We'd been in front for all but the first few minutes of the match. We'd smashed them in clearances, in possessions, in forward entries. Even frees. (You may have been wondering if you'd get an impartial assessment of the free kick furore from me. I've reviewed the match and I have to acknowledge, there were some howlers. How they ever paid that out-of-bounds free kick to Eddie Betts is beyond me. And as for allowing the self-same Eddie Betts to tackle Dahl from within the protected zone..but apart from that, I thought the umpires did quite well).
The Crows kicked out.
But instead of going for the relative safety of the boundary line, one of their backman (it would have been a further indignity if it was Daniel 'Phone-a-friend' Talia, but it's all a blur) launched a massive kick straight down the centre. We all seemed, spectators and players, alike, caught by surprise, our eyes elsewhere, absorbed in watching the usual efforts to close up space.
Surprise didn't seem to quite be the right word to describe the split second where it dawned on us, simultaneously, that one man alone had escaped out the back and was lurking ready to snaffle the ball, with all our defenders stranded further up the ground. As Eddie Betts pounced and the inevitable goal came, our fans let out a particular excruciating groan. The groan that comes when, after we've been by far the better team all night, a match is about to slip through our increasingly sweaty palms.
Not again, Dogs. Not again.
We, the fans, have a collective memory. We remember when number four was Daniel Cross, and number six was Brad Johnson. When number three was a graceful, smooth-moving, silky champion, not a curly headed tough-as-nails midfielder.
As our affections and hopes latch onto our new, oh so young group, the stories and disappointments of these men, their luckless predecessors, are still lodged, for better and often for worse, in our memories, a form of dreaming.
And for we, the fans, too many times that collective memory has been of failure and humiliation. Games lost in dying seconds, a well-deserved reputation for losing the close ones, whether it was Billy Brownless (not yet a Footy Show bufffoon) kicking an enormous kick after the siren to sink us in a final. Or our nightmare capitulation on that glittery Saturday afternoon, against just this foe, in the Preliminary Final That Must Not Be Named. Or the mocking moment when Alastair Lynch sneeringly taunted Scott West with a 'choking' gesture in a final against Brisbane (we were being thrashed).
We shared those moments, impotent, sorrowful fans, unable to change the outcome, no matter how hard we clap, scream, curse, implore or frequently pray.
I don't know if our former champs have made their peace with all these harrowing moments. It is the blessing and sometimes the curse of the fans, that we have new opportunities for redemption. And, our memories tell us ominously, new opportunities, just like the Eddie Betts goal, for further pain and heartache.
They, the players out there tonight, have no such collective memory. They were toddlers, infants, unborn, or gangly teens indifferent at the time to our moments of heartbreak. Their story has (as yet) nothing to do with our story.
Yet it's one of my irrational fears that somehow each sparkly new generation will slowly absorb that collective memory, tighten up in the big moments, repeat the mistakes, self destruct, blow their chances when success beckons. I find myself anxiously watching them, like an overprotective new parent, alert for the telltale signs that they've finally been infected by the dreaded contagion of Bulldogs' failure.
But ... the ball's going forward again. The men in red, white and blue look fierce and determined. Daily Bailey somehow has it again, and guides a perfect, clever kick to the centre half forward spot. The man who marks it, 50 metres out, is none other than The Bont.
No one exemplifies the tussle between the past and the future more than fans' expectations of Marcus Bontempelli. In last year's elimination final The Bont missed two gettable goals as, in a match far too much like tonight's, we squandered our dominance while our more clinical opponents nabbed them all. Straight away we, the fans, began to project our anxieties in The Bont's direction; footy forums everywhere began anguished debates about whether he and his other precocious teammates were also destined to fall short, unable to reserve their absolutely greatest moments for when we need them the most?
Which for me at least, raised another tormenting question: is it the very fact that we worry like this which makes the weight of our restless hopes and desperation for success too heavy to bear, the reason that these kids like Griffen and Cooney or Grant and Johnson before them, begin to lose their starry-eyed, the-sky-is-the-limit idealism?
My head is in my hands: I don't think I can bear to watch as The Bont prepares to take his kick. The Dogs are now only three points ahead; if he kicks a point, there's the far too real possibility of another Crows' sweep down the ground, defensive mis-steps from us, a goal either hard-earned or flukey to snatch the game. I'm already thinking of what it would mean, the frustrations and venting on social media, the smug commentators and jealous opposition fans opining that the Boy Wonder isn't such a hero after all, chortling that the good old Dogs are losers once again.
But I do look up, and see with relief, The Bont looking determined, serious, but not over-awed. (I don't quite know what I expected; him in the arms of the trainers being treated for an anxiety attack?) He strikes the ball with everything in his young but strong legs. The roar begins when the ball is in mid-flight. We don't need to be told to MAKE SOME NOISE!!!. We're laughing, yelling, screaming. There may have been some tears.
This is not just an ordinary kick to win a game. This was, at last, our man who handled the big moment. Who maybe even wanted the big moment.
