With the start of the real season (the one where we care if our team wins or loses) still weeks away, the football loving public have had to endure a barrage of what could loosely be described as football discussion focusing on, in no particular order, Ben Cousins, the bump, Ben Cousins, the countdown clock, Ben Cousins, the rolling zone and ugly footy, Ben Cousins, not so friendly Blues, Richmond and the whereabouts of a recovering addict whose name eludes me at the minute.

Despite all this expansive and usually, over the top coverage, some in the media still found the time to have a go at the less “media friendly” clubs. Like that’s all we need, more football puff pieces. The clubs taking this stance (and one of them is my own team) should be applauded and awarded a medal for services to the sport of Aussie Rules.

As always though, these summer stories are mere sideshows to the main game, filling in the hours as we count down to the start of a new season. The Hawks, and I’m quite chuffed about this, go in as reigning premiers, and, as is the case with most premiers, have the other clubs frantically trying to copy their style of play, Clarkson’s Cluster or the rolling zone trialled extensively during the preseason competition.

So it seems the biggest issues of 2009 will revolve around space. As clubs employ the rolling zone defence will teams be able to find enough of it out in the middle? Will the football media fill any of it on their schedules with matters pertaining to the actual game? Will the fans be able to find some of it from all the media hype long enough to actually enjoy games? And will Ben Cousins be afforded any of it both on and off the ground? The answers will probably be yes, no, yes and no but let’s not kill the suspense.

Then again, killing the suspense is what I’m all about so here’s a prescient look at each club in reverse order to how they finished in 2008.

Melbourne: Thought I’d list the teams in reverse order to give Dees’ fans a feel of what it is like to be on top of a ladder. Then again, they could just go down to Bunnings and buy one as it would probably be a better investment than a membership.

West Coast: Missed out on the number one draft choice last year but likely to get a chance to atone this year.

Fremantle: What do the Fremantle football club and Kevin Rudd have in common? They both spend a lot of time traveling for very little result. Expect that to continue in 2009, on both fronts.

Port Adelaide: I’m not sure what to make of Port. They keep telling us how good they are but, quite frankly, I just don’t see it. But I want to hear Mark Williams tell me that I was wrong so therefore, I think they’ll win the flag this year.

Essendon: Regular readers would be aware of my distaste for the Bombers, but they’ve been so bad the past few seasons that you can’t help feel a little sorry for them. I expect that pity to end this season – not because they’ll win more games, just that I’ll get tired of feeling sorry for them.

Carlton: “They know we’re coming.” Trust Carlton to come up with the most arrogant membership drive slogan. Clearly Cameron Cloke didn’t know Setanta was.  Anyway, Carlton fans have been known to suffer from premature celebration in the past.

Brisbane: A switch of roles as Michael Voss takes over the coaching while Leigh Matthews steps into the commentary box. A win/win as now we get to listen to Lethal and the Brisbane players have to endure Vossy.

Richmond: The Tigers have found themselves in the news a bit after picking up a player with a bit of a past. And from all reports Tom Hislop has had a terrific preseason. Not sure if he’ll make much of a difference though. Frustrated at regular ninth place finishes, will finish tenth this year.

North Melbourne: Apparently the Kangaroos are a bit tired of the constant references to the Shinboner Spirit when their team wins. I would imagine that one easy way to fix this is not to win. I think they may get plenty of opportunities to test this theory in 2009.

Adelaide: A coach from a rival code, who coached a team called Adelaide, described his city as a pissant town that will never win anything. I’m not sure exactly what pissant means but I agree wholeheartedly.

Collingwood: Have come out and declared that they are focused on winning a premiership in 2009. To quote Eddie McGuire “We are not saying we will win it this year but we are aiming to win it this year.” Groundbreaking stuff. If they’d thought of this earlier they would surely have won more than one flag in the last fifty years.

Sydney: The Swans have aged as gracefully as Elton John and a rush of retirements has seen them lose more men than Olivia Newton John. Given their fondness for 'mature aged recruits' maybe their best hope would be to get Gareth John back to the club.

St Kilda: Still have some big names on paper – Riewoldt, Koschitzke, Montagna, Dal Santo, Hudghton, McQualter – all have at least eight letters. Don’t know if that’s enough to win a flag though. Are likely to still be the best cure for insomnia known to man. 

Western Bulldogs: I don’t want to sound patronising, but how good was it to see the Doggies make a preliminary final last year? Those cutesy wootsy puppy dogs from the west are just so adorable and I know we all have them as our second side. That’s until they find a decent marking forward and become a real threat. Then we will be looking for the nearest needle to help them get some sleep (if you know what I mean).

Geelong: Have lost just three games out of 45 since Round 6, 2007. But you know what they say, “you’re only as good as your last game”. Mind you, we (with what looks like a depleted line up) play them in Round 1 so let’s make that “your only as good as your last grand final”.

