Shannon Hurn retirement: Why West Coast Eagles wouldn’t have won 2018 AFL premiership without their inspirational leader

I was a big footy fan growing up and had just been drafted into the premiership side of the Eagles. I knew most of the players that day by sight, but when a seemingly middle-aged man with a receding hairline driving an early 2000s Holden Commodore picked me up for my first training session, I couldn’t place him.

“I wonder why this guy had missed out on the flag?” I wondered.

We chatted for most of the drive. He was a backman like me, an interstate draftee like me, and lived around the corner from my host family, so we connected on a lot of levels.

I felt embarrassed I didn’t know who he was. Finally building up the courage, I mumbled apologetically, “I’m really sorry, mate, I’ve forgotten your name.”

The player looked at me with a smirk.

“I’m Bunga, mate, nice to meet you.”

He was just 18 years old.

We would go on to play a lot of footy together, Bunga and I, and we had a terrific connection, both on and off the field. A man of conviction, he always did what he said he was going to do. So, when asked what sort of captain he wanted to be, his reply was typically forthright and succinct.

“A premiership one.”

He achieved his goal in 2018 and we would never have reached that pinnacle without him.

On the field he was hard, ruthless and consistent. He ran in straight lines and never took a backward step. Many times through his career there was talk of moving Hurn to the midfield, but there has never been more of a backman to play the game.

He hated losing. He was grumpy at midfielders for not putting enough pressure on up the ground and the forwards for missing set shots. He was filthy on his own mistakes as well. When he missed a target on gameday, given his lethal kick, he was his own biggest critic.

He was often tasked with kicking out, an underrated skill in the game, especially if you’re one to take risky kicks, which he often was. On one such day at Subiaco Oval, Bunga bit off more than he could chew. He tried to chisel one up the middle at an important time in the game, turned it over and the ball went sailing back over his head for a goal. He was livid.

Before the goal umpire had finished waving his flags, the runner was sent scurrying out by the coach. I was next to Bunga when the message from upstairs was delivered to him.

“Bung, Woosha says he doesn’t want you turning the ball over from kick outs.”

Steam coming out of his ears, Bunga replied, “No shit, Sherlock.”

Bunga went on a run from that day and didn’t miss a target over his next 300 kick-ins, a record that still stands today.

That was the thing with Bunga. He was so ruthless that he didn’t need to be told he had stuffed up. He already knew and was on his way mentally to making sure that never happened again. I think that’s why he was so consistent as a player. He fixed things himself.

He had a huge leg on him, both in the actual size of his legs and the distance he could kick a ball. Legend has it that a plaque lies on the wing at Peel Thunder, both mine and Bunga’s adopted WAFL club, where he kicked a goal from 90 metres out.

People there that day say it was the biggest kick they had ever witnessed in person.

Bunga says it was just a chip kick.

I don’t think I ever heard him sledge an opponent. He let his footy (and the rest of us) do the talking. And he was the best tactical on-field leader I ever played under. He could pick up trends in the game instantly and adjust the way we were defending or moving the ball before the coaches had a chance to send a message down to us.

He was a big-moment-player. I remember many occasions where he took on the opposition’s best player in a one-on-one hip-and-shoulder and rendered them out of service for the rest of the game.

Travis Boak, the captain of Port Adelaide at the time, met his maker in the middle of Adelaide Oval in a huge game for us; captain versus captain, shoulder to shoulder, as fair a hit as you’ll see.

Boaky stood no chance. Done for the game.

We went in undermanned against a raging Sydney side at Subiaco one night. I was playing on Buddy and Bunga knew I was out matched. Early in the first quarter there was a ball in dispute.

Franklin and Hurn went into a contest.

Only Bunga walked out.

I didn’t have to play on Buddy for the rest of the day.

These contests were fair – they always were when Bunga was involved – but he was just harder.

Off the field he is a humble, simple and happy bloke. A great teammate who genuinely cares about people. Sarcastic in humour but could, and always would, take the piss out of himself first before he did others.

Hardly anyone calls him Shannon. It’s just Bunga.

His father William was a Bunga. William’s father was a Bunga.

My favourite memories from footy as a player – and the thing I probably miss the most – involve sitting around as a backline post game, sometimes with a beer but usually just a water.

We would always be the last group in the changerooms still in our match day gear, talking and laughing about all the stupid shit that had just happened during the game. And always, without fail, in the centre of the circle and the laughs was Bunga.

Whether it be missed kickouts, dumb free kicks, maybe a hanger taken on your head. No matter the result, win, lose or draw, Bunga could always have a laugh after it was all said and done.

He loves the game, probably more than anyone I know.

He’s going to miss it and it will certainly miss him.

He won’t be gone for long, though. I know he wants to coach one day.

But, before that, there will be some chores to do around the family farm in Angaston, South Australia.

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Sheep shorn.

Fences fixed.

Then he will be back.