I think of a moment in Socceroos history, when Harry Kewell, who had begun to have his share of doubters kicked a magical goal. Commentator Simon Hill captured the euphoria of the moment perfectly: 'Australia's golden boy has come up with a golden goal!'
All the dreams of success-starved fans, projected onto The Bont, hoping for a moment just like this. Our golden boy.
If The Bont hadn't kicked the goal, if we'd lost the match, it's as though it would have wiped out forever all the other magical moments of the match, swept them away as if they never existed.
I wouldn't have wanted to watch, again and again, some classic Lair Moments, or even his marvellous intuitive tap to an equally smart thinker in 'Celeb' Daniel.
There would have been no revelling in four quarters of men of Mayhem footy, no excited chatter at how Bevo Our Saviour managed to rejig the flat and listless team from last week.
I would have tried to ruthlessly wipe from the memory bank all the efforts of our gallant and undermanned defence and refused to get misty-eyed over the splendid sight of an all-Australian intercept marker and quality ball user in top form (I'm referring of course to Matthew Boyd).
The clearance work of Libber, the immensity of effort from Wally, the heartening sight of Big Red prowling around our forward line and giving Jake some respite, the footy smarts of the only player on the ground that makes Dailey Bailey look like a hulking brute, Toby McLean: all these memories would have all been like ashes in our mouths if we lost the game. They should, of course be moments worth cherishing and celebrating on their own. yet we all know they're not. Even the immensity of the game of The Bont himself up to that critical moment, the brilliance of his one-handed taps, clearances and tackles, would all have been lost, overshadowed, if instead of a goal he'd wobbled a miserable point or failed even to make the distance. It was unlikely it would be forgiven and seen in context, as a tired shank from a still very young player who'd given his all; with our history it would have seemed like yet another message from the universe - (I think we've taken the hint by now) - another stab of pain right into the nerve centres of our collective memories.
For some reason I think of the Steve Martin movie Parenthood (I know. Tommo Hardy one moment, Steve Martin the next. Such great value in a Tragician blog). Anyway, Steve Martin stars as the ever anxious father coaching his nine year old son's baseball team. Kevin is a timid boy and not much of a player. In the last game of a winless season, the team is somehow a chance to win their only game of the season. The batter skies a ball and propped underneath it is poor Kevin. It will either be a home run or a match-winning catch. He fumbles the ball but then retrieves it. He's chaired off the ground by his jubilant team-mates.
Afterwards Steve, wearing his best contorted, tightly wound expression, begins musing about that pivotal moment. Again and again.
'But what if he'd dropped it?' he asks his long suffering wife.
'But he didn't,' she says patiently.
''Yes but if he did...'
'But,' she says, 'he didn't.'
What went through the mind of Our Golden Boy (wearer, of course, of the iconic Daniel Cross number four guernsey) as he went back for his kick? Did he think, at least for a fleeting moment, of his misses in last year's final? If he did, was it with the calm, inner self-belief that the great players have? Maybe he was able to focus only on how many times he'd nailed these at training, remembering the work he'd done and keeps doing, to get better and the best he can be. Thinking only: 'That was then. This is now.'
Watching the game that night was one of our greatest players, Chris Grant. He was shown a couple of times on the big screen, a husband and father, looking relaxed. A face in the crowd, as the new generation took on the team that twice thwarted his premiership dreams.
Somewhere in the crowd, I'm sure, is The First Libber. Was it a goal, or was it a point, in the Preliminary Final That Must Not Be Named? His son, the phenomenal talent and clearance machine, is playing his part in erasing some of the pain of that day, but if it happens, it will be Tom's story, not Tony's; he'll rejoice as a dad. And with us, the fans.
As our song is being belted out, the coaching staff walk down the aisles. There's Rohan Smith, our defensive coach, who has Our Boys playing as a unit that's so much greater than the whole. That 1997 photo of him, crouched over on the MCG turf and punching the ground, has become an iconic one of failure, the outward demonstration of the pain that we the fans felt, in those nightmare moments when we lost that match.
And behind Rohan walks, or limps, Bob Murphy. As we applaud him, Bob doesn't have the roguish twinkle, the 'wasn't that fabulous' expression, that I thought or hoped he might. Already in a few short weeks, they're not his boys, his team in the same way. Like an impotent fan - like us - he'd had to watch those wrenching, exhilarating crazy last moments, unable to take a saving mark, to shriek at a team-mate to cover Eddie Betts, to play his role. Nor was he part of the exuberant huddle, the band of brothers that swamped The Bont at that pivotal moment.
After we'd thrashed the previously undefeated Adelaide early in the 2015 season the conviction that this team was going to deliver something special took hold in my mind. I've somehow never forgotten my sister saying, out of the blue, as we floated out after the match: 'They're going to do it, this group. They're going to win us a flag.'
I've reached for those words like a mantra when there have been moments of doubt, when miserable flashbacks to other moments when I had the same ultimately false belief, intrude on the sheer joy that our team under Bevo Our Saviour brings us. '
They're drumming around in my brain now, as the joyful crowd disperses, delighted that our boys had the steel to at last win a close one: They're going to do it. This is the group.'