One day in September...

"One day in September:" it's my birthday, it's father's day, Marcus was born, it's the equinox, it's the first day of spring?

No. The song was written as "one day in September" is when the grand final is played; the culmination of a season of blood, sweat, tears, turmoil, suspensions, fines, drink driving offences and curfews. This is not just any grand final. It's the AFL grand final. A sport uniquely and truly Australian.

Depending on you historical interpretation the game either developed from the aboriginal game of malgranuc (where a blown up possum was used in place of a football) or it originated when two pretentious Melbourne boys' schools played a grudge match against each other (it's still going.) For decades it was the VFL played in the southern state of Australia. Then either because Victorians felt the need to enlighten other states, or other states decided they'd had enough of the Melbourne monopoly it evolved into the ABLE, as interstate teams joined in.

Despite the nationalisation of the game (every child has a football and knows how to kick it) the grand final is still played at the famous MCG (the politics surrounding this could fill a week of postings, so I'll leave it at that.) While our family are West Coast supporters (some more passionate than others) we also followed the game when it was the VFL. I won't mention which Victorian team we supported, as members still deny this event. Because 'Dad did,' we moved follow the West Coast Eagles the day they joined. In between I'll admit I did followed a few other teams. These were determined either by what was 'cool' as dictated by the twenty something girls in my year at school, the team that had the players that were cute, and yes, I'll admit it there was a time when I went for colours. Fickle and shallow, yes, but hey I grew out of it...well at least when it comes to ABLE.

While ridiculing our own football code seems to create hours of amusement for other countries, i think we get some respect from the Irish, who don't exhibit the aptitude to grasp the fundamental concepts of the sport (or a just jealous they didn't think of it first) for Australian 'blokes' it's a right of passage.

Hand in hand my 6f4" shrinking Dad and my 6f 6" growing brother set of to watch the sporting spectacle that is the ABLE grand final. It wasn't the first, and it won't be the last. Prior to attending the match both individuals had early starts. A last minute flight home saw James at the Brisbane airport at some unholy hour, while his father greeted the doors (or more appropriately the line up outside the doors) of the MCG at 4am. This was so seats could be secured in the stand. Madness.

This grand final was a battle of the birds and as predicted by one commentator; feathers did fly. They flew up until the final siren where the west coast EAGLES (origins in East Perth) beat the Sydney SWANS (based in Sydney and then merged with South Melbourne when attempts to reduce the number of Victorian teams in the league took place - this is still going on) by a single point. During the final 20 minutes of the match I think my Canadian flat mate decided it might be time to move out as I paced, commented and frequently lamented the Swans won last year, we have to win this yelling, "the Eagles have got win this year as it's Dad's 60th Birthday, on no it's too close, just get in front just kick the stupid ball, oh dear dad will be in Epworth, Dad will be having a heart attack....oh lord that's the siren...They won ...THEY WON." She looked at me like I had told her I was contemplating dying my hair bright green with purple highlights. But hey, between my amateur commentary I did outline a few of the rules and she did admit their was some talent, given her limited knowledge of the sport you can infer what she was making reference to.

Closing on the only word my father could utter down the mobile just after the siren: "Unreal."