I’ve been looking forward to last night for weeks, and really couldn’t sit still as the day went by. Richmond at last made it’s debut in the 4th season of AFLW. I won’t say this often about any game of senior footy, but the four points were not the main focus.

There are so many great stories around women’s footy, and the greatest are at either end of the age spectrum.

There are the older women who have had a chance to play Australian Rules at the highest level, in front of massive crowds. And I’ll bet if you walked them back to 2013 or 2014 you’d find someone playing basketball or hockey or netball who had given up on ever being able to play footy again after ageing out at 13 or 14. This applies to Olympians like Erin Phillips but also people like Lauren Tesoreiro who was coaching netball and working in a nursery.

At the other end of the scale are girls like Alexandra. She’s 3, and went along to the footy last night with her deep-dyed-Tiger dad Jason. She will grow up not remembering a time when Richmond fielded only men’s teams. Just like boys always have, she’ll be free to dream of herself one day, big and strong, fit and fearless, wearing the yellow and black and representing Richmond. I love that it’s now a possibility.

I have three minor disappointments. The least of them is the result; it would have been amazing to come out and beat last year’s finalists in our first game, with goals aplenty to cheer.

We kicked two in the last quarter, but they were cheered very hard and will always be remembered.

I am a bit disappointed in the crowd. While I’m glad no-one who wanted to be there was left stuck outside, I do wish more Tigers had gone along to see the historic game. I know plenty of Richmond members, just like the wider footy world, are skeptical about the entertainment value of AFLW.

I would just ask every Tiger to embrace it now. Don’t wait for Richmond success to get on board. How would you have enjoyed 2017 if you hadn’t endured 2016 (and the rest)? I truly believe Richmond can bring something new to AFLW, and that manic defensive pressure and chaotic attack we love will show itself sooner rather than later.

Lastly I am sad that with the heavy traffic of players going in all directions and high profile additions to the club, we go into our first season without any of our 2018 foundation VFLW leaders on the list. Kate Dixon, Elise Hogan and Jess Kennedy. Elise retired in 2018 after 4 games due to concussion. Jess won the 2018 B&F but had a quieter year in 2019 – it just looks like neither she or Kate were redrafted to the AFLW list.

I guess that’s a reminder that this is not a charity, not muck-up-day, not a sideshow. This is a national league, these women are playing for their lives, and no-one gets a game without fighting for it. But Jess, Kate and Elise will always be on the Virtual Duffle Coat.

Mae O’Reilly is writing a match report so I won’t spend long on the game itself. Our defence was under siege throughout (conceded 1.8 in the first half) but I loved how they did their jobs. Like Sudanese AFLM players, Akec Makur Chuot stands out on appearance alone, but she was outstanding in her role at fullback. I felt like watching her and Seymour, Miller, Monahan – this is a back six I can get behind and I WILL learn everyone’s names.

Our first AFLW goal came through power forward Sabrina Frederick, and it was a wonderful moment. But how was the second goal; a big blonde nº8 for the Tigers takes the contested mark then plays on, sells the dummy and steers the long kick right through the middle. It’s hokey to compare to JR8 but I’m doing it anyway, well done Courtney Wakefield.

Next week: Gold Coast. Now its about the four points.

My first feeling after the siren in 2017 was: peeved. I can’t really explain it – I had expected Adelaide to win. That’s a pissweak explanation but I have never thought of a better one.

We were visiting Tiger mates in Launceston for the occasion. We had the whole last quarter to soak up the idea that we were going to win. But for me it didn’t happen. After the siren I sent silly terse responses to congratulatory texts, and refused to sit and watch the TV with our hosts as the usual muppets like Eddie sat behind their desk and mouthed platitudes about my club. I insisted Marcus come and kick the footy with me in the gathering dark while I tried to work out what it all meant.

As days went by and Richmond were still premiers, it started to really dawn on me that the drought was over, and happiness set in. I did my bumper sticker design, everyone loved it, and by then the 2017 premiership was a landmark in my life.

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Obviously it wasn’t a long wait for the 2019 premiership, but in a way it has felt like an eternity. In August 2018 it felt like we would not only win that one but every flag for the forseeable future. I had another think coming.

