I woke early on the last Saturday in September with a familiar feeling floating through my mind: an epic battle loomed. Finally this highly anticipated contest was on our door step, or in my case, just a bus ride away.

I hadn’t experienced the normal build that comes with the end of the AFL season. I hadn’t spent the weeks immersed in the experts’ opinions. I hadn’t watched the final footy show of the year. And I wasn’t able to catch the Brownlow Medal and see the Best and Fairest claim his honour.

I’d been London, in the coldest summer of my life, relying on the internet and a couple of Aussie style bars to follow my beloved Cats and their journey towards MCG.

So here I was at three thirty in the morning, jumping on a bus to head to the pub, a little weary, feeling quite strange as I met another one-eyed Geelong supporter outside.

She was confident, and why wouldn’t you be when your team has won 43 out of a possible 45 games over the last two years.

This was a team seemingly comfortable with its title as favourites, a team so full of capable men that they couldn’t find room for the dashing and courageous David Wojinski.

I stood there though feeling quite strange, certainly not filled with the same confidence of my friend, a little apprehensive not only about how the beer was going to taste that early in the morning but also how my beloved Cats were going to fair.

Immediately it was clear that there was going to be no repeat of last year as the Hawks found their feet first and skipped clear.

Though Ablett and company steadied and came back to lead at the first change, you couldn’t help but wonder where the decision-making that had been faultless for almost two years had gone.

Continually the ball entered to forward line headed towards the deep MCG pockets. And too often players kicked short to fifty-fifty contests, something youngster are taught before they are ten years old.

The second term continued just as eerie as opportunities went by time and time again.

Selfishness seemed to creep in and twice certain goals were missed when players sat free in front of the ball carrier.

Cameron Ling had Mitchell under control, Joel Selwood and Corey Enright were playing their ever reliable games, but they were being overshadowed by a dominant Luke Hodge and a player any coach would love to have in Campbell Brown.

Brown plays uncompromising footy, runs straight, never takes a backward step and always manages to crash his way through when it’s needed most.

Cam Mooney managed to keep the game heading in the same direction as he missed his second sitter just after the main break.

The Hawks appeared to be hanging on, with Geelong surging forward in waves and Trent Croad and the in form Clinton Young sitting wounded on the sidelines.

But from nowhere the charge came as Mark Williams threw himself at the contest and Stewy Dew became an unlikely dangerous forward.

Gary Ablett Jr, clearly Geelong’s best and arguably the best midfielder in the league, lifted and his Cats managed to claw back into contention with just the last stanza remaining.

But there was to be no fairytale comeback as the Hawks continued to sabotage the Cat’s forward thrusts as Luke Hodge, with the Norm Smith in the bag, continued to shout orders, fly back with the flight, and crash into anyone wearing blue and white.

Buddy Franklin and captain Mitchell bobbed up for cameos as the Hawk Fans at The G and in London went berserk.

The young men in Brown and Gold handled the pressure far better than their more fancied opponents. Brad Sewell, surely for the last time, slipped under the radar, and the likes of Rick Ladson and Robert Campbell emerged more than worthy premiership players.

Many Cats could still hold their heads high, which continued this bizarre emotion that engulfed me.

Though a fanatic, I couldn’t help but leave quite content that the right team had won. This has always been a day for the warriors and the courage of Clarkson’s men had me standing with perspective that normally eludes you after your team has just lost a Grand Final.

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