Hawthorn: I know I have had a dig at all the other sides, but one must be respectful of the reigning premier. Now, excuse me while I crank up the DVD one more time and return to worship at the foot of the almighty 2008 Weg poster.

It’s then that I experience a surreal grand final moment. Archer walks through the doors, not more than 10 metres from where I am standing. In clear view is what this day is all about, the Premiership Cup. I notice that there are ribbons carefully attached to each of the handles. I’m sure there are some blue and white ones there somewhere, but I can only see the brown and gold ones. My wife yells out “hey Arch”. She wouldn't normally do that. Arch looks across to the coffee stand, raises the Cup and gives my wife a wave and a wink as she takes a photo with her mobile phone. Both time and I seem frozen, as I stare at the Cup, still only able to see those brown and gold ribbons. Eventually Archer moves on and we grab our coffees. I turn to my wife, “How good was that?”.

We make our way up the Olympic Stand via the escalators. A makeshift function room has been created at the back of Level 2. The first person I notice is Barry Stoneham waiting by the door. The ex-Geelong big man played in four losing grand finals for the Cats, including that ’89 loss to the Hawks. He looks toey. We stop to sneak a look inside and Barry gets called up to the stage. He stumbles on his first line. We move on.

We settle into our seats up on Level 4 in the Olympic Stand, near the Punt Road scoreboard. I flick through the paper while my wife reads the Record. We’re both pretty calm. As the seats begin to fill, we hear the odd complaint. Seems that most of those near us are Gold Members and all seem displeased with the seat allocation. The guy in front of me is one of the unhappy and he turns to me for support. I tell him that at least we’ll be in the shade all day and that when we win the game, we’ll say they were the best seats we’ve ever had. I meant to say if, but I said when.

The prematch seems to fly by. The usual suspects have said that it lacked punch but personally, I thought it was understated and engaging enough. We get to watch some footy (the National Under 16s finals), see the two sides warm up (we look sharp, the Cats a little casual) acknowledge the recently retired as well as past legends of the game and have the obligatory rock band, playing suitably loud. The most memorable part is basically an ad, as the Qantas airbus sits above the stands, it’s wing span seemingly stretching from one side of the ground to the other. Wings? Hawks have wings…

Despite being at the ground for nearly four hours, 2.30 seems to come around in a flash. I’m not as calm as a few hours previously but I’m hardly a bundle of nerves either. From the opening it’s clear this one is going to be a beauty. Both sides are throwing themselves into every contest and look as if they are ready to run themselves into the ground. Five goals each at quarter time and we finally get a chance to take a breath. Noone around us is complaining about their seats now. We’re all just glad that we are inside the stadium.

The second quarter is just as frantic as the first, although the Cats start to take control. A string of uncharacteristic misses from them keeps us in the game. Trent Croad limps off. Normally this would concern me, but as he leaves the ground, he stops to dish off a bump to Joel Selwood. This reassures me. It’s clear the boys are ‘on’. Luke Hodge continues to repel Geelong forward thrusts and eventually we get some momentum. We take our chances and take the lead. On the half time siren Cam Mooney has a shot for goal from about ten metres out and misses, at the other end, Cats’ captain, Tom Harley is being helped from the ground by trainers. The signs are good. We go into the main break with a three point lead. My wife and I agree. That was the best half of footy we have seen all year.

Auskick and the half time sprint fill in the 22 minutes between quarters. You know, I don’t believe in omens, but in the sprint, Geelong’s Nathan Djerrkura was hot favourite and was beaten.

The third quarter starts ominously. Clinton Young is carried off and shortly afterwards Gary Ablett goals to put the Cats in front. For the first time I am worried. We are down to two on the bench. Both sides are starting to feel the pinch but we played our prelim 24 hours after the Cats. Would we have the legs?

The players keep pressing, Bateman finds Franklin who goals from outside 50 to put us back in front. The next ten minutes are tight and tense. As the pressure increases so do the errors. I’m slipping to the edge of my seat, trying to get as close to the action as I can, even if it is only by a few centimetres. A couple of points to the Cats and scores are level. Then Hodge goals and we’re back in front. The goal was typical Hodgey, on the run from outside fifty, but it was from a Michael Osborne handball after a free kick. Not one Geelong player moved to cover Hodge. Maybe the Cats are tiring.

An arm wrestle follows before another symbolic moment. Stuart Dew kicks the ball to the wing. Cyril Rioli is outnumbered three to one but scrambles to keep the ball in his area, eventually laying a tackle on Max Rooke and earning a (rare) free kick. We’d been loud all day, but the scream of “ball” when Rioli laid that tackle was clearly the loudest of them all.  From there we start to take control. Stuart Dew plays an inspired six minutes setting up two goals and kicking two of his own and all of a sudden we’re out to a five goal lead. When Willo and Dew beat three opponents with Willo eventually dribbling through a goal, I slap a metal guard next to me, nearly breaking my hand.

