​Believe it or not, I've actually seen us win at Kardinia Park (or whatever they call it these days: my preference is TFS for Taxpayer-Funded Stadium).

It was 2003. The surprising thing about pulling off this rare feat was that it was in a year we added to our stellar collection of wooden spoons. In fact we only won three games for the year; astonishingly enough this included defeating the Cats twice. 

Geelong's team that day contained many of the players who'd form the nucleus of the great era which was yet to dawn. Our team included luminaries such as Daniel Bandy and Patrick Bowden, a few ageing remnants from our tilts in the '90s, and some newish players who would go on to find Geelong an insurmountable hurdle in the years 2008-2010.

There was also an unheralded rookie called Matthew Boyd, wearing number 42 and playing his fifth game.

Still, as someone famous once said, we've all passed a lot of water since those days.

I used to have a grudging admiration for the achievements of the Geelong dynasty later that decade. Now I've allowed myself to wallow in just the grudging.

About that benighted ground, where we can just about pencil in the loss of four points each year, yet where, in an unfairly lopsided fixture, Collingwood, Essendon, Carlton and Richmond never have to play.

About my well-known antipathy towards anything Scott-brother-related; now that Petulant Brad has departed, all my angst can be directed squarely at Morose Chris, who's added a George Hamilton-style tan to reasons to dislike him.

About how they're always able to attract and top up with blue-chip talent - with one new addition being among my (admittedly bulging) all time list of Most Detestable: 'Jezza' Cameron, no less.

About the air of entitlement that hangs over their players, who are genuinely astonished if ever a free is paid against them.

About why they can't just bottom out, rebuild and stop annoying me so much. 

As a counterpoint, however, I remind myself the Bulldogs have won a premiership more recently than the Cats.

That's all I've got.

In contrast to the 2003 clash which had little riding on it, in this 2021 match there is much at stake. The Cats are scratching at our top two spot on the ladder. We need a win for our credibility as a top four aspirant, having failed tests against Richmond and Melbourne.

It must be time, at last, to rid ourselves of the TFS monkey.

Fortunately, even if I wanted to, I was unable to purchase an exorbitantly priced seat at the stadium. It saved me from being condemned to watch most of the match on the scoreboard anyway given the weird shape of the ground. COVID restrictions mean  7000 of their supporters are allowed at the match, and only 200 of ours - I guess it preserves the usual ratio between the two clubs' attendance even without a pandemic.

The Libba Sisters are far from sorry that instead of huddling in the cold surrounded by Feral Cats, we'll be watching the clash on the couch. Settling into our accustomed positions, we don't really talk about what we expect, or hope for, on this wintry Friday night. At this ground, against this opponent, anything, sadly, is possible.

In the first quarter, though, we begin giving each other those silent nods of acknowledgement. Our Boys are 'on.'

Their execution isn't always matching the intent. Blessed with the Docklands stadium roof, we play less outdoor footy than most, which means we don't handle the wet and slippery conditions cleanly. But there is no doubt of their endeavour, no sign of that curious flatness which marred our game against the Dees.

By the third quarter, our hopes have gone beyond just a 'let's not capitulate' low bottom line. Our engine room purrs into life. Jackson Macrae, Tom Liberatore and The Bont rip the ball from the centre time and again. Our efforts are often kamikaze, our delivery to the forward line haphazard, but our intensity, our will, can't be faulted. And there are enough moments of brilliance - Josh Bruce's superb 50 metre goal on the run from the boundary, the Bont's brilliant snap - for us to be in the match up to our eyeballs. We've lost our wonderful forward, the Astro-Naut, but maybe in these conditions, it's not as big a loss as it might normally be, much though I mourn the loss of his exhilarating leaps in his retro long-sleeved guernsey

The Cats, however, are always in touch. Of course they are. Their goals somehow seem easier, more methodical, more calmly crafted and less energy-sapping than ours.

But early in the last quarter I murmur the words: 'I think we can do this.' Libba Sister Two nods in silent agreement. We miss some sitters,  but our efforts, our desperation, our focus, are magnificent. They will - surely - be rewarded.

Maybe they would have been rewarded, if it was any other team, any other venue.

Toby McLean puts us in front. The Tragician had earlier been proclaiming his inclusion as a mistake. But as we jump to our feet, I swiftly change my tune; I always knew it would be another selection masterstroke from Bevo Our Saviour!

