The Carlton Iceberg: Six Stars on a Sea of… Well, You Know.

Alright, let’s dive into the icy depths of the Carlton Football Club’s player list, a topic that, if you’re not a dyed-in-the-wool Bluebagger, probably elicits a knowing nod, a sympathetic sigh, or perhaps a hearty chuckle. As a Collingwood supporter (and let’s be honest, we know a thing or two about squad dynamics), I’ve observed the Carlton phenomenon for years, and it’s increasingly clear: their list is less a well-rounded football team and more an iceberg of questionable depth.
At the visible tip, gleaming in the sunlight and catching the eye, you have the magnificent, undeniable talent. Let’s call them the “six good players.” These are the genuine stars, the bona fide match-winners, the blokes who, on their day, belong in any All-Australian discussion. We’re talking about the midfield beast Patrick Cripps, consistently leading in clearances and racking up huge contested possessions. Then there’s the relentless workhorse Sam Walsh, a top disposal winner with great score involvements. Up forward, the powerful Charlie Curnow is a constant goal-kicking threat, while his partner-in-crime, Harry McKay, offers crucial aerial presence and a strong goal tally too, along with vital contested marks. Down back, the indispensable Jacob Weitering anchors the defense with elite intercept marks and spoils, shutting down key forwards. And quietly, but crucially, George Hewett provides a consistent, high statistical output in the engine room with his tackles and clearances. They are the marketing department’s dream, the highlights reel mainlays, and the reason Carlton fans still cling to hope with the tenacity of a barnacle on a leaky ship. They are genuinely elite, carrying the weight of expectation with a mixture of brilliance and sheer exhaustion.
But here’s where the iceberg analogy becomes tragically apt. For every majestic peak, there’s a vast, unseen, and often alarming mass lurking beneath the surface. And in Carlton’s case, that submerged section seems to be comprised of, shall we say, 16 players who are, to put it mildly, significantly less impactful. These are the players who fill out the numbers, who sometimes look vaguely competent, and who occasionally string together a respectable quarter before disappearing faster than a free kick in a grand final. They are the reason that six good players often look utterly bewildered, constantly looking around for support that simply isn’t there, or is perhaps just jogging slowly in the wrong direction.
The problem with an iceberg, of course, is that most of its mass is hidden. You see the sparkling summit and think, “Wow, what a formidable structure!” But beneath that thin veneer of brilliance lies a substantial chunk of, well, mediocrity. These “underneath” players aren’t necessarily bad people, or even entirely devoid of skill. But in the cut-throat world of AFL, where every player needs to pull their weight and execute their role consistently, this substantial portion of the Carlton squad often falls short. Their disposals can be fumbled, their decision-making rushed, their defensive efforts lacking, and their overall impact on the game negligible.
This creates a brutal paradox for the six stars. They’re constantly forced to do the work of three players, trying to make up for the deficiencies around them. Imagine being a world-class chef, but half your kitchen staff are confused interns who keep setting things on fire, and the other half are just politely watching. You can whip up a Michelin-star dish, but the restaurant still descends into chaos. That’s the Carlton experience. The stars deliver moments of individual brilliance that paper over cracks wide enough to drive a small truck through.
The consequence? Instability. One injury to a top-tier player, and the whole fragile edifice begins to list precariously. The pressure on the remaining five or four “good” players becomes unbearable, and the team’s ability to compete with genuine premiership contenders evaporates faster than a frosty beer on a hot Boxing Day. Opposing teams know this. They know if they can nullify those top six, the rest of the iceberg doesn’t have the collective quality, consistency, or composure to inflict real damage. It becomes a game of containment, a strategy of “let them kick their goals, but shut down their main avenues.”
This squad imbalance also perpetuates the cycle of delusion among the fanbase. Because they see the brilliance of those top six, they genuinely believe the team is “on the verge.” They overlook the consistent underperformance of the majority, focusing only on the visible peaks. “If only ‘Player X’ wasn’t injured,” or “If only ‘Player Y’ kicked that goal,” rather than asking, “Why is there such a massive drop-off in talent from our top six to player number seven, let alone player number twenty-two?”
Ultimately, for Carlton to truly emerge from the chilly waters of mediocrity, they need to address the bulk of the iceberg. It’s not enough to keep polishing the few shining points; they need to elevate the quality, consistency, and collective effort of those 16 players lurking underneath. Until that happens, they’ll remain a frustrating enigma – a team with a handful of stars, constantly battling against the overwhelming weight of their own considerable, submerged deficiencies. And as a Magpies fan, I’ll keep watching, half-amused, half-pitying, as they continue their valiant, yet often futile, struggle against their own icy fate.