The Cats manage a couple of late goals (one from a bewildering down field free kick) but we still have a 17 point lead with a quarter to play. The previous week we were 11 goals up and I refused to declare that we’d won. This week, less than three goals up against a side that had lost just one game all year and I couldn’t see how we’d lose.

The last quarter plays out beautifully, as we take the pace out of the game and deny the Cats the ball. About half way through Buddy kicks the first of the quarter and then Mitch follows up with another. 27 points up and that Cup was ours. For the last ten minutes of the game the fans start singing the song. I don’t join in, plenty of time to sing the song after the game. As the players start running the clock down, chipping the ball around, I sit back in my chair and just take it all in. Seventeen years since we last won a grand final. I was just 21 then. The same age as Buddy Franklin now… in fact the exact same age as we happen to share the same birthday.  

The word goes round, just 17 seconds to go. We count down and then, as the siren sounds, go into a mild state of delirium. We sing the song, over and over and over again. Hodge deservedly wins the Norm Smith Medal. We cheer each of our heroes onto the podium, beaming as if it were our own kids up there. We sing the song a few more times and then, well after 6pm, decide that perhaps it was time to head off.

At the start of September we received a ticketing information brochure from the club. The front cover was a picture of Buddy, with the words, “History is coming” emblazoned across the top. Every time I looked at it, I got a bit of a buzz so I popped it on our kitchen bench and left it there for the whole month. Before we left on grand final morning my wife went to move it but I intervened. You know, I don’t believe in omens, but…

Growing up as a Hawthorn fan there was an expectation that the team would be playing on the last Saturday of the season. I remember, in the mid 80s, many a debate with fellow Hawk fans discussing which team would be our grand final opponent. These conversations would usually take place in April/May. We weren’t cocky, just pragmatic. And it’s felt a bit that way this season. I bought a gold membership before the season started to make sure of a grand final ticket if we got through. It’s nice to be proven right.

While Saturday night’s game ended up routine enough, I’d been a bit edgy all week. The Hawks had clearly been the second best team all year, so the expectation was that at the very least we should be playing off in a grand final. I felt we were clearly a superior team to the Saints, but what if we got it wrong on the night? What if Riewoldt caught fire? What if Hudghton blanketed Buddy and we couldn’t find any of our other forwards? What if those maggots in white, green, red, yellow or whatever colour they were going to be wearing decided to murder us like they did in the 2001 prelim?

Despite a narrow lead at quarter time there were still some concerns. Hodgey had clearly done some rib damage while Buddy had gone off nursing a sore thumb. St Kilda’s two goals had come from dodgy 50 metre penalties, although this was offset by the fact that three of our four goals came from free kicks. I can’t remember the last time that happened.

The start of the second term was tight, both teams trying to gain the ascendancy. And then we exploded. Hodgey was inspirational, Bateman was stitching up Dal Santo, Roughy pulled a goal out from his ample backside and then Crawf slotted one from the boundary line. The wash up, seven goals to one and a near eight goal lead at the main break.

Supporters around us were already talking about next week. An annoying pair of Hawk ‘fans’ behind us (I use the word fans loosely as they seemed to be bagging a large chunk of those players wearing brown and gold) discussed how they might get hold of a ticket. I hoped that they would miss out - if we got through because I wasn’t declaring anything yet. Maybe, when you wait so long for something you tend to become more cautious as it gets closer, a bit like Peter Costello and the Liberal leadership.

Even with the side more than eleven goals in front half way through the third quarter I refused to acknowledge that a spot in next week’s game was now a certainty. In fact, it wasn’t until ten minutes into the last quarter that I turned to my wife and uttered unconvincingly “I think we’re going to a grand final”.

When the siren finally sounded, all those nagging doubts had been dispelled. The game plan stood up, Riewoldt was well held by Gilham and Croad, Buddy kicked just one goal but Willo bobbed up with five and we had nine different goalkickers and for the first time in about four months, we won the free kick count. The all important scoreboard showed a comfortable nine goal advantage and as the club song blared from the loudspeakers circling the ground, I allowed myself to soak it all in. But the feeling of euphoria that I thought would envelope me didn’t eventuate. It was more a sense of relief that we had franked our season’s form.

Now, the nervousness of last week has been replaced by… the nervousness of this week. Making a grand final is nice but old William Ellis Green (aka Weg) doesn’t produce posters for the losers.

Geelong and Hawthorn have been the best two sides this season by a considerable margin.  Between them they have won 42 games (the most ever by the sides playing off in a grand final). And while Geelong have an imposing record going in, Hawthorn’s doesn’t suffer much in comparison, having won just one less game than Geelong had to the same stage last season. Both sides have played the Bullies and Saints in the finals, the Cats winning by a combined 87 points, the Hawks 105.