But... there are three minutes to go. Will we bottle up the play, clog the backline with every Bulldogs player? or will we keep pushing forward, trying to manufacture another goal, strike a final killer blow against these seasoned pros... who've been in this position, and escaped, so many times before?

We have no way of knowing which option to take. Instead, as fans, we enter what I call the fever dream. Only footy fans can understand it: a fugue state, those last few minutes of a match when you're in front and trying to hold on. Reality is both heightened and blurry. Time slows down and accelerates, warps, has no meaning. Mesmerised, hypnotised, barely able to breathe: the actions of those out there on the field are momentarily the very most important on the planet.

In the fever dream, we become inarticulate, unable to even barrack coherently. There's  just snatches of agitated, racing thoughts, made worse by having no full perspective of the ground or the match context: 'Not there..oh...don't kick it...good boy...what...they can't ... they can't, can they??'

And somehow time for anticipatory grief, for all that's at stake.

Gary Rohan has the ball in his hands. He will kick for goal after the siren. In so many homes across Melbourne's west like ours, the last quarter din has fallen silent.

I try and imagine him duffing the kick and it slewing out of bounds on the full. I know it won't happen.

It doesn't happen.

The Libba Sisters scramble for the remote, but not in time to avoid the nauseating celebrations of the Solarium-faced One, not so morose now, rubbing further salt into the wounds of every Bulldogs fan.

We slowly, painfully, emerge from the fever dream.

There are the 'if onlies', of course. Surely a fit Astro-Naut would have clunked a crazy-brave mark in those last dying minutes as we struggled to fend off the insurgents. Our injured players, especially the Bromance Buddies, would have been so vital with their extra run in that last quarter. There were those costly misses; the fact that the Cats still had so much space in their forward line with seconds to go; the decisions players made under white-hot pressure. I can't criticise any one of them, for I can see how much our team tried, how much this loss - an after the siren kick is the absolutely worst way to lose - will sting.

And there's the sinking knowledge of what lies ahead; a trip to Perth, with another hungry, fresh challenger hoping to bring us down. A week in strict quarantine will strain Our Boys' physical and mental wellbeing. And now, 'Big Boys Month', as Damien Hardwick calls the gruelling month of July, is now just around the corner

I leave Libba Sister Two and drive  home. There is roadwork everywhere, and I twice become lost. I swerve to avoid a fox, running stealthily across the grim shadows beneath the Westgate Bridge. In the semi-deserted streets, I pass knots of Bulldogs' fans clustered outside pubs, still dissecting the loss, emerging from their own fever dreams to lament the 'if-onlies'.

Finally at home, I try to understand what went wrong and what it will mean for our 2021 campaign. I see the footage of Joel Selwood, clawing at the face of Dailey Bailey (an 'ear massage' chortle the commentators, who love to maintain the myth of his courage) and in a separate incident, drawing blood as he steps back "accidentally" onto the calf of Taylor Duryea ('and he pokes him in the eye and then stands on his foot,' they titter) acts for which he will only be fined. There's one pithy statement on Twitter that captures my anger, defiance and heartbreak for our club. 'We'll kill these pricks in September.'

​We’re off to a flyer in the 2016 elimination final against the West Coast Eagles. Stunning the footy world and even ourselves, we are 22 points up. Despite being rank underdogs, our team are playing with that Men of Mayhem manic style. One of our best is 23-year-old Lin Jong, who has cemented his spot and played the last nine games of the season. But Lin gets buried in a heavy tackle. Our medical staff rush to his side.

Amid the euphoria of our unexpected and gallant performance, and sudden realisation that our finals campaign remains alive, we still have time for sorrow. Lin is in tears on the bench; his collarbone had cracked beneath the weight of Jeremy McGovern.

He will have surgery, and remarkably, recover enough to play in Footscray’s premiership, adopting the famed Charlie Sutton ploy of taping the wrong collarbone so it won’t be targeted by his opponents. Lin is one of our best. The Libba Sisters listen to the match as we drive back from Sydney, the day after our preliminary final victory.

The senior team had kept on winning, competition for spots is fierce, and Lin’s spot in the team has vanished. He will be an onlooker when his close mates run out on the ‘G; dressed in his suit and tie, not his number 46 guernsey; on the sidelines, as our team finally make history.

