Grand final week isn’t just another week of football – it’s the greatest theatre our game has. For the players, the coaches, and the fans, it’s a blur of colour, noise, nerves and history pressing down on your shoulders.
For the boys lucky enough to be out there, nothing compares. The parade on Friday feels like you’re floating – tens of thousands lining the streets, kids on shoulders waving scarves, supporters crying just to get a glimpse. You smile and wave, but deep down you’re wrestling with the nerves of what’s coming. You know you’re about to walk out in front of 100,000 people at the MCG and carry the weight of your jumper, your club, and every supporter who’s lived and breathed the journey.
I’ve been there. In 1996, when North broke a 19-year drought, the joy was overwhelming – the kind of joy that stays in your bones forever. In 1998, the disappointment was just as deep, because we knew we’d let one slip. And in 1999, battered and broken, we found redemption. That’s the essence of grand final week: the line between ecstasy and agony is paper thin.
And that’s what makes it so powerful. Behind the pageantry is the harshest reality in sport. For every player strapping up an ankle or hiding nerves with a grin, there’s another told they’ve missed selection. I’ve seen tears in September that no camera captures – teammates gutted, knowing the dream has gone for another year. That’s the human cost of grand final week, and it’s just as much a part of the story as the celebrations.
But when Saturday comes and you burst through the banner, everything fades. The nerves, the doubts, the bruises – they all disappear in the roar of 100,000. It’s just footy. Hard, uncompromising, desperate footy, where reputations are made and legends are written.
That’s why grand final week is the greatest week in Australian sport. It’s not just about the cup at the end – it’s about the spectacle, the heartbreak, the joy, and the chance to etch your name into history. Because for players and fans alike, nothing else compares.