This season has been marvellous. No-one wants to see injuries, especially to senior players that disrupt the whole team plan for the season – but how well did we manage it? How seamlessly did every single replacement fit in? Ross, CCJ, Egg, Balta, Marbs.

25 games from big Tom.

Stacky! Marlion Picket!! They don’t call it Punt Road for nothing.

How impressive were our senior men like Dylan and Sheds and Caddy and Bachar and Dusty and Jack in learning new roles, finding an extra gear, shrugging off their own niggles?

Leading up to the Grand Final one after another I heard players say as Cotch did: it will be nice to win another flag, but… we are building something here and that’s what we are really proud of. This kind of process-not-results talk is very common but rarely is it as convincing and authentic.

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It didn’t convince me, and that’s because I was already thinking the same way. I don’t attend any finals; so Grand Final day was going to be very similar for me whoever was playing. Might watch it, or might not (like 2018 when I chopped a lot of firewood). Tiges turned it on in the 2nd half and got over Geelong – into the granny. Nice.

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Usually we have dinner with Mum and Dad on Saturdays. I organised for them to come to lunch instead with the idea that I would wave them off at the gate, then hunker down in front of the TV with Tiger Marcus and no other distractions.

The folks decided to stay for the first quarter. And also my wife’s sister and family announced they were going to come by to watch it with me (a lukewarm Collingwood fan, a North Melb fan who can probably name twenty players on their list, my niece who will spend the game on her phone, and a yappy small dog). I forgot to set the TV to record it. All sub-optimal.

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I’ll talk about the game itself in another post. We kicked 17 goals to 3.

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I felt really weird after. I didn’t want to be with other Tigers, didn’t want to talk or read about the game, couldn’t watch a replay, bought a Sunday Age for posterity only. Thoughts that went through my mind;

• Take a complete year off from AFL footy
• Leave TTBB
• Delete my Twitter account (which is very Richmond-focussed all year round).
• Take down my footy designs on Redbubble, swerve the responsibility of doing a 2019 premiership design, and forego the income for myself and the club-endorsed charities that did well out of it in 2017.

Why did I feel like this again? I might have an answer and its bloody obvious. I think it’s missing out. It’s missing the fun, missing being there.

We attended round 23, 2013, when we sealed a first finals spot for 18 years. And I felt like I didn’t need to join the chase for finals tickets; I was happy enough to just know we were there. And it turned out to be a crushing experience anyway for those in attendance.

Since then I have stuck to my approach; I leave the finals tickets for people who have attended through thick and thin over the years. So I missed three losing elimination finals, then I missed three glorious wins, then a solid hiding handed to Hawthorn, a shocker against Collingwood, two fighting come-from behind wins over Brisbane and Geelong, then this spanking of the Giants. I have missed all of that, and been happy to avoid the anxiety, drama and expense, and the social overload of all the online Tigers I know who’ll be there.

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But that approach ends now. Next time Richmond makes the finals, whenever that is, I am going to embrace the anxiety, the chaos and all my fellow Tigers. I am coming to Melbourne.

These are all my favourite photos from the day. Hats off to the photographers. Australian Football is pretty poorly served by administrators, commentators, journalists and whatever Sam Newman is – but what a wonderful lot of snappers we’ve got.

This, as always, is a personal account of the match.  As you know by now it was a win for the ages by our Tigers, but this report won’t end the way you want it to.  Sadly, our day didn’t end the way we wanted it to and I can’t pretend otherwise.

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This begins like a close Grand Final with a long period of massive pressure by both sides.  I think of Sydney v West Coast in 2005 when nobody scored for hours.  GWS attack from the centre bounce but Broad takes the first mark of the match and send them back.  Riewoldt takes an excellent mark at the other end but it’s not paid.

Caddy kicks long and it’s knocked through for a point.  The Giants win a holding-the-ball free against Dusty in the goal-square.  When he gets up, he seems to have a problem with his eye.  Cotch makes a massive tackle against Mumford in the middle of the ground but somehow the Giant wins the free.  There’s a solid chant of “bullshit…bullshit…” but on the telly you can see that Presty sort-of elbowed him in the face well after he was tackled.  I’m worried that we’ve dominated for four minutes and have no goals to show for it.

