As a Collingwood champion of seventeen years, the Macedonian Marvel was a phenomenon whose ball-handling skills put him in a league occupied by few others. Even today, when basic skills are taken for granted, no-one approaches his ability to kick impossible goals under extreme pressure. As Robert Drane found out, he still can if he needs to.

What does a legend of the game do after he retires?

I work for Channel 10 on a Saturday afternoon and then in the evening for 3AW. Aside from the family, my Monday to Friday commitment is with Drake International, as a new business manager.

What’s the trip been like for you since 1993?

I’m not really out for adulation, but not a week goes by where I don’t think, “boy I wish I was still playing”. I joined as a fifteen-year old, so I do miss it. But I’m glad I only played at Collingwood. I’ve done well outside football, because of the association. Once you build a reputation at a club you’ve got to make sure it benefits you somehow. When I played, a lot of guys from lesser clubs had to kick five or six goals to rate the same mention as I got on a bad day.

By 24, I was heavily into properties and by my early 30s, I owned five hotels. It went bad, but I didn’t just rely on football. I love the diversity of what I do, and I love a challenge. I’ll never just rely on one source of income.

Tell us about the time it went bad.

At the time of the 1990 Premiership, I lost my pub. Grand Final week wasn’t a good week. I played on Saturday, and on the Sunday, Mick McGuane was standing next to me when a bloke came up and issued a summons for bankruptcy.

You seem a pretty hopeful bloke. Was it football that helped you deal with setbacks?

I think it was upbringing and background. My parents had to overcome a lot. Sometimes I have a chuckle when they talk about commitment in football and sacrifice. Dad’s father died on a boat coming over here. Left my grandmother behind. She found out six months later when the letter arrived. She grabbed my father and told him they were going to a new country – didn’t even know what language they spoke here – and when he arrived at 14, he was working in a foundry. If you ask me where my bones were made it was through my father. When I went broke, I had to battle for quite a few years. I’d lost a couple of million and owed a couple of million. The thing that jolted me back into action was my kids. I virtually played the last two years just to pay the creditors. I derived incomes from all over the place, and for five years there, I did seven days a week – night stuff, day stuff. Coming home, quickly getting changed, driving off to the country, doing a sports night, whatever. It was a bit of a grind for us, but we’ve got there.

Where do you want to be?

Aside from being content, I want to be kept interested. I find retirement hard to grasp. People plan ten years out from retirement. My father still works. I can’t stop him. He’s got split discs in his back, the works. But watching your father go at it makes you feel pretty guilty if you’re sitting on your backside. I’m helping a few players from different clubs, and just talking to them. It’s no different from the work I do with Drake. In the end you’ve got to help people grow.

Your education seems to be a practical one. Do you ever read, or like art, or movies?

I love movies. Art’s like wine to me. Show me a fake and if I’m happy, I’ll buy it, whether it’s two dollars or ten dollars. Love properties, scouring the papers. Love autobiographies. I’m not that interested in the end of success. I want to know about what they did. I always like to ask people how they got started. Tell me the kicks in the pants. I like to know how they turned it around, what they were thinking at the time.

I love collecting odd stuff. Old doors and windows. I’ve got a mate, Kevin Klower, who does demolitions, and I do a couple of days’ work for him and just take what I want. I could virtually build a house out of the stuff I’ve got. I probably like being a bit different.

Your cousin, Jimmy Pavlides, is a renowned artist. I gather that hasn’t rubbed off, then?

It’s funny. As a footballer, you get so absorbed in your own existence, you tend to be oblivious to the achievements of others outside. But one day I’ll be saying to him, “Listen, maybe 15, 20 years ago I was your hero, but you’ve ended up being my hero. People might ask, ‘are you related to Jimmy Pavlides?’”

I once worked with a woman who said she taught you in secondary school.

Oh yeah. Was I a good kid?

She said you got up to the odd thing. Can’t remember specifics. You tell me…

At Preston East High School, my only interest – and where I’d get into trouble – was running out onto the ground before the bell went for lunch, so I could get a kick, and coming back in five or ten minutes after the bell had gone. We used to play scratch matches even at recess. So when the bell went and there was an important goal to be scored, or we were behind and we had to get in front, we had to finish it.

Anything you regret about when you were forced to quit? I felt it was about money pressures at Collingwood, and you actually had a season or so left.

This is really the first time I’ve gone into it, but I was really disappointed and didn’t go back to the club for a long time. People said don’t worry about it, but they don’t understand how I felt, after 17 years’ service, and a lot of bad injuries. The thing that disappointed me was that people lied to me, because on about five occasions they actually said I’d be getting a new contract. It’s still a bit of a touchy point, because people don’t realise it was my whole life. That’s why someone like Eddie McGuire has been good for the club. You have to show some respect for people. As a parent now, I’d want my boy to be looked after.

How did you develop that amazing dribble kick that people at first thought was a fluke, until you got so many goals with it, they realised you were doing it at will?

One point is that you have to do it enough. The other is positioning. The ball comes to the back or the side of the pack, I’m three metres in from the boundary, you win possession, two steps, you kick. I had to perfect it or I was out of a job. Kicking is about touch. The same with handball. I can’t explain to you how hard you’d kick if you wanted 30 metres. How do I explain that? You’ve got to feel it. I remember talking to Tony Shaw one day about anticipation, and he said, “How can you anticipate?” Give yourself a little room, don’t move too quick because the ball can go anywhere, have a look at the positioning of players.

But that kick…what made you practice something so unusual?

The ball lands and you don’t get a lot of room. You’ve got two steps. Most of the time you’ve got guys coming across you, so I had to keep the ball low. I didn’t have the luxury of being further up the ground with a bit of space, take my time and go “boom”. How many times do you see a ball kicked in the air close to goal now? They dribble it. Five years ago they wouldn’t have. No-one gets smothered when they dribble it and they’ve worked that out.

Today, I’d be playing practice matches with 24 players each team. No space. So on game day it’s easier. It’d be difficult with 48, but you always find a way. People get left on a mountain, five below zero and survive. You give people a problem and they find a way.

Attitudes were a little different in those days about a lot of things. There are plenty of rumours about steroids, especially about certain players, and some were Magpies. Were players and coaches a little more liberal then?

Not in my mind. I can understand why it’s such a hot topic. I don’t think we knew too much about ways of enhancing performance. Clubs weren’t run like they are now. People want to be the best, incentives are a lot greater now.

People in the AFL keep saying it’s not an issue now, but they’re human and they can be tempted.  

There’s a war going on overseas. Two planes flew into a building. Does anything surprise you about life anymore? People will sell their kids for 10 thousand dollars, so I’m sure there are players who want to enhance their performance.

How did you feel when Darren Millane died?

A football’s a piece of leather. I lost a friend for life. He was such a loyal person. He was boisterous and out there. There was a lot to him that people didn’t realise. We used to get a couple of grand’s worth of gear from Puma. He’d load up his car – socks, shirts, shorts, trackies and go to the Royal Children’s and hand out posters, jumpers – every couple of weeks. When I went financially bad, he’d force me to go out to dinner. I remember driving home and thinking “geez I’m glad I did that.”

The type of respect he got was interesting. I remember doing a turn with him in Bendigo. Wayne Schwass was there. He was nervous. Pants had given him a hard time in a game. Wayne says to me, “Pants isn’t going to do anything to me? He kept saying he was going to tear my head off and he was going to get me.” I was really surprised. I said “No, he’s not like that.” Within ten minutes, Pants is sitting there with his arm around him. I miss him and I miss the friendship.

Published in Inside Sport, July 2004