would be forgiven, once the cards were returned.

‘They can’t give them back,’ he responded matter of factly. ‘They took them to school and swapped them for a racing set’

I heard the words, but thought the course of events so improbable, they must have been having a lend, so I decided to go around to their place in Mill Park.

‘What are you doing?’ Chris asked as I rummaged through the boys toy cupboard.

‘Umm, looking for my footy cards that your boys stole!’

‘I told you what happened. They're gone mate,’ and he left me to lick my wounds amidst the strewn lego and soft toys.

As you can tell from the tone of this section, I’m still licking those wounds. I have of course forgiven the boys, and Chris, but what I haven’t properly forgiven is the 19 year old version of me that didn't push harder for the situation to be resolved as it should have been. Chris had 3 kids under 10 and had bigger problems to worry about and the boys were, well, boys. Mind you, I still happily throw Ben & Sean under the bus whenever I can. I’ve shamed them on commercial breakfast radio and in broadly syndicated punt. Rather disappointingly, rather than cowering, they wear it like a badge of pride. Neither of them will get a penny in my will.

(Hardened criminals, Slugger Sean (left) & Benny the Bruiser are seen here putting the heat on the Laird of Watsonia. Also pictured is younger sister Nicole (3), who was not part of their cartel. Ironically she went on to be a foundation & premiership player for the Western Bulldogs & has her own footy card.)

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I recall at the time experiencing a sense of loss that went beyond cards in a box. I felt a deep pang that this, my most significant heirloom to date, would not pass down to my own kids. For the first time, I felt a tangible connection to the cycle of procreation, and I was briefly hoisted from the callowness of youth. It was passing. By Friday night, I was in the Ladies Lounge of the Laurel Hotel in Ascot Vale dressed as Mr Squiggle drinking Kahlua and milk from a beer jug.

The idea of the dowry lingered in my peripheral consciousness and wouldn't manifest again until age 33. The spark this time came from the revelation that I wouldn’t have kids. My diagnosed infertility meant there would be no children to whom I could pass on my footy cards, my stories, my mannerisms, my sweet tooth, my love of lists. Over time, I began to feel a sense of freedom from this bond. I could navigate my own life, without having to make sure smaller versions of myself didn’t drink kahlua and milk out of a jug. This may sound selfish, but it came after much heartache and the end of my marriage. At this point my dowry consisted of a second hand Mitsubishi Magna & a stubby holder collection, so my imaginary kids weren’t missing out on much.

I’m a storyteller by nature, specialising in the ‘lonely ouvre’, so my ‘missing footy card’ story is on high rotation and may even be up for inclusion on ‘Callinan’s Loneliest Hits- Volume 3’. Back in the naughties, I was a core cast member on the Channel 10 sketch comedy show, ‘skithouse.’ Once when we were filling in time between scenes on location, I found myself sharing the story in the unit van. The elves present were visibly moved by the sight of Gandalf detailing the trauma of being separated from his beloved footy card collection.

The next day when I arrived on set, I was met by my good mate, Scod Edgar. In his hand he held a wooden box. He explained that he’d made it himself in woodwork class at Haileybury College. He opened the box. Within it were his own footy cards.

“Man, that story broke my heart,‘ he said. ‘I want you to have these.’ Before I could argue, he slipped on his stormtrooper helmet and walked to set.

I still have the cards and the box.

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My friend David Lawrence, an author, comedy writer and performer, also heard the story and kindly gave me his cards as well. Over the next 12 months others chipped in donations here and there, even single cards they’d found in a draw somewhere. My collection was growing so there was nothing for it - I got myself another cardboard box.

Since then, I’ve continued to accumulate with op shop purchases, and buying a few packs most seasons. I started throwing all manner of other ephemera into the mix. I’ve just now gone through the box and here is the inventory …

• VFL/AFL cards - 1933 to present

• AFLW cards - 2023 to present

• AFL Lego style Figurines (designed by Paul Harvey for Coles)

• NRL Rugby League cards - 1975 to present

• World Series Cricket cards 1978/79

• Australian Olympic Hero cards - 1995

• Basketball cards

• Giant Licorice Crocket cards - 1930’s (I found the Don Bradman in another box!)

• Tazos featuring - Simpsons & Warner Brother cartoon characters & film promotions including Space Jam, Indiana Jones, Star Wars & Jurassic park.

• Goosebumps hologram cards

• Telstra phone cards

• Promotional holy / footy cards from the controversial ensemble show, Midnight Mass (2000) at Victorian Trades Hall.

