My favourite footballer – ever – is dead. Robbie Flower. At 59.

I can’t believe it. It’s hit me like Rodney Grinter’s shirtfront on Chris Mew in the 1987 preliminary final at Waverley.

When Jimmy Stynes ran over the mark that day and cost Melbourne a spot in the grand final, Alan Attwood struggled to write his match report on his early model laptop for the tears streaming down his face.

That’s me now. Only this isn’t for a game, but a man.

Warriors, Waverley Park, preliminary final day, 1987.

That match at Waverley was Robbie’s last. There was a beautiful photo taken after the siren, from behind, of Michael Tuck consoling Flower. Not an ounce of fat between them.

But they were cut from different cloth. Tucky was a wiry old bugger who looked like he’d walked to the game all the way from a dusty farm in the depression.

Robbie was different. More breakable. He looked like he had walked from the library at Melbourne High where he was studying Macbeth, which is actually true.

His teammates stared in disbelief when they were introduced to the spindly 17-year-old schoolboy who would be making his debut that day.

He had those daggy specs and a body that belonged to the “before” part of a Charles Atlas body building ad. Only for Robbie, there was no “after”. We didn’t even know what abs were in those days.

But he was as brave as they come. He was all balance, as though those wristbands had some magical quality, enabling him to glide through the opposition like a slalom skier.

I loved to watch him fly for a mark, then start his lateral movement almost before he hit the ground. A study in poise and elegance.

Curiously, he bounced the ball with his left hand.

He was the greatest Demon I’ve seen. Most loyal, too.

He played on the wing. Imagine that. A wingman.

They were the days of wingmen: Keith Greig, Michael Turner, Bryan Wood, Dougie Hawkins, Schimma.

Robbie Flower in the traditional Melbourne red and blue. Photo: Getty

Every team had a couple and you could watch them go at it all day, one-on-one, thoroughbreds in the open spaces. They’d swap sides each quarter, so you would have Robbie on your wing for half the match.

Barassi tried to put Robbie on the back-flank. In fact he did. There was an uproar. Imagine that. An uproar because a coach moved a player from the wing to the back flank.

Those were lean days, even by Melbourne’s standards. Robbie was why you went to the footy.

In 1981, he kicked a goal at the 30-minute mark against Footscray at the Western Oval to give the Demons their only win of the season.

Those who saw it were true believers. They used to joke that Melbourne supporters needed a Melway to get to the Western Oval.

Six years later, in his last season, Melbourne was back out west and won a famous round 22 victory to make the finals, breaking a 23-year drought.

Flower was again instrumental. Wrote Garrie Hutchinson: “In an act of pure will, Flower launched himself at full pace, sailing elegantly across the front of a pack to mark spectacularly in the goal square. His goal put the Demons in front with seconds to spare.”

It seemed the whole football world was happy for Flower. Earlier that season, the Demons had launched a fundraiser with the slogan “Please give Robbie Flower one last chance to play in a final”.

The next week, when the Demons broke the banner at the MCG, a bloke sitting near me stood up and made to leave. He said that he could die happy now that he had seen Robbie Flower run out to play a final.

A few weeks later, Jimmy ran over the mark and it was all over, after 272 games in the red and blue. Dipper had busted Robbie’s collar bone, so he couldn’t have played in the grand final anyway, although he played out the match. Typical.

Jimmy’s already gone. The tsunami got Troy Broadbridge. Cancer claimed Sean Wight before his time.

Now Robbie, way too soon.

Thanks for the memories.

The full Robbie Flower fundraising ad, courtesy of the @melbournefc An Illustrated History tome from 2008. #RIProbbie pic.twitter.com/KImPWDtRdK

— Jesse Hogan (@Jesse_Hogan) October 2, 2014