There’s plenty to whinge and worry about.  But why whinge and boo when you could just get behind your team?  I haven’t spent days chasing tickets and two hours waiting at the gate and five hours in here before the game to stand here in silence.  And so I get the whole bay going with “Richmond!  Richmond!” and that’s all it takes and we’re all chanting our lungs out.

Mumford tackles Caddy and returns the facial contact.  “A little bit of unfriendly behaviour…it’s good to see isn’t it?” says Brian Taylor, clearly wanting to cement his grip on Boofhead of the Year Award.  

Castagna runs onto a good chance but misses and we have three points for our trouble.  The Giants attack and Pickett gets his first touch.  We can’t clear the ball and eventually the Giants get their first point.  Half the quarter has gone and it’s 0.3 to 0.1.  Pickett gets a handball on the backline, Shedda wins a free and we can clear the footy.  But then Greene marks, on an angle.  He kicks from the 50 but misses, which is a great relief.

The thought of him running rampant and kicking six goals has kept me awake at night.

With only four minutes left the quarter Cameron out-marks Grimes and kicks it from 55.  He’d better not kick too many more of them.

But we get another attack going after Lambert makes a great tackle in the middle. Advantage is paid and Martin out-marks Shaw, plays on and goals and we roar with relief.  Soldo has a chance for a mark right in front but misses it.  There’s a boundary throw-in and he grabs the footy and loses it but no free is paid against him.  Pickett gets the ball to Rioli who gathers and kicks from the 50 and the siren sounds as it splits the big sticks and our relief is great.

At quarter time a big, older bloke, already quite drunk, says I must give him my name and he’ll put me on Facebook “Because I think you’re great.”  My team are winning the GF at quarter time, my daughter and I are here to watch it and an old drunk bloke is telling me I’m great.

Quarter time score:  Richmond 2.5.17 to GWS 1.2.8

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Riewoldt wins a lucky free for a push and kicks the goal.  From the centre bounce Soldo gets it to Pickett who takes our collective breath away with a blind turn for the ages before passing perfectly to Castagna who leaps and marks with great courage between two Giants and a giant Tiger.  It’s very similar to his mark against Geelong from Bolton’s pass, but this time he fluffs his lines and kicks another point.  It doesn’t matter because Pickett’s Blind Turn will be talked about forever.

And in quick time Vlaustin wins the footy on the back flank, gets it to Castagna who gives it to Pickett who goes on a little run before kicking into the 50.  He looks like he plays in a GF every week, because he does.  Well, this week and last week at least.

Dusty has a couple of opponents as he gathers the ball but it doesn’t matter.  He needs a bit of room and he finds it and dribbles the ball in for another goal and a huge roar and a chant of “Dusty…Dusty…Dusty” goes up around the ground and we’re starting to enjoy this.

Houli makes a massive spoil on the boundary and follows up with a big tackle.  Rioli gathers, passes to Lynch who kicks straight as an arrow from the tight angle.  We’ve kicked five in a row and lead by 26 points.  Can we keep this up?  Could we have a handy half-time lead?

From a stoppage Caddy kicks quickly and Riewoldt marks and goals from about 35 and we’re 29 points up.  Jack gets his third a bit later after marking easily and kicking from well outside 50.  At half-time we’re 35 up and my brother texts me “You’re home.”  I tell him not to jinx us but that I like kicking four goals to none against an interstate team in the GF.  That’s what we did to Adelaide two years ago, but only later do I realise that this time we actually kicked five.

It’s hard to imagine how much better this first half might have gone.  The Giants still have only one goal and our defenders are marking everything.  Vlaustin and Houli have been braver and tougher than ever, Toby Greene has hardly bothered us.

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Half-time score: Richmond 7.5.47 GWS 1.6.12

Castagna has his fourth shot on goal but misses again.  He’s having a great game but can’t buy a goal.  The Tigers hold up the Giants’ rebound and Lynch is set up with a perfect pass from Edwards but his kick is way off target.  Cotch passes to Riewoldt who flies and holds the footy, goes back and kicks a point.  The Giants can’t get past the half-way line though and Presty passes to Lynch who marks straight in front and kicks straight from 35.

