Three years ago, Melbourne Football Club saw the future. With some help. Bruce Hearn Mackinnon was the medium in question, and the tall, dark, lithe and crazily gifted figure in their visions was called Jurrah.

Mackinnon, the knockabout management and marketing lecturer who wrote The Liam Jurrah Story: from Yuendumu to the MCG, launched at the ‘G last month to a crowd remarkable for its size and composition (scarfed artistic-types, footballers, ex-sports stars, a large media contingent, administrators, publishers, publicists, indigenous people and assorted suits) has often been asked whether a book about a man with a handful of games to his name is premature. He responds that Jurrah’s AFL career is incidental to his significance. “When he finishes, he’ll write his own bloody book. He won’t need me.”

The way Jurrah’s going, he’ll be good at it, too. There are reasons to hope so. To those residing in this country whose first impulse upon hearing the name of an aboriginal, or seeing one, is harsh derision (there are still plenty among AFL fans), what better response than to surpass them at almost everything?

He’s already resourceful beyond education. If a whitefella could play guitar, bass, piano and drums, sing, shoot hoops, bust dance moves like Jacko at will, and speak three languages, he’d be considered a veritable renaissance man. Jurrah does all that, and plays AFL football. Brilliantly. “He was always seen as something special”, says Mackinnon. “He was the NT’s Young Australian of the Year, not just for his football, but his youth leadership. Things he’d already achieved.”

*

In 2009, Liam Jurrah walked out of our collective blind spot from the searing, blood-red Tanami desert, clad in jeans, thongs and a T-shirt, and began a quiet revolution. Never before had anyone from a desert community played AFL.

Yuendumu is the biggest indigenous community in Central Australia, yet AFL recruiters have traditionally focused on centres close to Darwin, Alice Springs and Perth.

But it isn’t just a whitefella blind spot. The communities have been victims of local prejudices as well.

“Great players don’t play in those centres for all sorts of reasons. To play with NT Thunder, you have to leave your community and live in Darwin”, says Mackinnon. Community reluctance has deep roots. The cities symbolise troubles. Many elders believe they are the reason many youngsters have lost respect for the traditions; the reason so many have perished, from alcoholism, or violence, or shame.

Jurrah knows his importance. “Tradition is our number one priority back home. We have to keep our culture strong and pass it on to our cousins and sons, not just my tribe, but all over.”

*

Stars had to align to get Jurrah to Melbourne. In 2007, Mackinnon, operating on behalf of a “maverick” Collingwood coterie group called the Industrial Magpies, dedicated to race relations, was the first.

Yuendumu, famous for an annual sports carnival, a community of artists and a TV comedy, Bush Mechanics, lies 295km north-west of Alice Springs, right in the centre of nowhere in the eyes of most urban dwellers; a place where everything is different.

When time is constant, memory means something else. Ancestors mean something else. Relationships, goodbyes—life means something else. Desert time is constant. The land shows few signs of upheaval. Nature has done pretty much as she has been expected to do for centuries. To come to the cities from such a place is to be misunderstood on almost every level. Jurrah’s very dirt is unlike ours, which bears atoms of the men and women buried in it, now withered to the dust that surrounds us, our great plurality resolved into soil. Yuendumu’s red sands hold the dust of one people of common skin, unchanged for centuries.

Mere happenings mean something else. When time is constant, everything happens when it is meant to happen. By 2009, after 150 years of Australian Rules football, Liam Jurrah was meant to happen.

His triumph is worth the telling. Never mind that he’s the first player in a decade to kick 50 in his first 20 games, or took the 2010 mark of the year. Our soil was an unfamiliar place, inhabited by hordes he’d never seen before, who spoke words he’d rarely heard before, who insisted he think differently about time.

