From the top deck of the Sir Edwin Smith Stand I see the scoreboard flags dancing in the breeze. It’s a bright Sunday for the season’s climax and I reckon three or four goals would capitalise on Max Proud winning the toss.

My teenaged son Alex and his mates are with me and during the footy enjoy just one meal. It begins before the opening bounce and in Henry the Eighth style, is still going in the car as we drive home along Anzac Highway.

Both sides exhibit what KG might describe as ‘exceptionally ferocious tackling’ and after eight lengthy minutes a shrewd Lachie Hosie snap in the pocket gets the Tigers away. With his deadly ability to pounce and attack he’s the human form of our mascot.

Cole Gerloff begins brightly and his major from just inside fifty makes the boys roar between cheeseburger bites. It’s a balmy afternoon and Oval management has the Big Ass fans (it’s true, look ‘em up) turning in all the stands.

Then a classically laconic kick from the Ken Farmer Medallist adds another goal. Minus the bloodbaths, ironic dialogue and 1970’s soundtrack, it’s a start that Hollywood director Quentin Tarantino could’ve written for Glenelg.

In the second term Sturt menaces and this continues all afternoon. In the eighth minute they goal and I’m reminded of the 2019 decider when former grand final gluttons, Port, took until just before half time to register their opening major. I don’t ponder this as I want to avoid notifying karma.

Luke Reynolds converts an opportunistic snap and then from the Chappell Stand boundary Corey Lyons slots one magnificently. There’s a healthy crowd of 33,000 and some compulsory rowdiness is already gurgling from the Scoreboard bar. The siren concludes the first half with our lead just short of five goals.

With the psychological if not fiscal comfort of a bucket of chips I prepare myself for Sturt’s inevitable surge. The boys take a break from their eating festival to wolf something else. I ask, ‘Did any of you have breakfast?’ In chorus they reply, ‘Nup.’

Beginning quarter number three for the Blues Matthews kicks one from mid-air. Then they get another. I fidget in my chair. Across halfback Glenelg has been terrifically resolute with the captain marshalling his lieutenants in his composed and visionary way. The umpiring has been excellent thus far.

Sturt now gets a third straight and the surge is on. Suddenly it’s quiet in the jungle. Too quiet. I try not to think about the Double Blues one-point victory over Port in the 2017 grand final.

Then Hosie gets his fifth to restore order and faith. And then he kicks number six. The margin is also six goals. How on earth did the Roos not want him? I say a silent prayer of thanks to North Melbourne for sending Hosie home. With a combined nine goals it’s a pulsating quarter that does justice to the notion of the Premiership Quarter but Sturt is unable to erode our lead.

For the final term the arena is characterised by lengthening shadows and lengthening beer queues. It’s a tussle and we hold firm. The Burley footy is misbehaving for Sturt and in the tricky wind they register four consecutive points before a goal to their speedster in Frederick.

But it’s already ten minutes in. Our defence is superb with smothers aplenty and unrelenting pressure acts to thwart the men from Unley. As KG probably never said, ‘The cruel, uncaring clock is now their enemy.’

I see some Blues scarves easing down the stairs of the Sir Edwin Smith Stand. A mate texts to announce that ‘the Tigers have done it!’ I can’t relax. Not yet. The ball spends long, agonising minutes at the wrong end. Like a constipated mathematician without a pencil, we can’t work it out. Then it finally pings forward and Matty Allen seizes the ball, swings onto his left and it’s home.

The siren. ‘Tigerland’ blasts out across the arena. Still hoovering up food, the boys and I stroll out into the jubilant afternoon.

It’s been a joyous, affirming season. We’re premiers!