It’s that time of the year again.
When everyone tugs on their footy gear, buys their favourite slab of beer, fires up the barbie and prepares to verbally abuse the guys in lime green. Welcome to the AFL Grand Final Day.
It’s basically a religious holiday, with its own traditions and rituals and hymns and of course, gods. And if you’re in Victoria, well it now gets its own public holiday. Halle-bloody-lujah.
Every day this week — and possibly even month — I’ve engaged in chatter about this sacred event and fielded questions about what I’ve got planned to celebrate.
And I get that. Because for a lot of my friends, their entire year has been leading up to this very moment. Google knows this.
I have mates in Europe who have mapped out what pubs they'll be able to hole up in to watch the game in the middle of the night.
And look, I admit a part of me got whipped into the excitement that washed over Melbourne when the Bulldogs broke a 55-year drought (see, I know facts) to secure a spot in the Grand Final.
But that part of me was very small, and very short-lived, and was probably just tied to the fact I fucking love four-legged bulldogs.
So, yeah, I still just don't get it.
Ever since moving to Australia seven years ago, I have tried. And I still try.
I used to work at a publication that was essentially a footy shrine. I'm in a relationship with a man who lives and breathes the sport, and I know full well would leave me for Gary Ablett or Patrick Dangerfield if he had the chance.
I've been to many footy games and had glimmers of enjoyment.