We passed through the Winter solstice last week, but as usual, no one really cared. The shortest day of the year came and went and we all busied ourselves by adding an extra layer or two to our daily clobber to avoid the harsh chill that accompanies this time of year. This is a tough little patch for league footballers too. July is nearly upon us. Out Footscray way, we often referred to “the July test”, the month where the true believers dig deep to forge ahead and leave the pretenders behind. July is cold, but it’s not just that. The start of the season is long gone and the smell of finals jasmine is still a long way off too. The solstice, for those in footy, is the marker of time to tell you, you’re in the middle nowhere. This is, what some people in football might refer to as, the grind. It’s funny what you miss.

Wood's big day: Easton Wood desperately hangs onto Jordan De Goey. Credit:AAP

Sunday was a rare kind of football outing for my family and I. The Bulldogs were playing the Magpies at Marvel Stadium and the match being the skipper, Easton Wood's 150th game, we wanted to be there for him. I wouldn’t describe my kids as football fanatics, far from it actually, but they put on their Bulldogs jumpers and scarfes with a level of enthusiasm that suggested the dress up part of the day was probably more important than the four points on offer for the Dogs. My Frankie, although dressed in the family uniform of red, white and blue, had carefully placed her Collingwood, Jordan Roughead badge, to the outside of her zip up hoodie. I let it slide.

Rugged up, we walked to Westgarth train station and waited for our ride. Countless songs have been written about the romance of trains. Waiting for them, where they can take you, the people you might meet, endless possibilities. Trains are a bit like the unpredictable bounce of a football or the fortunes of your team, we’re never quite sure what will happen next, but we tap on and take our seat, thrilled by what adventures lay in waiting.

Snaking our way behind the curtain of the city (another specialty of trains) we make small talk before an investigation erupts, “Who changed Dad’s name to ‘Cheese’ in Mum’s phone?” No one owns up. I go for the well used trick from the parents' handbook on page one. “I already know who did it, but I just want to see who’s honest and who’s lying”. Justine and I have to look away to hide our smiles. Panic has set in amongst the trio and to my eye they all look guilty. I think to myself, ‘I’ll let ‘em stew on it until we get to Southern Cross’. As the train rolls in and we get ready to step off, our Frankie, seemingly voted in as the front woman for the accused, proclaims “Dad, can you tell us who did it? We can’t remember!” Delilah, the youngest, nods along and echoes with “Yeah”. It’s all terribly unconvincing. I shrug, feign disappointment and put an end to it by holding my ground, “I know who did it, so just come and tell me when you’re ready”. I actually have no idea who did it and I don’t really care. The investigation ate up a whole commute!