I want Freo to win for the people of Fremantle. Every AFL club deserves to have at least one premiership. I want the Suns to win for Little Gazza Ablett. There was a moment just before half-time on Sunday where he made three or four efforts to win the ball in succession. When the siren blew, the exhaustion on his face showed the physical extremes to which he goes. I hope Gazza wins three Brownlows and is remembered alongside Skilton, Bunton, Reynolds and Stewart. I want West Coast to win for Sue Williams. She and her husband Graeme went from Hobart to Perth in the early 1980s to get a better deal for their son who is severely intellectually disabled. Graeme died five years ago, his son still looks out the window when his name is mentioned. Footy is Sue’s outlet. She goes with her friend Glenys. I want the Brisbane Lions to win for my cousin Johnny Kemp. Johnny grew up in Fitzroy long before it was gentrified. His brother Arthur had sideburns and tatts and fought on TV Ringside. Johnny was as Fitzroy as you can get and went with Brisbane after the merger. Footy’s a big part of Johnny’s life. I want the Swans to win for Bruno Lettieri. For 30 years, Bruno has been an evangelist for creative writing courses, firing people with the desire to tell their stories. Bruno has the passion of Pavarottiin a small frame and preserves a nostalgia for the place once accorded in the game to “the clever little man” (e.g. Bobby Skilton).

I want the Saints to win for P.J. “Paddy” Walsh, proprietor of the Commercial Club Hotel in Fitzroy and a fine man to share a drink with. Faith and devotion to the Saints deserves a reward in this world, not the next. I want Richmond to win for my three granddaughters (aged five, three and one). They have Tiger guernseys and pyjamas but a recent addition to the family is attempting to woo them over to the Hawks. This could be a crucial year. I want Adelaide to win for Michael Sexton, a gentleman journalist with the ABC who upholds the proud tradition of South Australian football as part of his interest in this country’s roots. I want Port Adelaide to win for Alan Tucker, a naive artist I met in Paris in 1980 who showed me a series of child-like paintings he had done on then Port star Russell Ebert. Next year, in a bid to recapture our youth, we travel to Cuba. All that’s changed since those first carefree days is that he’s had a heart scare and I’m on blood-pressure tablets. I want the Bulldogs to win for the western suburbs of Melbourne. I was told by one who was there when they won the flag in 1954 that it was like the celebrations when World War 2 ended. It would be again. That part of Melbourne is waiting to erupt.

I want Geelong to win for Fiona East, who, with her husband, works a farm near Birregurra while pursuing an interest in the early history of Melbourne. Her account of the tragic life and death of Eliza Batman, wife of Melbourne co-founder John, is enthralling. She also manages a neatly melodic rendition of We Are Geelong, a song usually chanted and roared. I want GWS to win for the young players wearing their strip. After being pushed around and intimidated for two years, they are at that intoxicating moment of discovering they are strong, match-hardened young men who may be more talented than the rest. I want Essendon to win for Bill Jennings, who was dismayed at what happened at his club last year but has bought his membership and will be back in his seats on the boundary with son Jack and daughter Amber. I want Hawthorn to win for a friend who’s going through a really tough time, some days on more than one front. No one can lighten her load. Her family are Hawthorn. A win will give them a different focus for a few hours. I want the footy to be fun or what’s the point?