By Anna Pavlou
I’m eight years old and wake up in a fluster at 6am on the morning of Saturday, the 26th of September 2009.
I’m awake earlier than usual for a Saturday but I can’t sleep. It’s Grand Final Day and my first where I’m old enough to go and see over the heads in front of me. Before I could see, Dad would always make sure to switch seats to give me the best view of the MCG.
I haven’t and won’t eat today. The biggest stress in my eight-year-old life is football and today’s the most nervous I’ve ever felt.
We hop into Dad’s Ford Escape and drive up Church Street Brighton. We talk about how we could win - or lose. I prepare myself for both accordingly (it’s crying either way. I’m eight! You can’t blame me!)
My short legs trail behind my Dad and Aunty Penny’s as we stride into Middle Brighton Station. Almost every football memory I have in the MCC begins at Middle Brighton Station on cold weekend afternoons.
I am terrified of losing my Dad, so I cling to his ‘27’ windcheater that he tells me represents Andrew Bews and we push our way from the warn-down platform into the tight air of the carriage.
We’re some of the first on the line so we grab wall seats. I am lucky enough to get my own and I sit dangling my legs, imagining ‘what if we win another premiership today and I’m there to see it?’
I tune in and out of conversations my Dad and Aunty are having. I hear whispers of Koschitzke and Nick Riewoldt being big threats to our backline and it sends shivers down my spine.
My Dad, a mad Cat, strikes up conversation with a Saints supporter. She’s a middle-aged woman, dressed head to toe in red, white and black. We’re jammed next to her on the train and she smiles anxiously.
“Our last grand final was 1997 and you know that didn’t go to plan,” the woman chuckles as she nudges my Dad.
“And we haven’t won one since 1966! Gosh, you are a lucky bunch you Cats,” She blurts out again.
My Dad laughs. He was lucky, if you consider waiting 44 years to see Geelong win a flag lucky.
“It’ll be a close one today…” Dad trails off.
They continue to talk and analyse the game plans and how they think the coaches will stop each team. I tune out, too nervous to think anymore. It seems like forever until we arrive at Richmond station, my body squeezed closer into my Dad’s shoulders with every stop.
The jolting stop sees the train rise to their collective feet.
“Good luck today,” she smiles.
“I won’t say good luck. But may the best team win,” my Dad smiles back.
Dad shakes her hand and we walk our separate ways into the hallowed MCG, never to see her again.
I step off and I have never seen this many people flooding towards the same place at once. My draw-string Geelong bag weighs heavy on my back. It’s filled with my stat book, Dad’s wallet and Geelong memorabilia, including my lucky Cats bear.
We meet outside with the rest of our gang and walk in together, in silence.
It all hits me at once. It’s not a particularly sunny day, in fact, rain is scheduled for the late afternoon, but I don’t care. I’ve been to the MCG before, but not like this.
On the aisle is my Uncle James. Next to him is my Aunty Penny, Aunty Maz, my cousin Tarsh, then me and finally, Dad on the other side.
The green of that MCG grass. Even on a dull Melbourne day, that grass sticks out to me in the best way.
St Kilda leads at every change, but for some reason I don’t feel threatened.
The last quarter comes and the rain starts falling. It seems light but I look up to the light towers of the MCG and see it’s coming down hard. We miss the rain by one row. It dribbles on our feet and I giggle.
“Missed it by THAT much,” I laugh.
The next thing I know, the scores are level. Now I start to feel uneasy (Who am I kidding? I have never felt relaxed at a footy game in my life!)
The next few minutes lock us in. Then, the miracle on grass. Steve Johnson, to Scarlett, toe-poke, Ablett, top of the square…
“CHAPMAN, CHAPMAN, CHAAAAPPPMANNN!!!!”
It’s all a blur. My hearts beating out of my chest and I turn to Tarsh.
“I think I’m going to cry.”
“Me too.”
I didn’t even hear the siren.
Next thing I know, I turn to my Dad and he sweeps me up onto my seat and hugs me. It was the best hug I have ever received.
We cry in each other’s arms for a good five minutes.
The best five minutes of my life.
I’m now 20 years old. I still look back on that 2009 Premiership with the same fondness and emotion I did on that very day in September sitting in the MCC.
I still feel my Dad’s embrace and his tears on my Geelong jumper.
I carry that memory wherever I go. My first Grand Final and the one my Dad dedicates to me.
And on that day, I was one of 99,251 jammed into the MCG.
But I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
2009 AFL Grand Final
Geelong Cats: 12.8 (80)
St Kilda: 9.14 (68)
I’m eight years old and wake up in a fluster at 6am on the morning of Saturday, the 26th of September 2009.
