When I was first born ‘a Rabbitoh’ we chalked up one victory – in two grim, empty seasons.

I lived in a god-forsaken spot called Tottenham, smack-bang in the geographic centre of NSW. Oddly enough, my old man – who grew up in Maroubra with red’n’green blood – was managing a rabbit-infested sheep station.

But. A couple of years later, when my family moved back to Sydney, we won five premierships and made up half the Kangaroo squad, captained by the Lil’ Master, Clive Churchill. Or so it seemed to a kid in suburbia, with photos from Rugby League Week plastering my bedroom wall.

• Rabbitohs not feeling the pressure

• Sonny Bill to fight another day

Like every South’s diehard, I’m match fit when it comes to losing.

But. We’ve also won more premierships – in every grade – than any other side in history. It’s just been too long between drinks.

But. This year made it 25 years since Mario Fenech took us to a minor premiership. That’s a nice, neat figure.

And, just last month John Sattler’s biography was finally released, a rattling good yarn of spilling blood for The Bunnies, as our last and greatest premiership-winning captain 43 years ago.

That long-overdue book came out this year, when it could have been published any time in the last two decades! C’mon, it’s an omen.

When I think about the saga of South Sydney footy club, it’s like twirling a technicoloured kaleidoscope. Of my life.

Greats of the ’50s golden era like Ian Moir scoring a length-of-field try; Chicka Cowie zig-zagging to put it under the post; Jack Rayner leading always from the front, a non-drinking, non-smoking, high-class copper.

Gentleman Jack was captain-coach for that fairy-tale 1955 premiership – where we won eleven games in a row, lost Churchill with a broken arm before the semi-final and I sat in the Noble Stand to watch Bernie Purcell convert a try on the bell, to beat ‘The Bluebags’ from Newtown 12-11.

A few years ago, after I got to know him, Jack gave me his Legends jersey, which I still can’t believe. Then, the inexplicable, shattering loss to the Tigers in 1969, in the middle of the next, glorious Rabbitohs era.

The sheer, brute power of McCarthy and the lighting pace of Cleary. The polished class and brilliance of Lisle and Honan. Or ‘Satts’ playing 77 minutes of a grand final with a broken jaw and still taking the ball up and tackling Manly mongrels. Or Eric Simms rewriting the point-scoring books and making them change the field goal rules because he was just too bloody good.

Then suddenly Easts and Manly ripped the heart out of Souths by pinching Ronnie Coote and Jimmy Morgan, John O’Neill and the Branighan brothers. (That’s why we still hate The Feather Dusters and The Silvertails half a century later. Don’t get angry, just get even.)

Then the glorious colours fade in the sad’n’lean decades since – some legendary players, with some lousy management.

There’s something in the air right now that says we’re ready for another drink.

Ex-footy players sometimes make great coaches but rarely great CEOs. It took us decades to accept that fact. Giving blood for the jersey doesn’t mean you can wear the white shirt and tie.

When ‘Backdoor Benny‘ Elias wasn’t being a pest, the unstoppable Mario Fenech led the Rabbitohs to the edge of glory days with a wonderful team and coach.

That was a tough side, that might-have-been. Andrews and Coleman, Davo and Carroll, along with Trindall and Field, Roberts and the Rampling brothers, backed-up by two dozen other red-and-green warriors who never took a backward step, but who still couldn’t crack a premiership.

But. A bunch of ordinary seasons – and too many wooden spoons – put the greatest team in rugby league history in the firing line when Rupert Murdoch and his well-heeled mates decided it was time to make ‘some real money’ from the people’s game.

Kerry Packer briefly shook George Piggins’ hand in the Super League war and then walked away, when it started costing the TV mogul too much money to fight the old nemesis, News Limited.

The Gladiator saved the day – and gave us another chance – by writing the big cheque and putting his considerable talents behind his beloved club.

Suddenly, the Mighty Rabbitohs were gone, kicked out of a football code they had started back in 1908. After the emotional rallies and the long marches (with the support of old enemies like Canterbury and Newcastle), along with the fund-raising campaign and the courtroom battles by George and Nick Pappas, we finally won the war.

But. For a decade after the euphoria of that mind-numbing victory, picking up the pieces was lonely and expensive, especially when there was no leagues club to pay the bills. There was simply no money to buy the next generation of stars and restock a premiership team again, while rats infested the run-down dressing rooms at Erko.

I remember telling our departing captain, Ashley Harrison, who was heading for mega bucks at the Roosters that if I was his father – and not a Souths board member – I would be advising him to move on, too. There was simply no future amongst the grim dust and cobwebs at the Rabbitohs HQ.

But. The Gladiator saved the day – and gave us another chance – by writing the big cheque and putting his considerable talents behind his beloved club.

For the die-hard fans, supporting the Russell Crowe/Holmes a Court ticket was a no brainer. (Sorry George, only way to go.)

It was the bloodless coup we simply had to have. It brought CEO Shane Richardson, GI, the Burgess boys and the rest of this star-studded on-field unit into red and green jerseys.

Which brings us to Sunday’s grand final against Canterbury. Bring it on.

You can feel it, smell it – even taste it. There’s something in the air right now that says we’re ready for another drink. Make mine a schooner, please.

And one for my thirsty old mate here! He’s been waiting an awful long time.

Go The Bunnies.