My last footy club was the Unley Jets. In my career-ending game my eyebrow was split like an overcooked sav, so I spent an eternal afternoon at Flinders Medical Centre. A fistful of stitches.

One dead-of-winter Tuesday, we were told to bring a ten-dollar note to training. In our footy gear we jogged with coach Darryl Smith out of Jet Park (Kingswood Oval) onto Belair Road and to a handful of pubs including the Earl of Leicester, the Unley, and the Cremorne. Leaving the club Smithy advised us ‘to tuck the tenner into your sock.’

This was a tremendous drill. In each front bar, we had a butcher of beer (200ml glass). It was a morale boost and, above all the rainy nights of circle work, laps and criss-cross handball drills, this is the session I remember. Now, butchers and cash are relics. I wonder if the Jets still follow this tradition.

I recall the Cremorne being daggy and dark in 1996. Even as the surrounding suburbs were elegant and expensive. But it was cosy and reassuring with hazy light flickering from tiny TAB monitors. Claire selected it as our Mystery Pub for February.

In 2026 it’s renovated with an abundance of glass and steel, and light and space. There are no British boozer-type nooks. No butcher glasses either. The smell of old smoke’s replaced with that of roasted eggplant.

Between the front bar and Unley Road is a beer garden but it’s hot out and we don’t fancy traffic noise and pollution as a weekend entrée. The Chaser — the dopey quiz show and not the satirical comedy — is on the big outdoor screen and this, too, is a disincentive.

Tradition insists that the host buy the first round. I claim a window table and like an opening ceremony, Claire then appears with a white wine and an XPA for me. The pea-soup appearance suggests my beer’s from the bottom of the keg. Does it taste better? Probably not. Nostalgia improves most things.

My Unley Jets nostalgia continues. At the neighbouring table I spy former team-mate and club icon, Hoggy. Shaking hands, I introduce Claire. And just like that, it’s 1996 again. I ask, ‘You still working at the courts?’ He replies, ‘No. Been out of that for a while. At SA Pathology now.’ Hoggy was a goal sneak with great game sense. We trade news and sightings of former club mates. I love bumping into people.

Back at our table, I scratch at my calf. Is it a sentimental ten-dollar note magically itching to be eased out of my sock?

No, it’s 2026.

Footy training’s now just a memory for me. At the bar, I take out my phone and ding, pay for my final XPA pint.

No sock required.