Woodville Oval is long.

From fence to fence, it’s two-hundred massive metres. How agog must European or American visitors be who are accustomed to compact soccer pitches and gridiron fields? It reminds me of Rome’s chariot-racing stadium, the Circus Maximus, with its intimidating length and considerable circumference. Running laps here would be tough.

Watching the Eagles in their warm-up jog, they appear (mostly) young and undersized. Two dozen are sidelined with injury. A good thing the QEH is out the back. Many look like they’re a year or two off (legally) driving. It’s bright and sunny. Clots of blokes in shorts. I prefer not to grizzle about footy catering — but wonder if I paid too much for my bucket of chip. A rare odourless wind blows in from the Port.

After a scrappy opening, on Glenelg’s first entry Riley Holder dribbles it through. The Tigers then begin to exploit the oval’s massive acreage by sustaining possession with solid chains of handball and short passing. Archie Lovelock asserts himself with a smother, gather, and goal.

Aw, Cracklin’ Hosie, gets on board with a major, characterised by his panther-like prowling and athletic predation. Jarryd Lyons was a Lion but now he’s a Tiger. While he and his brother Corey are in the team, a pair of Lyons doesn’t quite make a pride — but we’ll be proud of them if these feline fellows help win the flag. He takes some inspiring grabs.

The Eagles kick two goals to commence the second term and courtesy of the zephyr, the Sherrin remains captive at the southern end. After twelve minutes Glenelg finally gets it inside fifty. This barren period is rare for such an attacking side but shows how our game is partly at the mercy of the elements. In a sometimes-malicious encounter there’s a skirmish on the forward flank from which Alex Martini emerges shaken not stirred.

*

The third quarter is underway and given the relentless wind I reckon we need to be at least six goals up at the final change to avoid a visit to the QEH cardiac ward — at least it’s only a swift stroll. A match highlight is the half a dozen frantic smothers from both sides and with a smile I recall the last-gasp effort from Will Chandler in the 2024 decider. I’m convinced this could’ve been the flag-winner.

Second-half specialist Luke Reynolds scores after a free and then there’s one for the VHS tape with a (Darcy) Bailey banana. During a P&O cruise happy hour who wouldn’t welcome a Bailey(s) banana? The ever-elusive and unruffled Cole Gerloff goals following a retaliatory smother from Hosie. A blow-out approaches. The umpires endure five torrid minutes during which spectators from both camps bark disapproval to the wind — and as always, hear nothing back.

In a display of sparkling local wit our first miss of the quarter is met with an aged antagonist yelling, ‘Sucked in.’ Laugh! A great captain’s tackle in our arc and with his immaculate kicking mechanics Liam McBean converts again. He’s the best shot for goal I’ve seen in our city since D. Jarman.

McBean again. Lyons another hanger. Clouds now assembling over the Port and the air is suddenly chilled. Pleased I’m not in shorts.

As is my spectating habit I move every quarter and for the concluding stanza I’m on the sloping lawns in front of the scoreboard. The breeze is now becalmed and so the ball has permission to venture to the northern end. We trade scores early but are largely unflustered by the hosts.

With less fizz in the contest now than flat Fanta, the clock ticks down — but up on scoreboard. Only golf claps for goals. But there’s still outrage present with a late dubious free against the home side. Why is sporting dismay louder than celebration?

It’s a win for the Tigers — modestly efficient. But we haven’t done much to sharpen our premiership credentials. I thread between the Barry Jarman Stand and the Percy Fox Green Stand and head to my car — half frozen, half hopeful.

We’ll remain in a wary but largely inconsequential waltz with the Crows for second spot. Either way, the qualifying final looms.