I was once asked which of the Bulldogs' players I'd most like to meet in person. Perhaps surprisingly for one who spends far too much time observing and worrying about them, I have little desire to do so. I fear it would throw an awkward light on the chasm between our very different perspectives on the game. Me the fan behind a fence, dependent on their decisions and mindset every week to secure my happiness, yet still removed  from their struggles. The players with their own emotions, injury niggles, family worries: every mistake exposed out on the ground, every decision scrutinised and criticised by people just like me.

I fear I would be disappointed if our conversation was bland and cliched. I prefer, I suppose, to be able to project stories onto them, stories that are, if you get right down to it, more about me than them.

I've never met Lin Jong. He could be an exception though, someone with a tale I'd love to know more about. There’s his fascinating back story, the child of immigrants who arrived penniless,  the Asian kid who’d never played competitive footy until he was 15. He's the first player of Timorese descent, receiving a phone call of congratulations from Xanana Gusmao when he was drafted as a rookie. There’s his loving and close family, including his mother, who’s become a social media hit for an intrepid dive off a pool and her quaint text messages to her amused son. (His mother, he says, has become such an enthusiastic convert, she goes to matches even if he's not playing).

There’s Lin himself. The 2016 injury, it turned out, wasn’t just a one-off unfortunate event. He’s missed 37 games since then; the word ‘luckless’ has become a permanent adjective attached to his name. It’s not even just one particular body part repeatedly letting him down: while he’s had another collarbone injury, he’s also suffered an ACL tear, a broken jaw, a ruptured appendix and an ankle injury that meant he only played three matches in 2020.  He didn't even make it through the first quarter of his first match in almost a year on Friday night, before his hamstring gave way.

Again, cameras panned in on the poignant sight of him in tears on the bench.

Again, as he limped slowly, on crutches, into the team circle to join the song, we wondered just how much wretched luck one person could bear.

He’s approached it all with grace and wry humour. Lin is the first one to poke fun at his terrible run with injury and his fragile body. Though his resilience must be stretched to breaking point, he’s given no indication that he will give away this game which can be so cruel. After this latest setback, he posted: "Been through this before, can get through this again. Death, taxes, me injured... I have to go now, my planet needs me."

He’s taken time off in the past to deal with his mental health, and more importantly to speak honestly about what it means in a footballing context. He says he was reluctant to take the time out he needed: ‘“I put it off. I saw it as a selfish thing to do, given the team-first setting and culture I was in.”

He added: “It’s hard to hear from someone that you have depression, but the way I look at it is, it’s now a part of my identity. I’m male, I’m a footballer, I’m Asian, I am right footed, I have depression. None are more unusual than the other for me now. When I realised I didn’t have to hide away from that, and I didn’t have to be ashamed about what people would think, it all got a hell of a lot easier."

I’ve never met Lin’s close mate at the club, Jackson Macrae, either. He was close by on Friday night when, in the most innocuous of circumstances, Lin's hamstring gave way. 

I came across a photo recently, of the two of them seated together in the Grand Final parade, one of them about to play (and be close to best on the ground) in a premiership; the other not knowing if he would ever get that opportunity again.

The words 'unassuming' and 'under-rated' are Jackson's adjectives just as 'luckless' is Lin's . He's been exceptionally durable: though he suffered a hamstring tear which kept him out of the last four matches of the 2016 season, it held up under finals pressure. I wonder if, seeing the bad luck of his mate, he'd played - surely all players do - with that gnawing fear, of how close injury always is, of how easily Lin's fate could have been his. 

As I watch Jackson Macrae's outstanding 2021 season with ever-increasing awe, I'd also love to hear him talk about what drives him now, to get better and better – to have added to his repertoire  the perfectly weighted kicks into the forward line that further complement his relentless work ethic and running.  In unguarded moments, does he ever chafe at the lack of recognition from outside the club,  somehow always mentioned second to The Bont, and even now overtaken to some degree by flashier new models like Adam Treloar?

I’ve never met Aaron Naughton either, but somehow I don’t think I need to meet him to understand everything about him. Unless I’m very much mistaken, footy is simple for the guy who loves to fly. I’m not sure Aaron would ever be weighed down by the expectations of fans; even after he misses those shots at goal, he doesn't seem to berate himself or have time to be more than mildly annoyed before he sees some pack forming 100 metres away, and thinks it might be fun to fly over the top of the whole lot of them and catch the ball.

