It was an incredible game, no doubt. I favoured Fremantle—although Mason Cox gives me the absolute shits—but then who can deny Father Fagan and his crew the three-peat? Later, 65-year-old Fagan, who is the oldest coach in the AFL, confirmed he was considering stepping away from the game.
It begs an important question: “When should you walk away?”
It’s not just relevant to professional sport; the question surfaces in the corporate world and in our private lives.
One version of walking away looks like quitting. And there’s a version that looks like wisdom. The gap between them is timing.
In professional sport, the signs are usually visible before the person sees them—or is willing to. I knew, but didn’t have the conviction to act. I left it to the gatekeepers to close the door.
Fagan is different. At 65, three premierships, he’s not being pushed—he’s choosing the moment. That’s rare. Most stay too long, not because they don’t know, but because what they’re walking away from is the thing that made them.
I’d imagine the corporate world is kinder in some ways. No highlight reel when you resign. The door closes quietly. Sometimes a morning tea, sometimes not.
In private lives—relationships, friendships, habits, places—the question is harder still. We stay in things long past their natural end because leaving feels like failure, or loss, or admitting something we’re not ready to admit. The alternative doesn’t justify the exit, so we stay. And exist.
There’s a difference between leaving and walking. Leaving is reactive—something pushed you. Walking is deliberate—you chose the moment, the direction, the terms.
Chris Fagan might be about to walk. Three premierships, on his own terms, at the right time.
That’s not quitting. That’s the whole thing.
Nick
Superbly articulated