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In pissing rain on Saturday, the young Hawks, several of them shorter than the Auskickers, were gambolling about in the warmup – posing for selfies, piggybacking one another, practising their celebrations. This wasn’t the Hawthorn I grew up with. This wasn’t the Hawthorn of John Kennedy Sr, the Hawthorn that Alastair Clarkson tapped into – conservative, uncompromising, utterly contemptuous of mediocrity and individualism.
“Fit in or fuck off,” Clarkson told Josh Gibson, who was partial to the envelope openings and the Portsea Polo. “Leave the carry-on to clowns,” he told others.
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