I’ve never met Toby Greene either.

And for that, I am truly grateful.

I’d prefer to think about the good guys of footy, and one of them is, surely, Lin Jong. I remember, with some embarrassment, my own annoyance when he shanked his shot at goal in the first quarter. How trivial my petty irritation seems now when minutes later he fell to the ground clutching his hammy, compared to the enormous price he's continued to pay to be out there, while as an armchair critic I experience no hardship whatsoever.

My mind drifts into wondering how he really felt during the ‘TV moment’ when his team-mates insisted on bringing him into the circle to sing the song. Did he feel surrounded by warmth and care, or was his brave smile just for the cameras? I can’t fathom how he felt as he faced the later news of just how bad the injury is: he will undergo surgery and miss 12 weeks. He would have no illusions about the loneliness, self-doubt and sheer boredom of rehab that lies ahead. The love and care of his teammates as they wrapped their arms around him to sing the song, and the support of his devoted family, are the things that will sustain him, far more than the impotent but heartfelt sorrow of a Bulldog Tragician.
 
We’re off to a flyer in the 2016 elimination final against the West Coast Eagles. Stunning the footy world and even ourselves, we are 22 points up. Despite being rank underdogs, our team are playing with that Men of Mayhem manic style. One of our best is 23-year-old Lin Jong, who has cemented his spot and played the last nine games of the season. But Lin gets buried in a heavy tackle. Medical staff rush to his side.

Lin rises to his feet gingerly. After a quick check, Dr Gary Zimmerman gives the bench a quick thumbs-up. Fortunately, Lin Jong has escaped with just a bruised shoulder. Though a little hampered, he plays the match out.

Three weeks later Lin runs onto the MCG . He absorbs the huge wall of noise, the roar of the crowd, all of us with our desperate, desperate hopes for what he and his team-mates can do for us. In the crowd, his ecstatic parents are bursting with pride. When the match gets underway, their son is in the thick of everything, playing his part in our stirring win.  

Lin jogs around the boundary holding the cup, side-by-side with Jackson Macrae. Our premiership captain Easton Wood lies on the turf like a snow angel, and the red, white and blue confetti falls all around.

​Lately, I've been worried.

Worried that I'm not really worried enough.

Anxiety and over-the-top fears are, after all, an integral part of my Tragician persona. I'm not alone in this, however - remember the quintessential gloomy fan, Danny from Droop Street, within a few hours of our 2016 triumph fretting that now we wouldn't get any high draft picks.

Yet so far, before each of our 2021 matches, I've been ... well, hopeful. Excited.

Before a 'must win' match against North I would normally have reached back ino the mental archives for all those similar occasions where the Dogs have turned in an insipid performance, leading to a  morale-sapping, ignominious loss against  lowly opposition. I should have been wringing my hands about the likely tactics of those North faux-tough-guys (are Scott Thompson and Firrito still playing?), and been in a state of high alert about one of their stars having a day out (Ben Brown? Glenn Archer? Drew Petrie? I realise I can't even name any of their players). 

Anxiety should have been skyrocketing, given my legendary antipathy towards all things North. ('Why don't you like us?' a North-supporting colleague asked me plaintively one day, to which I could only reply: 'Maybe I'm just not a very nice person.').

Yet somehow I expected a win, and an easy enough one at that, though even the newly-minted Relaxed and Comfortable Tragician couldn't have foreseen how dominant our performance would be, or that, in an un-Bulldog-like fashion, we would continue to ruthlessly grind our undermanned and inexperienced opposition into the turf.

Then we headed to Ballarat for our next challenge. I should have been getting antsy about whether, after such a romp against North, Our Boys could rise to another level against sterner opposition. I should have been worried whether the wet, cold, bitter conditions (are there any other kind in our adopted home?) would suit our game style. Not only did these concerns barely cross my mind, but in cavalier fashion, I even rejected the idea that those strange little handwarmers would be needed, figuring I'd be too busy clapping Bulldogs' goals to get cold hands*.

 *(I can confirm this was a mistake).

