TO BE at the MCG on AFL Grand Final day is to attend one of the iconic events not just of Australian but of world sport.
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Waiting for that first bounce is like hearing the engines fire up on the Albert Park starting grid, watching the horses cram into the stalls at Flemington on Melbourne Cup day, that first ball of the Boxing Day Test match or first serve of the Australian Open final, and some other events not in Melbourne that I can’t think of right now.
But more than that, in terms of importance to its host nation, it is the indigenous equivalent of the American Superbowl, the English FA Cup final, Dublin’s Croke Park for a gaelic football final, Norway’s ski jumping championships or which horse rider gets to the goat carcass first in Afghanistan’s national sport of buzkashi (see Rambo III for more info).
Australians are the planet’s great travellers but wherever they may be on AFL Grand Final day, many will endeavour to seek out a television that might be showing the game.
So in addition to the 98,633 at the MCG, an estimated three million more were watching around Australia and another 30 million worldwide.
No pressure on umpire Matt Stevic making the first bounce then.
But long before the 2.30pm start time, the day had a uniquely Australian feel to it, not least in watching Hawthorn fans taking selfies with retired Brownlow Medallist Chris Judd, thanking him and then commiserating him on his old team’s imminent loss.
And there were so many Freo fans everywhere.
It was as if they thought somebody else might be playing.
Even getting to your seat on Grand Final day is an adventure.
I was on level N which I didn’t know but stands for Not Very Well Signposted.
By the time I reached my seat I had missed Chris Isaak, so the day had begun well.
Bryan Adams did OK, certainly better than Meatloaf, but obviously he’ll never be as globally famous as Mike Brady, who he helped warm up for the traditional performance of Up There Cazaly.
The match itself was best summed up by the contortions and increasing misery of Dan, Dan the West Coast fan with the Shannon Hurn hairline sitting next to me.
When the Hawks’ lead stretched to nearly 40 points approaching half-time, Dan said, with a straight face: "If we get the next six we could still be in this."
Scorelines of 6.1 to 1.6 and later 9.3 to 3.9 might look close, but mathematically were anything but.
When Jack Darling dropped an uncontested mark inside 50, Dan imploded in a manner reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West when water was poured over her.
And by the time Hawthorn defender Brian Lake single-handedly thwarted a three-v-one situation late in the final quarter, Dan was beyond caring.
"I suppose it would be nice to keep it below 10 goals," was all the poor fella could offer.
At this point, his fellow Eagles fans in the row behind suggested the scoreline was approaching a flogging.
"Oh no," said Dan. "They’ve used the f-word."
On a steaming day when as much water was consumed at the MCG as over-priced, mid-strength beer, Hawthorn players celebrated a third straight premiership to the appropriate musical accompaniment of The Best Thing.
Having experienced one of the planet’s great sporting occasions, few could disagree.
Well, apart from Dan obviously.