There has been a lot of talk about the classic ’89 playoff between these two sides and while the game is vastly different now to then, to pinch a phrase Anthony Hudson used a couple of grand finals ago, let’s hope that the sequel is even better than the original – and naturally, with the same result.

As much as I enjoyed the carnival atmosphere against Carlton the week before, something was missing. There was no tension, nothing riding on the game other than a player’s personal milestone. This one was altogether different. Plenty at stake. A massive prize for the winner. An edge that only finals can bring.

Despite the scoreline, it was an intense game on Friday night. Finals tend to be that way. The consequences of losing are too catastrophic to consider. But then you don’t want to get carried away thinking too far ahead to the benefits of a win. No it’s best to just stay in the moment. And that I did. I found myself in a zone as tight as Clarkson’s cluster from the very outset, fully focused on watching every contest and barely noticing anything that was going on around me in the stands. My wife said that I didn’t smile until about 20 minutes into the last quarter but that belies the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. For me, entering this kind of  ‘space’ is like a form of meditation. For the two to three hours of the game, I think of nothing else but the game. No thoughts about falling share markets or rising petrol prices, not even the slightest consideration of players parading with protruding plastic penises.

Of course, I think my wife was exaggerating. I’m sure I must have smirked at one of Buddy’s eight goals. Surely I gasped at some of Hodgey’s contested marks. His sideways passes to free men who only he could see must also have squeezed some emotion out of me. And then there were the performances of Osbourne, Rioli, Roughead, Mitchell, Lewis, Sewell… There was plenty to smile about even if I didn’t.

The fact is we played well, and when the game finished I stood and applauded, acknowledging a great win. But even then my celebrations were somewhat subdued. All we’d achieved was a win that takes us into the third week of the finals, one that gives the players (and fans) a week to rest up ready for the next challenge.

I wrote a little while ago that fans tend to take on the personality of their football teams (certainly Brendan Fevola gave us an insight during the week as to what the average Carlton fan is like). Alan Joyce once famously said after coaching us to a winning final “we’re just happy to get the points” so maybe my attitude has been infused by the personalities of past Hawthorn coaching greats like Joyce, John Kennedy, David Parkin and Allan Jeans.

Whatever the explanation, I’m looking forward to seeing Collingwood and S. Kilda beating up on each other this week before getting back into that space for a massive preliminary final. Now, there’s an attitude that would make even Clarko proud.

A few minutes earlier, with Buddy goalless, my daughter decided she needed to go to the toilet. She often asks to go to the toilet when the actual need isn’t there (she is three). Despite my wife’s assertion that it might be best to wait, with the way the game was going, and quarter time not far away, I assured her that they wouldn’t miss anything, so off they went. Within moments of their departure, Buddy marked and coolly slotted through his first for the night. With just one goal needed for the 100, I found myself barracking for Carlton for the next few minutes.

This seemed to have little impact. So as Cyril, unselfishly, floated a pass to the unmarked Buddy, I began to panic. What if they don’t make it in time? The whole basis of us attending this game was to see this moment, together. Buddy started his goalkicking ritual, one that was fortunately longer than normal. Lately, with his kicking awry, he has often dispensed with those little things like preparation and routine before shooting for goal, preferring to swing around and take a flying snap after a mark. Luckily, he was on the wrong side to do that, if there is a wrong side for Buddy to do that.

After taking a few deep breaths, and pulling up the socks there was still no sign of my wife and eldest child. Buddy was about to do likewise out in the middle. Things were getting close. Then, as Buddy settled himself for a final time before walking in for his shot at history, I could see my wife and daughter scrambling up the stairs (battling the wave of people heading down to jump the fence and get on the ground) managing to reach our seats just as Buddy connected with the football. The ball sailed straight through (well as straight as his kicks can be) and then we witnessed, as my wife called it, the reverse volcano. From every corner of the ground we saw a flurry of arms and legs as the crowd descended on Buddy. My daughter looked on in awe. “I want to go out there Daddy.” So did I but we were stuck at the very back of level three. We had to be content with watching from afar. But it was still spectacular.

What happened after that? Well the Hawks went on to win by 13 goals and there was some more drama as Fevola closed in on his own milestone, eventually falling one goal short, but for one three year old (and her two parents and no doubt countless others) in the crowd, all that mattered was that Buddy got his ton and we were there to see it.

This week, with the finals starting, it’s back to reality, with the result of the game once again, all important. I’ve been waiting a while so bring on September. But it was nice to go to the football, with my team playing, and just soak in what turned out to be an intoxicating atmosphere. And in case your wondering, it wasn’t a false alarm for the little one… and she made it just in time.