From where does this uncharacteristic tranquility come? I guess, like most things over the past 12 months, COVID has to take centre stage. When you've gone through harsh lockdowns, been unable to see people you love, need to wear masks and are confined to home apart from one hour a day, just being able to be at the footy is exhilarating. I even welcomed that bracing Ballarat wind.*

*(may not be strictly true).

The other reason I might not be as worried any more is the welcome return of what I can only call a more joyful style of playing. That joy felt like the biggest casualty of the past few years. The best times for footy teams and fans alike are when it all starts to come together, and possibilities seem endless. In contrast, so many of our post-2016 matches, even the wins, were often dour affairs, where we accumulated relentlessly, painstakingly, yet countless inside-50s didn't reap rewards. It was often quite painful to watch and somehow the players too seemed to be finding it grim, baffling and downright exhausting. I certainly did.

Now I see a briskness in their steps, renewed energy,  the closeness and camaraderie that the best teams always have. Goals come easily, the 'look-away-now' moments aren't as common. This team, you feel, has started asking the audacious question Bob put up on the whiteboard before our 2016 final against West Coast: How good could you be?.

The fact that we sit in different locations each week to watch our team (usually somewhere ludicrously not 'Best available' - thanks Ticketmaster) has also given a novel and enjoyable perspective. Last year, of course, we'd been unable to watch games in person, having to depend on idiotic commentary for any insights into what was going on.

Admittedly, in the matches so far I've been located in the pocket, most of the time struggling to see a lot of the play down the other end (apart from multiple missed frees to those in red, white and blue). On the other hand we've been only a few rows from the front, much nearer to the action than usual. I've been able to see at close quarters Bailey Smith's strength as he pushes off an opponent, and his one-touch grab of the ball even while he wheels around to assess his next option. I've been able to watch how our defence work together, folding back and moving forward like lines in a battlefield, covering dangerous options or supporting a team-mate. I've seen how big and solid Alex Keath is as he marshals the backline, and been able to appreciate the speed and calmness of Bailey Williams as he sums up the danger and instantly makes the right judgement of when to stay and when to go.

All in all, even in Ballarat I wasn't going to waste time complaining about the poor location of seats* or whine about the cold*. I simply set myself to enjoy a day of country-style footy and feel in my increasingly frozen bones just how different things are in 2021.

*definitely not true

I realise too, that my own perspective is changing. The centre of gravity in our team has been shifting for a while, and even the sometimes reluctant Tragician is coming around to view the present-day team as more than just Bulldogs 2016 Lite, or unfairly seeing the newer talents as mere support acts to the dwindling numbers of premiership heroes.

Now, I'm dazzled by the sheer talent of the up-and-comers.

I'm part of the crowd's murmur of anticipation when the ball goes anywhere near our Astro-Naught, who can clunk the ball better than anyone I've seen, and then with cat-like reflexes hunts any that spill free. I'm enthralled by the agility, marking and (of late) straight kicking of Tim English, as well as being somewhat astonished by the idea that we - WE!! - have a glut of tall marking forwards.

I'm praying, hard, that Young, Lewis nails down that spot in the backline and doesn't let it go. I'm revelling in the transformation of Daily Bailey from slightly-built, enigmatic and injury-prone half-forward to still slightly-built and enigmatic but hopefully much more durable half-back.  I love watching him glide around; I see a touch of Bob Murphy in the way he intersects with the game.

I'm enjoying the point-of-difference of star recruit Adam Treloar, bringing that pace and burst speed that isn't an overwhelming feature of our uber-talented midfield. (I also reflect on his bromance with Josh Dunkley, and wonder at the strange connection between one bloke who was traded from a club he still desperately wanted to play for, and another bloke who desperately wanted to be traded from a club that still wanted him; but after a while my head hurts a bit too much to think about it).

I feel relief watching Stef Martin's big frame absorbing the blows in the ruck, and I enjoy seeing a wry smile from Bevo Our Saviour in the coaching box when Josh Bruce kicked his tenth goal  - while serial antagonist Libba and his promising sidekick Bailey Smith meanwhile were in the thick of a stoush (in which Our Boys were entirely innocent, undoubtedly caused by typically untoward faux-tough-guy tactics from North).