  

  … and the best discovery of all

• Promotional footy cards from my dear mate Cal Wilson’s Melbourne Comedy Festival show, ‘Up There Cal Wilson’

(I’d forgotten I’d saved these. It has made my day)

If you happen to have your own footy cards or see a box at the counter when you’re filling up for petrol on a road tip, I highly recommend this. In 2013, while I was touring my show ‘Cave to the Rave’ with Country Arts WA, the tour party made up our ad hoc game based on footy cards. One year on tour in WA, my wife Zillah, tour manager Jade Masters, we played our own ad hoc footy card game. At every servo stop I’d buy Zillah, Jade and myself a pack. They would be opened one by one as we drove, awarding points based on an entirely arbitrary system. The points would be added up, and the results recorded in a log book.

Here’s a sample list of our points attribution.

• Redheads - Plus 5 points

• Sleeve tatts - Plus 1 point per sleeve

• Tatts of children or partner - Minus 1 point

• Hyphenated names - Minus 1 point

• Premature balding - Plus 2 points

• Involved in off field indiscretions - Plus 1 point per incident

• Visible bandages - Plus 1 point per item

• Aspiring media career post football - Minus 2 points

• Multiple Club Player - Plus one point per club (Rewarding the journeymen)

• Has a more talented sibling playing at AFL Level - Minus 1 point

• Has a less talented sibling playing at AFL Level - Plus 1 point

• Club’s Designated Biggest Dickhead - Minus 5 points (They’ve all got one)

(Feel free to make up your own and leave them in the comments)

‘The Box Mark 2’ has become less a quest to ‘get the set’, and more an accumulation of narratives. The original box had evidence of my first crime, my nana’s thoughtfulness, my dad’s kindness in thinking of me on his way home from work, Luke Elder’s generous gesture, Weg’s gift of melding sport, comedy, language and history … and so many more. I still have those memories, just not the physical reminders.

Football cards are in themselves a story. Some are straight forward, but others beg more questions. Why was Carlton rover Vin Cattogio wearing jeans in his 1976 portrait? Did Richmond ruckman Mike Green see a ghost in 1970? Why did Fitzroy centreman Daryl Peoples hold the footy like he’d never seen one before in 1967? They are a moment captured in time: sometimes the last image of a player before he retired, changed teams or lost the mullet. But with some cards, it’s the backstory that is most compelling. One of the most expensive cards on the collector market is that of Peter Bennett, who was an Adelaide Crows foundation player in 1991. The card’s value is inflated by the fact that he is the only person to ever appear on a football card, who didn’t play a single game.

(It looks like Vin is at least wearing his good jeans.)

(The ghost appears to be appreciably taller than Mike, so perhaps he had reason to be concerned.)

(‘No, absolutely no idea what this is … is it edible?’)

(Peter Bennett did play over 30o games for SANFL club South Adelaide, by that won’t be the trivia question.)

The direction of the new collection changed course a couple of years ago, when Luke Flood reached out to me. I’ve known Luke for over 20 years through his association as the graphic designer for the Melbourne Comedy Festival & working with his wife Emer Harrington, at various arts organisations. He said he wanted to catch up with me personally, as there was something he wanted to give me. We met up at the Sporting Club Hotel in Brunswick. After we ordered a round, he handed me a plastic Chinese take away container full of footy cards. Luke had read a promotional piece that The Guardian had run called ‘Three Things with Damian Callinan’, in which I mentioned the cards were the thing I regretted most losing. As a result of reading this, he felt I was the right person to be the custodian of this particular collection. Then he told me the story.

He’d borrowed these cards from a close friend, to use them as inspiration for some design work he was doing. He’d been meaning to return them for some time, but in the end they couldn’t be given back. His friend had died at his own hand. Luke didn’t know what to do with them, but something made him think that perhaps I could give them purpose or, at least a home. Until now, I haven’t known what to do with them, but here they are in this story and his dear friend’s memory becomes part ‘The Box Mark 2’s narrative.

From here, I’m not sure what the future of this collection is, but the cards seem to be emerging to tell their story. Maybe they’ll get a fancy album so they can be more easily viewed, but that seems too prosaic. Perhaps there is a book, or a show, a podcast, a musical .. or a cease and desist order from my nephews.

In the meantime if you were living in the Mill Park area in Melbourne’s northern suburbs in the 1980s, and attended St Francis of Assissi Catholic Primary School, ask around and see if you know someone who swapped a racing car set for a box of footy cards.

NB - To reward myself for finishing the story, I’ve been saving up opening a new packet of 2025 AFL cards. Here I go … Oh no!!, Tom Papley … minus 5 points! Anyone want to swap?

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NEW EDIT!! - After reading the story, my close mate & neighbour, Rusty Berther - musical comedian & footy card collector, gave me a pile of ‘swaps’ today. Scanlen’s Footy cards from the 1982, 1990 & 1991 season, but most impressively, a selection ‘Scanlen’s Young Talent Time cards from 1986.