For the emotionally detached footy fan, those of us who follow clubs other than the four in action this weekend, it’s been a little difficult getting excited about the finals this year. Despite stubble-cheeked serfs feeding us Soviet-era propaganda in the AFL’s Septopia ads, there has been a distinct lack of zing in the spring air.
The reason is simple: Geelong has been too bloody good. Great if you’re a Cats fan, not so brill for the rest of us. For the longest time, the Premiership has seemed a mere formality for the pussycats from the Peninsula. But now I’m starting to feel a tingle.