The New and Improved Non-worrying Tragician took time this week for a leisurely view of the Barkly Street podcast. This week it was in honour of our captain and hero Marcus Bontempelli, who is playing game 150 this weekend. He was interviewed by Bob who seemed almost as starstruck as if the Bulldog Tragician was the one behind the mike. I watched, bursting with pride, the Bont's relaxed and affable demeanour; whenever Bob praised him, Bont accepted the compliments with grace, rather than shuffling around with any fake humility. The Bont has always known how good he is, in an uncomplicated and hubris-free way, and that's part of his aura and also part of his playing style, for all champions reflect their own personality on the field.

Not for the first time I give thanks to the planetary alignments that led Bont to our club, this still young man without whom, I am sure, we would not have known the premiership euphoria. I  find myself thinking about an early interview that Bont, just 18, did on one of the footy shows, with boorish Mark Robinson asking the teenager: 'Were you disappointed when you were drafted to the Dogs?' Bont's reaction was a slight flinch of annoyance and then a composed 'No, not at all' response. With his trademark politeness, he did the equivalent of the old politician-style favourite of 'not accepting the premise of the question.' He was there to change our club from within both by his outrageous talent and his equally outrageous question of 'Why not us?'

But...hang on, what's this? Moments after the podcast finished, my nerves begin to jangle, my radar for an impending catastrophe blares outon high alert.

Because Bont is a free agent this year (thanks for that dumb idea AFL) and already the whispers have started.  Clubs are assembling a 'too-good-to-be-true' war chest in the hope of prising Bont away from our club.

My pulse quickens, as I try (and fail) to banish from my mind the thought of increasingly gloomy headlines ('Bontempelli contract talks stall'),  speculation building throughout the season (it couldn't be Essendon could it? please God let it not be Essendon), the dreadful sight of Bont donning the colours of another club (Stop it right now!). I visualise crying children abandoning their number four guernseys, and a tearful Tragician melodramatically tearing a beloved badge from her scarf. I need some deep breaths as I try and replace the growing hysteria with more soothing images and tell myself that my worst fears won't come to pass.

For surely Our Golden Boy just wouldn't - couldn't - do it to us.

It's weirdly comforting, though, the return of the worrying. I'm not really built for Zen-like 'this too shall pass' response to footy heartbreak, even though I've had plenty of practice at it. I guess that's why footy is endlessly enthralling and gripping, that constant see-sawing between its highs and lows, because as Leonard Cohen (worrier extraordinaire) said, the cracks are where the light gets in.

​With my Irish heritage, I'm a big believer in mystery signs from the universe to explain the meaning of our games. They mightn't feature in dry, fact-based Champion Data analysis. But I hold onto them as significant just the same.

In the leadup to our 2016 final against the Eagles, for example, a snatch of a song lodged persistently , even irritatingly, inside my brain. Even as I read gloomy statistics about our record in Perth and tried not to think too hard about who would play on our nemesis Josh Kennedy, I kept mindlessly humming Paul Kelly’s ‘To Her Door’. The line about ‘could he make a picture, and get it all to fit’ followed me around, haunted me as persistently as Libba The First's controversial tagging efforts on the other Paul Kelly, the Brownlow medalist  for the Swans.

Our stirring - and completely unexpected - victory was the greatest win in modern-day Bulldog history (at that point of time of course). The line from the Kelly song  had undoubtedly been telling me something, even if some might scoff and say I retro-fitted its meaning. Those boys made a picture to fit on that night. It carried them - and us - through the incredible weeks nobody but they could have dreamt would lie ahead.

This is all in the past, of course, except for the stubbornly nostalgic Tragician. Sometimes I think I need to be sent away for de-programming or subjected to an Adelaide-Crows-style bootcamp with the SAS; forced  to let 2016 go, and view our current side and prospects afresh.

Because I still view everything through that prism, measure everything against that extraordinary month. When walking into the MCG last week before our match against the Pies, for example. I was disconcerted to see two premiership players. JJ - the Norm Smith medalist - and Zaine Cordy,  the 19-year-old who kicked our first goal in the grand final. -   also lining up to enter the ground. Wasn't this a bit lackadaisical,  far too casual, arriving at the ground so late, and not looking wild-eyed and ready to chomp raw meat in preparation for the contest?. It took a few moments to recalibrate; to realise that, currently, they are playing in the humble VFL competition. (Yes. In Bevo we... sort of...anxiously... trust).

