Mist hangs inside the Adelaide Oval, the arena lights smudgy and weary. A sullen sky thinks about raining but can’t be bothered to do so properly. It could be Yorkshire — on a summer’s day.

We’re in the Sir Donald Bradman Pavillion and it’s late in the last quarter of the Glenelg and Adelaide qualifying final.

The ball has morphed into a cake of soap — Palmolive Gold — yet somehow the disposal quality is still impressive — from both teams. It’s ferocious, it’s close. All afternoon, our forwards have been suffocated. The Crows intercept and rebound regularly. Our tackles are often swotted aside with indifference. The indicators are worrying.

Down two goals. On a slippery deck, old friend Brett and I decide this lead is worth four. We’re spluttering but Lachie Hosie converts a timely shot to the northern end. Six points in it but it feels like an unconquerable canyon.

The clock marches on. A bedevilling resignation forms. Crows fans grow louder. In front of us, an elderly couple — she in a Crows scarf, he in a Tigers top. Someone’s going home grumpy.

Every time they surge forward, Adelaide looks irresistible. Our defenders battle to be bold and resolute, to borrow from Macbeth.

Glancing at the scoreboard I see the clock ticking past 24 minutes. I say to Brett, ‘We really need to hurry.’

He replies, ‘There can’t be much time-on.’

26 minutes. Can only be a minute or two. I dread the siren.

Darcy Bailey pumps it to the square. Luke Reynolds slips behind the pack. He’s been below his best, but this is his moment. The ball spills and he edges into the corridor. With the outside of his left boot, he caresses it through like an Italian striker! Bellissima.

Scores are level. Ecstasy immediately swamped by threat of the cruel clock. Planes drone overhead. I bet it’s chilly at the Showgrounds. Only the woodchoppers would be warm — my hot chips are forgotten.

Heading deep into an unbearable thirty-first minute, Jarrod Lyons drives it into the arc. This is it.

Matty Allen snatches a quick handball from Hosie, steadies on a slight angle, and kicks. This afternoon has been one of relentless danger and suddenly, Glenelg finds its twinkling of grace. He dribbles the soggy Sherrin and tumbling goalward, it bounces three or four times and clangs into the post.

Have we just seen the best behind ever?

Tiger roar in the stands. Uniquely, Australian rules football rewards scoring inaccuracy and I love how this reflects our best, laconic selves (Good try matey but not quite. Here have a point!) and so, we lead, 74 – 73. On my all-time favourite left-footers list, number 22 climbs a few rungs to join Freddy McGuinness, Matty Bode and Ruory ‘Space Goat’ Kirkby.

The moments stretch excruciatingly. Allen’s behind is better than a goal — Adelaide must now go the full length of the ground. A major and a quick centre clearance could sink us. More anguish as the ball pings back and forth in our half.

Then the siren. And then the song crashes in: Oh, we’re from Tigerland / A fighting fury, we’re from Tigerland…

Like a Dickensian thief, we’ve pinched it. Seven consecutive wins in finals.

Two to go.