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Grand final morning … On my way to the ‘G, I stop at one of those trendy new coffee shops opposite Fairfield Station.

The brunch menu offers eggs anyway I like, chicken and pork are both options. Curiously, I order the butterflies, which are served hipster-style on a wooden board. I eat slowly, careful not to damage their wings so they can flutter around inside me for hours.

We step fretfully from the train at Jolimont Station. I barely recognise Yarra Park. It is like we are entering another world, one where my football team plays in Grand Finals. Astringent wafts of freshly-cut grass assault our senses.

A Tiger battalion assembles. We chat fussily together in our language of unbounded pessimism, a secret dialect with over a hundred ways to express disappointment. I swear, I hear them all, in snippets of conversation, as we bustle along.

Many enjoy the pre-game entertainment. Not me. I am anxious and fidgety. The butterflies are working overtime. Why did I eat so many of the little suckers?

It is a slow start to the game. Both teams test each other and Adelaide win the early ascendancy. Rory Sloane makes the initial run at the Norm Smith Medal with two fine goals. Alex Rance holds firm. Surprisingly, Nick Vlastuin is the one who makes early mistakes. He will atone for these many times over as the game progresses.

The first quarter belongs to Adelaide and a ten point lead at quarter time is their just reward. Richmond’s vaunted forward pressure has not been enough to thwart the Crows yet.

There is tension in the second quarter. Adelaide is a kick or two away from splitting the game open but Richmond defend grimly. It is a stalemate. One hundred thousand and twenty-one people feel the pressure. It is a cauldron but players from both teams stand tall.

Jack Riewoldt breaks the tension with a goal.

Another follows and then another. Teenager Jack Graham, playing in only his fifth AFL game, kicks the first of his three for the afternoon at a most critical point.

How easily does success come to an AFL player? Ask Matthew Richardson, arguably the greatest modern-day Tiger, and you will get one answer, ask this young man and you will hear something totally different. He has come of age very quickly during this golden September.

We lead at half-time, but not by much. So far, it has been tighter than Lycra on a middle-aged man. My stomach has not churned like this since those reckless days of my youth, riding on the Mad Mouse every Show Day.

Dare we believe? Will it happen? We have played this out in our heads for years but that means nothing. Lady Football is cruel-hearted lover and we are but her playthings, our emotions are her toys, she will break our hearts and order a coffee in the same breath.

Conventional wisdom says that the third is the Premiership quarter. This makes sense. In a close game, if you kick the last goal of the second, you have momentum. If you kick the first after half-time, you have doubled-down. If you kick the next in a Grand Final, one hand is on the cup.

Richmond’s pressure during this period is enormous. Martin, Rance, Houli, Prestia, Graham and Edwards are all magnificent. Which one will win the Norm Smith Medal?

The final stanza is a party. We jump, we dance, we laugh, we share kinship with each other. Each goal kicked on the field is a ripple that spreads in ever-widening circles through the stands and across the park to Punt Road Oval and then pulses through each and every suburb of this great city.

The chaotic buzz of Tiger fans, initially an indistinct background hum, rises to a jarring drone, swells to an insistent vibration and finally explodes into an irresistible roar!

I scarcely hear the final siren; it is barely discernible amid the raucous din. A waterfall of relief washes over me, cleansing away 37 years of bitter heartache, cruel bounces, missed goals, surrendered leads, embarrassing losses, games that ended a few seconds too early or momentarily too late, lost opportunities and shattered weekends.

I embrace my friends, share high-fives with strangers, sing with crazy gusto, call my family but in the pandemonium and bedlam I do not hear their words. Emotions surge through me. I cannot control them, there is heady elation, intoxicating jubilation, sentimental wistfulness. I have an overwhelming desire to use bad words.

Fortunate people experience a handful of perfect moments before they die. A first kiss. Meeting the love of your life. Looking into your new-born child’s eyes. The joy that a simple kindness brings…and once again, the thrill of a Premiership.

A vibrant crowd of 100,021 people attended the 2017 AFL Grand Final. Official ground capacity is 100,024. The Tiger faithful left three seats vacant on this glorious day. These were for absent friends, for our departed friends, for our children overseas and interstate, for our loyal members who were unable to attend and most of all for our three fallen heroes: Tommy Hafey, Graeme Richmond and Neville Crowe.

Our Groundhog Day has ended! There shall be no more disappointment.

ADELAIDE 4.1 4.7 5.10 8.12 (60)

RICHMOND 2.3 6.4 11.8 16.12 (108)

GOALS

Adelaide: Sloane 2, Walker 2, Betts, Greenwood, B. Crouch, Cameron

Richmond: Graham 3, Townsend 2, Martin 2, Caddy, Houli, Riewoldt, Grigg, Lambert, Castagna, Riewoldt, Prestia, Butler

BEST

Adelaide: M. Crouch, Jacobs, B. Crouch, Sloane, Laird

Richmond: Martin, Rance, Houli, Astbury, Prestia, Edwards, Graham, Grimes

INJURIES

Adelaide: Nil

Richmond: Rioli (ankle)

Reports: Nil

More 2017 Grand Final coverage HERE.