I’m more relieved than happy.  There’s a little scramble on the boundary line in front of us, Rioli gets it to Dusty who kicks as he’s tackled and we’re up by eight goals.  Eight goals! The second half has barely started.

Pickett has only just got going too.  He gathers the ball in the centre square, runs between two rapidly-approaching Giants and passes perfectly to Martin.  Martin could kick it but he passes instead, back to Pickett who goals from about 30 and we erupt.  We’re nine goals up and every Tiger on the ground gets around the debutant and in the crowd we’re chanting “Marlon…Marlon…Marlon…”’

And then the Pride of Preston, Kane Lambert, gathers a Shedda handball and goals and we’re ten in front.  Ten!  What has happened to the fearsome Giants?

We try to get a new chant going – “We’ve got the best Toby, in this game/ We’ve got the best Toby, in this game/ And he won’t poke you in the eye!” – but there are no takers and we chant alone. We don’t care.

Next to me, watching the game through the mesh of the barrier we lean on, is a boy of six or eight.  I show his dad my biscuit tin with the ’74 Premiership team on the lid.  “Would your boy like one of these?” I ask.   His dad says, “I think he’d better have one, I was born in 1974!”  The young boy is called Jack, after Jack Dyer, and is standing up to the rigours of standing room.

Hopper gets the Giants’ second goal – their second goal of the game – with two minutes left.  Baker, who is having a very good game, fires off a handball that finds Astbury and is flattened for his troubles by the much larger Cameron.  But when you’re nine goals up the bumps don’t hurt and Baker smiles as he gets to his feet and takes the free.

In the last minute of the quarter Richmond’s pressure forces yet another turnover. Short gets it to Caddy who passes to Soldo who kicks the set shot straight and high and we’re 62 points up at the last break.

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Three-quarter time score:  Richmond 12.9.81 to GWS 2.7.19

Himmelberg kicks the first goal of the quarter which is disappointing.  My dread now is that the last quarter will turn into a junk-time snooze fest.  The Giants might get a few back, the result will be a respectable thrashing and we’ll never want to watch this quarter again.

That’s not how Richmond play though.  We break well downfield, Picket handballs to Castagna who goes on a little run and kicks another point.  It really doesn’t matter.  The Giants’ rebound is thwarted as Shedda spoils, Lynch kicks to Bolton who marks and goals and we’re over ten in front again.  People are singing the song and Pickett kicks another bomb into the 50 which bounces off Dusty’s chest for a point.

The big, old, drunk bloke who wanted to put me on Facebook, is now standing where he shouldn’t be, blocking the view of young Jack.  Jack’s dad asks him to move and he does, eventually.

Pickett goes again, to Rioli and Jack in the goal-square, the ball spills lose and Jack gathers and goals.  The quarter isn’t half gone and the flag is ours.  Can we keep up the chanting and singing to the end?

We try our Toby chant again, to no avail.  We still don’t care.

What happened to the monsters of our nightmares in this past week?  We’ve woken up in the morning and they’re nothing but fluffy toys.

They’ve kicked 3.7 for the day and they won’t score again.  Not so much as another rushed behind.

Cameron takes a grab and could easily score but a free is given to my brother, David Astbury, for a hold.  People in their tens of thousands are singing Tigerland.  Not like at the end of the prelim in ’95 when Geelong slaughtered us.  But now because we’ve won another flag and we’ve still got minutes of footy left to enjoy. 

There’s a bit of a flat spot in play before Rioli kicks well into the middle and finds Cotchin, who plays on, takes one bounce and kicks a goal from the 50.  The crowd erupts and my daughter hugs me.  Our cake is iced and Astbury takes another mark in defence and we sing the song again.  Vlaustin gathers and kicks yet another long one to the 50.  Martin collects the footy and goals and this can’t get any better, we’ll all die of happiness.

“Dusty…Dusty…Dusty…” we sing.

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The big, old drunk bloke is back in front of us and he grabs a woman sitting alone and gives her a big sloppy kiss on her face and he gives her friend, sitting a little distance away, an equally sloppy one.  They both laugh it off, because who would want to spoil this party?