We also saw our only living premiership captain in the queue (though his omission  is due to an interrupted pre-season) -  the exceptionally handsome Easton Wood. (I felt, even though we were some metres away, there was a moment of electric connection between Easton and myself. But the Other Libba Sister said I must have imagined it).

Our win against the Pies was satisfying, especially in comparison to a disastrous showing against them at the same time last year, but some of the woes of seasons past were still on display.. Laborious entries into a sluggish forward line, skill errors, concentration lapses, inabilities to capitalise on our dominance. I felt, though, there was a harder edge, greater resilience when the Pies challenged. But the formidable Eagles will be a sterner test of how far we've evolved, what's really changed.

I've admired one noticeable change: the new retro touches on our 2021 guernsey. The splash of red around the collar brings back memories of Footscray teams sloshing around in the Western Oval mud in '70s, with the extravagant mullets of Bailey Smith and Aaron Naughton completing the connection. (I had secretly hoped at least one of them would don a Bjorn  Borg or John McEnroe style headband, adorned perhaps with little red white and blue triangles). ​

​
​​One thing which hadn't changed as much as I'd like was the hulking figures of those Eagles. Kennedy, Darling, McGovern, NicNat. Are these guys EVER going to retire and stop tormenting us? 
The match takes off at a cracking pace. It's a thrill to see our dash, daring, run, and commitment to the contest. After being starved of footy, just being part of a mainly Bulldogs crowd again is a thrill in itself. I'm mortified, though, to quickly realise our club is the latest to succumb to the trend of flashing up: Make some noise! messages, while the seconds between goals are filled with snatches of music.

Who goes to the footy for this numbing mindlessness? We are there to join with aisles of women and men in red, white and blue, rising to our feet in unison, part of spinetingling roars, riding  the emotions that ripple through a crowd all at once.  Expectation and disappointment. Amazement at the skills. Fear of the players' bravery and the risks they take. Moanings and mutters at umpiring injustices. Elation whenever the goal umpires march theatrically to signal the score. (It's much more anti-climactic when we await the 'Scoreboard Review completed' message').

The gimmicks are all the more unnecessary because the match itself is so enthralling. Our noses are in front for much of the first half, yet those monster forwards and defenders in Eagles' colours just won't bend to our will. Their footy seems simpler, less complicated. Kick it to some (extremely) big guys, who, just  like The Chief in One Flew Over the Cuckoos' Nest,  pluck the ball effortlessly out of the hands of slighter, less experienced, opponents. Then ..this is the amazing part... they simply go back and kick a goal. When, for our Bulldogs, even in the premiership year, did footy ever seem so straightforward and easy?

Our style is taxing, even though it's frequently exhilarating.Yet, into the third quarter, our resistance begins to falter. We seem, ever so slightly, to be out of ideas. Those Eagles guys aren't getting any shorter; as the match goes on,  their bulky frames are even harder to budge (anyone else think they must really scoff those Hungry Jack whoppers?),  If the ball hits the deck there is Liam Ryan, whose brilliant efforts might have dazzled and entranced me....IF I were a completely different person, the sort who has a favourite player from another club. (The way I see it, they have plenty of fans from their own club, and certainly don't need my appreciation as well).

We're all reflective, thoughtful, when our seven point half-time lead has slipped to a 12 point deficit at three quarter time. We know that what comes next will tell us a lot about our new brigade.

And we know  there is one thing and one player only who can guarantee a Bulldogs victory.

'Bont needs to go nuts,' I say, not even realising the words have somehow been said aloud.

At first, the Eagles pull further ahead, in their clinical, footy-is-easy, way. But The Bont (may have) heard the Tragician's call. The Boy Wonder, our superstar captain - maybe one day our greatest ever player - rises to another stratospheric level.

The Bont's brilliance shines bright: the work of others is less visible but just as important. Countless inches, metres, gained - by the man most home in the hottest of contests,  Libba the Second; the relentless running of Jackson Macrae; the bravery of our undersized defenders in those excruciating moments when the Eagles relentlessly pound their way forward.

But we're the ones now pressing, charging; even in my anxiety I  relish being part of the heaving, pulsing crowd again. How wonderful to to join with thousands of others when Lachie McNeil steals a handball and we swarm forward to get the ball in the hands of Laith Vandermeer.. To glimpse other fans also with heads in hands, unable to look, when those not-exactly-straight-shooters Josh Bruce, and the swashbuckling Aaron Naughton. take vital shots at goal. To jump up all at once with childish glee when they actually surprise us and nail them.