Of all the stories in Mackinnon’s book, the most poignant relates an incident when Jurrah was trying to get onto Collingwood’s supplementary list via the VFL. When the Industrial Magpies first brought him to Melbourne, he quickly became a cult figure. A kid asking him for an autograph was met with a forceful “no”, and trudged off dejectedly with his dad. Days later, Mackinnon, knowing Liam as a gentle, accommodating man and still perplexed, went into Liam’s room – he was staying with Mackinnon– and found dozens of practice autographs scribbled onto bits of paper. He’d never had to sign his name for anyone before. A little kid in a familiar jumper brought him face-to-face with his own alienness. Even his biographer and friend had misunderstood just how profound was his alienation.

When Jurrah hurriedly returned to Yuendumu to care for a dying friend, he was fulfilling many roles, not just commitments of friendship or family. But Collingwood didn’t understand that.

Jurrah was finally de-listed. A pity, because most kids in Yuendumu wear Collingwood jumpers. Boys go on to play for the Yuendumu Magpies. The fit was perfect. Mackinnon and other Magpie fans were left to gnash their teeth. Mackinnon was told Jurrah couldn’t make the “cultural leap”. He suggested that the ‘Pies should at least do some of the leaping.

If those stars hadn’t aligned so carefully, Jurrah wouldn’t be here.

*

Liam Jurrah is also the first fully-initiated aboriginal to play AFL football. What this means exactly is secret business. It brings tremendous obligations. He’s not on furlough. He’s here on “Warlpiri business”, and keenly conscious of it.

Ten years ago, writing about the extensive list of Aboriginal sportpeople who go missing, I noted their untenable dual citizenship; the impossible task of being physically in two places at once, and how this was misunderstood by European society. Gary Dhurrkay found the strain too great, and left North Melbourne. Before he returned to Nhulunbuy, he said, “’Football has robbed me of my beliefs. If I don’t learn the ways I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”

Jurrah handles his dual citizenship well. He identifies three potential issues for boys from Yuendumu: Time, traffic and intensity. The support of his community, and his unflustered, insightful and understanding nature are big reasons why he’s still in Melbourne.

He was wary of the ocean at first, felt trepidation about eating outdoors at Carlton restaurants, knowing it was the home of Melbourne’s gangland, could barely make it around “the Tan” during a training run, and was nearly flung off a treadmill the first time he tried to use one. He is different. He feels different. He also knows he is important.

“But”, says Mackinnon, “whatever’s on, he just deals with it.”

There is always a temptation to “tread on eggshells” when writing about aboriginal sportspeople. But many bush aborigines don’t take our issues as seriously as we urbanites take them. The day Mackinnon and a mate were on the edge of their seats watching Rudd’s apology, Liam was in another room, riveted by Terminator.

 The cheeky sense of irony that helps them deal with dire situations is often overlooked. Jurrah knows how to balance all that gravity with levity.

Aaron Davey, recognised leader of Melbourne’s indigenous boys, has the role of helping Liam adapt, yet recognises his position. Mackinnon believes many are quietly in awe of this initiated man, and Jurrah knows it. Once, dubbed “Wizard” by an indigenous team mate, and obviously not wanting the nickname to stick, he said, “don’t call me that, or I’ll make you sick.” His mate’s momentary horror was met with a broad, mirthful grin.

“Melbourne’s been back to Yuendemu twice, but Aaron won’t go”, says Mackinnon. “Liam says he’s a bit worried about being dragged out and initiated! But I can’t speak highly enough of Aaron. He understands how to use humour to make Liam feel at home.”

Melbourne’s Personal Development coach, Ian Flack, once asked Liam what it was about whitefella humour he had most difficulty with.

Liam looked studious for a moment, then he said, in all seriousness, “irony.”

Ironic.

*

Something about Jurrah makes you flick through your memory, recalling all the aboriginal people you have met in the past, before it strikes you: it’s his full-bloodedness. The AFL hasn’t seen many. This matters more to whitefellas than to indigenous people.