He approaches the barrier we lean on and comes towards my daughter who is next to me.  I lean towards him as she leans back and I say “Fuck off!” I feel like he’s coming in for another go and I put my hand to his chest and say “No, fuck right off!” and he does, sort of, and takes up position a yard or two from us.

The moment is spoiled.  It shouldn’t end like this but it does.  From the bounce our Toby kicks long to Jack who marks, goes back and kicks his fifth.  Everyone goes nuts again and my daughter tries to join in but she’s shattered by what the big, old, drunk bloke just tried to do to her.  She sings and cheers through her tears, which are not of joy but of fear and anger.

The ball goes back to the middle and is bounced.  We don’t hear the siren but just hear the crowd erupt and see the players explode with joy and my daughter and me are in an awful dream where something horrible has ruined this special moment.

We sing the song, again and again, and people see her crying and think it’s because she’s so happy.  And I ask, do you want to go?  And she doesn’t.  But she doesn’t want to be here, either and is scared that the revolting man will come back.

Which he does, by which time we’re packing up to go, and he leans on the barrier and says “Sorry mate,” to me.  And I think I might have said “Fuck off!” again, and I hope that I did, but maybe I just ignored him.  And he drops the bit of paper I’d given him at quarter time, with my name and the Tiger Tiger Burning Bright address on it.

My daughter doesn’t know what to do.  But eventually she finds a policewoman who listens attentively and takes a statement and says it will be investigated and finishes off with “I’m glad I could help you.  You’re a good person and it’s good to help good people.  You did the right thing to tell us about this, it’s wrong what happened and women shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

By now we’ve met up with my partner and my other daughter.  The party on Swan Street is not for us.  We find a cab and are glad to get home and see our beloved Wolfie in his Tom Lynch jumper.  We watch the first half on the tape but I’m the only one still awake by half-time.

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Full-time score:  Richmond 17.12.114 to GWS 3.7.25

I’m as shocked as anyone that our opponents will be the Giants.  There’s a kind of relief – at least we won’t lose to Collingwood.  But an even worse kind of dread – what if we lose to the Giants?  What if we were the team that let this pampered corporate confection win their first flag?

Relief too that tickets will be easier to get than if it had been the Pies.  But I miss out on the ballot on Monday, 22 years of membership counting for nothing.  I go to the Giants’ website and learn that everyone in their ballot got a ticket and now they’re giving their members a second go.  Outrageous.  But all is fair in love and Grand Final ticketing and so I try to buy a couple of Giants’ memberships.  I might not be the only one with this bright idea though and their website doesn’t seem to work.

Later I get a message from Richmond telling me that the Giants still haven’t sold all their tickets and I might get another chance on Tuesday.  And sure enough, not long after 11 the next morning I’ve snagged a standing room ticket to the big game.  The news gets better.  Still more tickets remain and my daughter, a 7-9-year member, gets a chance and just after 2pm I get her a ticket too.  Calling her to give the good news is one of the best things I’ve done.  She can’t believe we’re both going.

A bit later, a TTBB reader offers yet another ticket and I’m wondering, at this rate, will the ground be only half full?

The standing room tickets for my daughter and me are in different bays.  But based on the 2017 experience, this won’t matter at all.  In 2017 we were told we had to stick to our bays but nobody checked and instead of standing in my terrible spot at M5 I went behind the goals at M3 and there was no checking.

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The week goes quickly.  Everything in the news is about the Giants’ “physical” game, the “clumsiness “of Mumford and the menace of Greene.  Personally, I’m a bit terrified. What really counts in finals is recent form and theirs has been good.  Clearly it doesn’t bother them anymore to play in front of a hostile crowd and why would it?  They play in front of one every other week.  Their form reminds me too much of ours in 2017, coming good at just the right time.

At work I’m busy after Tuesday which has been a bit of a write-off.  There was a farewell lunch and then afternoon tea and time spent buying tickets and telling the world I’d been successful.  What a healing journey this will be – my daughter couldn’t get a ticket in 2017 and it broke her heart.

I put in a big day on Thursday and colleagues wish me well for the weekend.  Everyone hates the Giants and hopes Richmond win, even the Collingwood supporters.  But everyone is a bit afraid too, although maybe not as much as I am.

