Ryan Daniels: No matter how Fremantle Dockers’ season ends, Nat Fyfe will always be an AFL great

Modern fairytales always end in a similar way. Good over evil, valour, gallantry and courage will prevail. The dragon is slain, the big bad wolf defeated, the wicked witch is dead. Happily ever after. For Nat Fyfe, Freo’s eternal Prince Charming, the end is near. His fairytale, as he would put it, is awaiting its final chapter. “Yet here we are, in the final hour of this story with the dream still alive.” That was Nat Fyfe last week, moments after announcing his retirement. For 16 years his whole life has revolved around one thing. Putting a big, shiny cup in that infamously empty cabinet. For a long time, the Dockers were Nat Fyfe. They would go only as far as he could take them — the man, the myth, the brand. A true football rock star, complete with a range of hairstyles only Moira Rose could rival. Every pre-season, us journos would clamour along the fence at Freo Oval or Cockburn, keen to see what “look” Fyfe would go with. The Viking, the man bun, the goatee. He collected Brownlows, posed in iconic topless photos, a skinny kid from Lake Grace had morphed into football’s wolverine. An Adonis. This was the Alpha of the AFL — and he knew it. As Fyfe recalled, it was good to be the king. “It was amazing. You feel like you understand how the world works. Everything you do turns into the thing you want it to. There’s just so much confidence in your perspective on the world.” Nat Fyfe is no longer that player. He’s now the wily veteran, the old timer sitting in the corner of the locker room who’s lost his fastball — bathing in Dencorub and helping the kids understand the game. It’s no longer Nat Fyfe’s world, or even Nat Fyfe’s team. And maybe, more than ever, the supporters, his teammates, even those who don’t bleed purple, see him as a human — not a Marvel hero. “It becomes a very humbling space to work in,” Fyfe said. “I used to joke about older players in the last couple of years of their career, trying to string together a couple of games — and how I would never go back to the twos, to try and get form just to get a spot in the team. “And yet I’ve become that player, and I just think that’s beautiful.” It’s the love of the game that’s kept Fyfe in this space the last few years as he’s battled injury, form and outside noise. And, of course, that empty cabinet. Tomorrow, the Dockers put their season, and Fyfe’s fairytale ending, on the line. Win, they play finals. Lose, they won’t. It’s painfully simple. In an extremely Dockery situation, a club will miss finals this year with a record number of wins for ninth spot. Of course, there’s a chance it’s Freo. They already have 15 wins. Three more than last year. For just the sixth time in their 30 seasons, they’ve won more than 65 per cent of their games. In every other one of those seasons, they’ve made finals and played at least two of them. There’s a chance none of that matters. Just this one game. For 30 years, the Dockers have farewelled their greats without that holy grail — glory and eternity made way for “what ifs” and “what could’ve beens”. During last week’s post-match moment at Optus, off a 57-point loss to Brisbane, a stunned purple army clapped through Fyfe’s speech. They stood and applauded his sort-of lap of honour, the exit guard of players from both teams, his family and closest friends. It was an awkward half-goodbye that just didn’t feel right — because that’s not how it’s supposed to be. From our earliest memories we’re taught that fairytales don’t end that way. And that’s been the lump in the throat all along with Fremantle. It was with Pav, with Sonny, with Dave and Sandi. The ending just didn’t fit. Nat Fyfe’s legacy doesn’t depend on a premiership, or even a win against the Western Bulldogs. He’s a hall of fame certainty, a Dockers icon. Once a king, always a king. But that doesn’t he mean he, and you, can’t dream. Whichever way this falls tomorrow, right now the heart is still beating. The final pages blank. One last one from Fyfe, on what that moment would look like, an MCG covered with purple confetti, Song of the Volga Boatmen on repeat. “There’s a couple of different scenes I picture, teammates around me, and just soaking in, I guess, that hardship that all our fans that will be there have experienced over so many years,” Fyfe said. “And just seeing the joy and relief it brings on their faces and being able to celebrate that with them. “I picture this feeling of closure, of the end of a job. You’ve done enough, you can go now, and that sounds pretty good.”