There should have been many like him by now anyway. But it’s no coincidence that others from the remote communities have started to trickle in since his debut, like Zephaniah Skinner for the Bulldogs and Liam Patrick (Jurrah’s cousin) for the Gold Coast. Others have already come and gone, quickly enough to remind us of the old malady. In fact, at the end of last year, twenty aboriginal players were de-listed by AFL clubs, for all sorts of reasons—most preventable.

Three months ago, we wrote about Adam Goodes coming to terms with his aboriginality, and how his exploration of his own identity is allowing him to integrate other kids into AFL culture. On the indigenous axis, Jurrah is at the opposite end. He knows exactly who he is, and his initiation has given him uncommon courage, self-belief and identity as he tries to straddle these two worlds, and help others do the same.

He does everything with an uncanny certitude. After all, he’s experienced something a lot of European kids haven’t: ritual closure on his childhood.

“In himself, he’s a man. He walks tall and doesn’t have to look up to anybody”, says Mackinnon. “I don’t mean he doesn’t respect people. But he doesn’t think of himself as a boy who needs to become a man.”

Jurrah wants to help Yuendumu boys when they come, imparting the lessons he’s learned. “In Yuendumu, sometimes things aren’t right, but as soon as you get them involved in the footy, their minds are on the footy every week and they’re training. At home, we’d train for an hour, then maybe have a bit of chat, a bit of language, just havin’ fun. If they come here, they need to keep time. Turn up on time. That just comes with everything here. That’s a big thing.”

If he and Goodes ever worked together, the possibilities for indigenous boys would be as wide as a desert horizon.

*

A thread of freakish talent is provided by Jurrah’s family in Yuendumu. Men like Sherman and Kasman Spencer and Herman Sampson are legends of the Central Australian game. His dad, Leo, was the “Black Lockett”. Mackinnon’s book tells their amazing tales.

In 2008, when he returned to the Yuendumu Magpies in the AFLCA competition after his stint at Collingwood, they won twelve in a row, made the Grand Final, and won against the powerful Pioneer Eagles from Alice Springs. Then he got recruited by Nightcliff Tigers, in Darwin. He played three games, and for each one, he’d drive 300 km to Alice Springs, fly from Alice to Darwin, kick five or six, fly back to Yuendumu next day and drive home. Training wasn’t an option.

Those three games were enough. Every prejudice was blown away by his undeniable talent. The recruiters took notice. Importantly, Jurrah saw his own potential, and realised how important his dream was to him.

Aaron Davey, in Darwin for a funeral, attended a game to see a player named Roy Farmer, a relative of Austin Woneamirri’s, and instead his attention was dominated by Jurrah. He came back and said to Barry Prendergast, the Melbourne recruiter, “mate, I’ve seen the next Buddy Franklin. You’ve got to get up and watch this blackfella Liam Jurrah. He can do anything.”

North Melbourne had already made a clumsy approach. Melbourne went out of their way from the start, with help from Collingwood ex-player Rupert Betheras—one of those bohemian characters AFL football occasionally throws up, from the mould of Brett Kirk, James Manson and Robert Murphy—who helped clear those unnecessary paper barriers.

Jurrah, after all, had little record of his existence: no birth certificate, rental records, dental records, work history, medical history. Nothing. He was expected to have all this, as though he’d spent his life living like the rest of us.

Betheras hounded the AFL, knowing Liam hadn’t been in the national draft—essential for a second chance in the pre-season draft. He got Mackinnon to write the AFL a letter. “We said, ‘look, you gotta bend the rules here. This kid doesn’t know about forms and signatures. He doesn’t even speak the language.’ We had 36 hours to convince the AFL, and at the last minute they let Liam go through.”

Ben Cousins should be thankful Melbourne got Jurrah. It was Jurrah Richmond had in their sights before they finally gave Cousins the reprieve his career—his life—needed.

*

He hasn’t reached that potential, yet when you cast your eyes over the young, talented men playing now, Jurrah detains them the longest. How talented is he? Ridiculously. From the first of his mere 34 games, this man has shown he can bolt like Usain, weight a pass superbly, goal from anywhere—left or right foot— pull down startling marks—one or two hands— and chase down anyone. He’s already attracted a career’s worth of media.