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On Friday we leave the house on our bikes at about 6.30 and catch the 6.49 from Thornbury.  Just as we did in 2017, we alight at West Richmond for a little walk down to Punt Road.  There are only a few hundred in the queue on the northern side.  In 2017 we went in on the other side and there had been 2000 in the queue, even at 7.30.  Are Richmond members becoming complacent?  Or have many more thousands got lucky with tickets and so don’t feel the need to get to training to see their boys one last time?

But by the time we get in at 8.30 a decent crowd has built up.  We sit in the stand this time and the man next to me gets me to do a live interview for 2SM in Sydney.  The world looks beautiful from up here and we say we’ll come and watch some VFL and some women’s games next year.

Eventually our boys run out and do some impressive drills and stretches.  I’m not thrilled with how Cotch looks, but I don’t say anything.  I never seem to see him running and I wonder what injury he might be carrying.  Everyone else looks pretty good though.

After half an hour they depart and so do we.  In Yarra Park there are thousands of people and we find some food, but no coffee.  After we eat, we go for coffee at a place on Wellington Parade which is under siege from the Yellow and Black and the odd Orange and Grey.  We wait a good while for a coffee but everyone is patient.

In 2017, after the last training session, we made a big mistake and sought food in the city.  By the time we got out the crowds lining the parade route were ten people deep and we couldn’t see a thing.  This time we find a good spot on the corner of the Fitzroy Gardens.  It suddenly hits me what a wonderful public holiday this is.  The road is empty of traffic and all that remains is people in their teeming thousands, enjoying each other’s company.

Eventually the parade comes along and it’s the most beautiful, daggy thing I’ve ever seen.  First come some coppers on push-bikes – not in fancy dress or anything, just riding their bikes, as is their job.  Then a magnificent pipe band – I would go anywhere to listen to the bagpipes.  And a brass band playing their theme song and ours (and the Giants do have a good song, credit where it’s due) and people on stilts in fat suits and people in fat footy suits, one of which has deflated and hangs about him like a misshapen cape.

And finally, the utes, emblazoned with Toyota mottos – even this commercialism is low-key – and the umps come first and then our players, two in each ute, many with kids on laps.  And we clap and cheer as they go by. The Giants come next and the Richmond people around us are so taken with the happy atmosphere that they even clap these evil bastards.  “They’ve done well, they’ve made a Grand Final,” one yellow-and-black clad woman says as she claps them.

We train and bike home and get the washing in before it rains.  Then I go out again to the Preston Market.  It’s only five days since I last went and it’s surprising how much stuff we need.  Ray and Pat greet me warmly at their stall.  They barrack for Carlton but have known Presti’s family for years and feel a bit invested in Richmond.  They are thrilled that my daughter and I have tickets.  Like everyone else they wish me well but think it will be a tough, hard game.

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Nobody can believe they’ve picked Pickett for his first game.  I assume they know what they’re doing, but really?  Is this a good idea?  When you could have picked premiership players like MacIntosh or Townsend?  The man at the organic stall says it’s a good decision.  “It’s good coaching.  It’s telling them all, this is just a game of footy, just go out there and play.” I suppose there’s a logic to that.

And underneath my fear and dread there’s a faint spark of hope – if they’ve picked him for his first game, he must be more than good, they must think he’s a bit special.  Maybe he is.

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I get everything we need and the evening goes by in a rush.  I make a double batch of Anzacs to put in my 1974 Premiers bickie tin, make a couple of rolls for lunch, make sure the water bottles are handy, check and check again – wallet, keys, hat, tickets.  I tumble into bed after 11 and jump up with the alarm before five.

My daughter hates getting up in the morning but she’s up by six on the Friday for training and today for the game itself. I have offered to go in early and save her a spot in standing room but she won’t hear of it.  “I want to be there early too, I want to be a part of it.” And, as it turns out, it’s lucky that she is.