We ride the ball down the field into space after Bailey 'Ice Man' Williams coolly evades three Eagles and sends it towards Josh Bruce. Because it's that sort of day, it sits up obligingly for him to gather. The din turns into pandemonium when we see who ('You know it's Him!") is standing unmarked in the forward line. The Bont's kicking has been somewhat unreliable of late; he had missed a sitter last week, yet somehow I am certain that he will kick this one to seal the match.

The tedium of listless matches in front of TVs during the 2020 lockdown is gone, hopefully for good. Footy is back in our hometown. There's really no other place we'd rather be. We don't need to look to the guidance of the scoreboard for  'make some noise' prompts. In fact I can't even hear the siren. I only know it's happened by the joyous racket that's all around me.

We can sing our song again, while the players wave and salute us. (Though he was several hundred metres away, I thought I sensed an electric connection between myself and Bont, an understated acknowledgement perhaps of my role in spurring on his match-winning performance. But the Other Libba Sister said she didn't see anything of the kind. She can be a bit of a wet blanket sometimes, I'm afraid).

The Dogs have won, with the right balance of grit, and panache, against a fearsome opponent. It's the sort of game we would have routinely lost over the last few years, blaming our still problematic goalkicking, selection mysteries from Bevo Our Saviour, and everyone's favourite villain Razor Ray, but most of all, a curious brittleness that has been evident in our team in the biggest of occasions. 

We savour the moment. We dare to wonder what it means for our future. Resistant to any de-programming efforts, the Bulldog Tragician  sees remnants of that 2016 spirit, and recalls the words of commentator Matthew Richardson when we were seemingly out for the count, three goals down in the preliminary final against the Giants: "I think the Dogs will come back. Because that's just what they do."

I remember Terry Wallace saying there is always a point when a team, a group, comes to a heavy realisation: they have given their all. They know they can go no further in their climb up the mountain. I've witnessed those sorrowful moments many times in my Bulldogs journey.

There's another critical moment too, I reckon - a moment when a team understands, and truly believes in, its own potential. When the flame ignites, and individuals become greater than the sum of their parts. Now it all makes sense now in the Tragician brain: the catchy refrain of the Billy Bragg song 'Waiting for the great leap forwards", which I kept humming pre-match, may seem to be just about politics, revolutions and activism. Others may say struggle to see its mystical connection to a Round Two clash between the Bulldogs and the Eagles. But  to me, the meaning could not be clearer. We've been waiting since 2016 for Our Boys to show us they're ready to challenge; waiting for them to take us again, on the great leap forward.

​Patchy. Inconsistent. Prone to go missing on the big occasions. It's true: it wasn't much of a year for the Bulldog Tragician Blog.

In fairness, it was a forgettable enough season...if it weren't for the umpteen ways that it was extraordinary. I don't think I was the only one, who watched our matches with a certain detachment. The losses were mere irritants; they rarely cut deep, as they do when you've been riding every kick, mark or fumble; neither do I have a vivid sense of any of the wins, which have slipped remarkably quickly from my memory bank. Is it fair that I vaguely recall them as workmanlike rather than enthralling?
 
Actually, the strongest emotion I felt all season was when Richmond won the grand final. The Tigers have grabbed three of the last four flags since our 2016 premiership - the one that was going to change everything.

The Tigers in fact have what we conspicuously failed to do. After their breakthrough flag in 2017, success has built relentlessly upon success. In contrast, we're at risk of a new chapter in the Bulldogs' long story of sliding door opportunities missed, roads less travelled; one entitled: 'How we blew the chance of a Bulldog Dynasty.'

Bleak enough thoughts, but they were easily discarded during the grey drudgery of the Melbourne lockdown. When footy burst back into my consciousness again, it was however in the most unwelcome of ways.  First, what seemed ludicrous speculation; then the headlines; then the confirmation. Another of the sadly decreasing number of premiership heroes wanted out. Josh Dunkley announced he wished to break his contract and leave our club. It got worse - his preferred destination was with our traditional foe the Bombres.

It was disillusioning, it was heartbreaking. It was tasteless and tacky too.