There’s something in the way he sees, plays and feels the game that you know might change it forever if similar men come down from The Centre.

Watch their version of footy and you’ll know why. Maybe it has to do with the lack of physical abundance in other areas of life. They long for a football. They don’t crudely covet it. They play as though they’re breaking bread – notwithstanding the odd “all-in” that, according to Jurrah, often involves cousins, brothers and cousin-brothers, players and non-players.

With eyes that feel and hands that see, Jurrah doesn’t attack the ball, he loves it. He shares it. He caresses it through the posts. He sends it home.

He climbs air like a gecko climbing a wall. Even without other shoulders to rise on, he rises, limbs all asprawl, so the photos look something like Arnhem Land rock portraits. Gaining invisible footholds, he clutches unseen pockets and ridges, and he ascends. The way he uses his limbs sets him apart.

In his debut year, 2009, he kicked this particular goal. The ball had found its way to the end of Melbourne’s goal square, and ricocheted around as eight men strained to get hold of it. He was on the deck, out of action it seemed, in danger of being crushed by the contending pack. But he remained reclined, watching the ball the whole time, his left leg feeling the air like a bush cockroach’s antenna. The Sherrin bobbled up out of the hands of two Fremantle players. Suddenly that leg struck out, but gently, just enough to send the ball over their heads, out of arm’s reach—there was no other passage through. They all froze, mid-labour, variously dismayed and amazed, and watched it lob gently, teasingly, behind them over the goal line.

The same year, he snapped one with his back completely to goal. There were no contortions. He’d obviously done it a thousand times. It travelled 30 metres—a very long way for such a kick— and never wavered.

For his mark of the year last season—taken after he’d missed the first 15 games with a shoulder injury requiring reconstruction—he didn’t just rise upward from the ground, but launched a spectacular arc three metres behind the pack, at full pace, collected the ball on the way and landed, head-first, in front of it—tucking that shoulder in just in time. Then he goaled.

Now the Demons, on their knees three years ago, are fired up again. Their indigenous boys are fired up too, partly inspired by the miracles of this desert man, and, perhaps, his sheer legitimacy.

“Jurrah understands”, coach Dean Bailey told the author, “It’s not just innate or special abilities. On the bench, he’s initiated discussions.” Once, he made a strangely impressionistic, but lucid, comment: “I’m leading a bit early. I’m taking up my own space.” Bailey says, “A lot of good players don’t understand that stuff.”

*

Home will always impel him, as it does other aboriginal boys. This has to be understood, but understanding is absolutely worth it; worth at least as much as the money spent on getting kids out from Ireland.

Since Jurrah has been here, some terrible, tragic incidents involving family and friends have happened back at Yuendumu. These problems are chronic. Stuck in the middle, he’s felt heavy expectation. He’s managed mediate to an extent, meet his responsibilities, then come back to Melbourne to train and play, often without a word to team mates.

The AFL, like any culture, has a constant need for the new. Remote communities are full of talented kids with misgivings. The clubs know more than they used to, but, according to Mackinnon, “they still have a lot to learn. It requires engagement not just with the individual, but the community. Clubs have to put something back. Meet them. Arrange to bring kids. It’s a massive ask.”

On the other hand, such a movement will take on its own momentum. The more they come, the more they will come.

But giving them accommodation, providing them a conduit to white society, is one thing. Part of the job is to introduce them; demystify them. Show the bigots their humour, their human side. The biggest favour the AFL can do is let people see the glint in their eye and re-launch them in our minds. They have this power. They have done more for integration than any other organisation, sporting or otherwise.

Still, an uprising of sorts has begun at the club where Aussie Rules began—an AFL club the boys in Yuendumu can actually play for, not just follow.

The Yuendumu Magpies have their black-and-white jumpers. Most remain Collingwood fans. But today, a lot more of them wear the red and blue of the revolution.

Published in Inside Sport, September, 2011