We’re out of the house by 6.25.  I don’t stop and check my pack on the way, because I did so just before we left – bickies, rolls, hats, wallet, keys, phones, tickets – and we’re at Thornbury a few minutes before the train comes.  At Jolimont the Members’ queue is impressive but not quite as long, I think, as in 2017.  At our gates – 6 and 7 – nobody is waiting, so we’re first in line.  I need the toilet and soon I want a coffee but neither thing is convenient.  It’s cold and I do some lunges and stair climbing to keep warm and we do the quiz in the record and don’t go too badly.  We tackle a cryptic crossword and solve a few clues but I’m too nervous to concentrate for long.

My daughter tries to teach me a clapping game and that fills in some time.  We begin to worry about our tickets, which have different gate numbers on them.  Mine says 6 and hers is 7.  My bay is M23 and hers is M26.  But I’ve been thinking all along that we’ll ignore them altogether and head down to the Punt Road End.  I do some reconnaissance and learn that M23 is a disaster.  It’s one of those standing room “bays” that isn’t a bay at all. It’s just a section of concourse that has a barrier in front of it. Unless you are right at the front, or very tall, you won’t see a thing.  Worse, there’s nowhere to sit but flush on the floor in the five hours from when you get in to when the game starts.

M26 is more promising – it’s an actual bay with steps.  A better view for everyone and a step to sit on in those long hours.  So we decide to move up to gate 7, where there are still only a few in the queue, and head to M26.  And my daughter chooses to take the bag and be in the bag-checking line while I go in the fast lane for those without bags.

This plan work well, at first.  In I go and head to M26.  I accidentally land in M25, which is fine and I think it will suit us.  However, a staff member is onto me straight away – “Can I see your ticket?  You’re not meant to be here.  This is M25.”   I go one bay over, by which time my daughter has arrived and more trouble awaits us.  They are being completely hard-arsed about standing room this year.  They are not letting you into a bay without a wrist-band and not giving you a wrist-band unless you have a ticket for that bay.  The staff won’t move on this.

Somehow, I get into the bay anyway and we park our pack and claim our spot and try to negotiate.  I explain that we’ve waited two hours to get in, we were first in line and we simply have to stand together.  They say they appreciate this but they can’t give me a wrist-band if I don’t have a ticket for this bay.  I ask to see their supervisor but they can’t find him. Eventually the man called Luke says, “I can’t give you a wrist-band.  You’ll have to try and swap your ticket for someone who’s on their own and doesn’t mind standing in M23.”  This seems like an unlikely event.  But in the meantime, I can stay with my daughter and they’ll even let me out and back in again when I need to go to the toilet.  Which is right now.

I can’t believe the bloody-mindedness of it and I’m almost crushed by the unfairness.  In front of us are the AFL members, generally a bit more nicely-dressed than us, thousands of whom don’t even barrack for Richmond, all in their very good seats.  And my daughter and I can’t even stand together?  And I don’t even get a step to stand on?

But there’s no point dwelling on it. What counts is survival.  And I can see what the staff have done – they’ve covered themselves while letting me stay.  And my daughter and I begin to relax.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Five hours goes by quickly.  A couple of coffees, a few trips to the toilet, an Anzac or two, some VCE Philosophy, a phone call to Mum whom I was meant to visit this weekend.  I had planned to write pages and I barely jot a line or two.

At 1.30 when I make my last toilet trip the bay has filled up.  I’m still allowed back in and I think I’m right for the game now.  We are right at the front and our view is magnificent, near the pocket at the City End.  There is some awful pre-match entertainment, including an attempt at the “World Record Crowd Noise” (brought to you by the people who have killed crowd noise).  We don’t take part and the attempt fails.  And even worse than this, “Kiss Cam” where the camera pans the crowd and zooms in on couples – or people sitting next to each other who might, possibly, be couples – and the spruiker who should be in prison urges them to kiss. What kind of sexual harassment shit is this?

Then the live music starts, which isn’t great, except for Paul Kelly who is.  Then Up There Cazaly which goes a lot better than Williamson singing Waltzing Mathilda and then the banners go up and ours is distressingly bad – something like “add another to the collection.” A bland and complacent banner if ever we saw one.  Then the anthem and then the game.

Our nerves are totally stuffed by now.  We’re tired as hell and close to losing it.  A good close game of footy is the last thing we want.