I remember Collingwood, decked out Magpies queueing at ticket boxes, joking
tactics, savouring the pie-sweet air. First thrill of the green zone as we
mounted the ramp, and blue sky, the players circling their positions, muscles
gleaming from the rooms, handsome in their distance, leading for a pass,
stacks-on-the-mill. The wooden members’ stand was a tangle of streamers, a
lungful of belief. Ted Potter was all style, Mick Bone looked ready to kill,
even in June our place in the four secure. Fans standing on cans they had
consumed yelled the louder over the partisan crowd: “Get some glasses,
u-m-p-i-r-e!”
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