I’m awake earlier than usual for a Saturday but I can’t sleep. It’s Grand Final Day and my first where I’m old enough to go and see over the heads in front of me. Before I could see, Dad would always make sure to switch seats to give me the best view of the MCG.
I haven’t and won’t eat today. The biggest stress in my eight-year-old life is football and today’s the most nervous I’ve ever felt.
We hop into Dad’s Ford Escape and drive up Church Street Brighton. We talk about how we could win - or lose. I prepare myself for both accordingly (it’s crying either way. I’m eight! You can’t blame me!)
My short legs trail behind my Dad and Aunty Penny’s as we stride into Middle Brighton Station. Almost every football memory I have in the MCC begins at Middle Brighton Station on cold weekend afternoons.
I am terrified of losing my Dad, so I cling to his ‘27’ windcheater that he tells me represents Andrew Bews and we push our way from the warn-down platform into the tight air of the carriage.
We’re some of the first on the line so we grab wall seats. I am lucky enough to get my own and I sit dangling my legs, imagining ‘what if we win another premiership today and I’m there to see it?’
I tune in and out of conversations my Dad and Aunty are having. I hear whispers of Koschitzke and Nick Riewoldt being big threats to our backline and it sends shivers down my spine.
My Dad, a mad Cat, strikes up conversation with a Saints supporter. She’s a middle-aged woman, dressed head to toe in red, white and black. We’re jammed next to her on the train and she smiles anxiously.
“Our last grand final was 1997 and you know that didn’t go to plan,” the woman chuckles as she nudges my Dad.
“And we haven’t won one since 1966! Gosh, you are a lucky bunch you Cats,” She blurts out again.
My Dad laughs. He was lucky, if you consider waiting 44 years to see Geelong win a flag lucky.
“It’ll be a close one today…” Dad trails off.
They continue to talk and analyse the game plans and how they think the coaches will stop each team. I tune out, too nervous to think anymore. It seems like forever until we arrive at Richmond station, my body squeezed closer into my Dad’s shoulders with every stop.
The jolting stop sees the train rise to their collective feet.
“Good luck today,” she smiles.
“I won’t say good luck. But may the best team win,” my Dad smiles back.
Dad shakes her hand and we walk our separate ways into the hallowed MCG, never to see her again.
I step off and I have never seen this many people flooding towards the same place at once. My draw-string Geelong bag weighs heavy on my back. It’s filled with my stat book, Dad’s wallet and Geelong memorabilia, including my lucky Cats bear.
We meet outside with the rest of our gang and walk in together, in silence.
It all hits me at once. It’s not a particularly sunny day, in fact, rain is scheduled for the late afternoon, but I don’t care. I’ve been to the MCG before, but not like this.
On the aisle is my Uncle James. Next to him is my Aunty Penny, Aunty Maz, my cousin Tarsh, then me and finally, Dad on the other side.
The green of that MCG grass. Even on a dull Melbourne day, that grass sticks out to me in the best way.
St Kilda leads at every change, but for some reason I don’t feel threatened.
The last quarter comes and the rain starts falling. It seems light but I look up to the light towers of the MCG and see it’s coming down hard. We miss the rain by one row. It dribbles on our feet and I giggle.
“Missed it by THAT much,” I laugh.
The next thing I know, the scores are level. Now I start to feel uneasy (Who am I kidding? I have never felt relaxed at a footy game in my life!)
The next few minutes lock us in. Then, the miracle on grass. Steve Johnson, to Scarlett, toe-poke, Ablett, top of the square…
“CHAPMAN, CHAPMAN, CHAAAAPPPMANNN!!!!”
It’s all a blur. My hearts beating out of my chest and I turn to Tarsh.
“I think I’m going to cry.”
“Me too.”
I didn’t even hear the siren.
Next thing I know, I turn to my Dad and he sweeps me up onto my seat and hugs me. It was the best hug I have ever received.
We cry in each other’s arms for a good five minutes.
The best five minutes of my life.
I’m now 20 years old. I still look back on that 2009 Premiership with the same fondness and emotion I did on that very day in September sitting in the MCC.
I still feel my Dad’s embrace and his tears on my Geelong jumper.
I carry that memory wherever I go. My first Grand Final and the one my Dad dedicates to me.
And on that day, I was one of 99,251 jammed into the MCG.
But I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
2009 AFL Grand Final
Geelong Cats: 12.8 (80)
St Kilda: 9.14 (68)
Anna Pavlou and her dad, Nick. Image: supplied.