In the first quarter, we played the best we’d ever played. We slammed on four goals to the Hoods’ solitary point. But when some of the Wetherhoods started to shove and push, Chaz Green got a whack on the head and it started to get ugly.

In a flash, Fisk and Mazis raced up to a tough, freckle-faced kid and were pushing him around. More and more players raced in. Luckily, the quarter-time bell rang as the umpire stepped in. He pointed players over to their coaches, threatening that if there were any further upsets the players concerned would be immediately sent off.

Mr T spoke to Fisk separately during the break.

By half-time the game had evened up. We were only a few points ahead. Mr T did his usual rotation of players so that everyone got some playing time. This meant that Bubba came on into forward pocket. Mr T told me that I was now playing centre. I had kicked two goals in the first quarter, but after that two Wetherhoods had played on me and I’d hardly had a touch since.

We took up our positions for the second half. You could feel the excitement and anticipation in the huge crowd. I hadn’t experienced anything like it before.

The Wetherhoods scored two quick goals before we’d settled and they managed to keep this lead for most of the third quarter. We were relying on a few class players, while the Wetherhoods were pretty strong all over the ground.

By three-quarter time, our big guns were looking tired. Mr T spoke again about the extreme effort required to overcome hardships and achieve great things. We shouted encouragement at each other as we left the huddle for the last quarter.

‘We’ve got to hold them in the first five minutes,’ a voice said to my left. It was Fisk. He was looking at me. ‘We stop them in the middle, then we’ve got a chance.’ I nodded, amazed at the amount of words he’d spoken to me.

‘You can play, Grady. It’s up to us, so work your butt off. C’mon!’

All of a sudden, the Legend competition didn’t matter so much. We were in a game of footy. And I was part of a team.

I reckon I laid four full-on tackles in those first few minutes. The ball was just bobbing back and forth around the centre area.

‘Front right!’ I yelled at Fisk as he went up for another ruck. It worked like a dream. He swivelled in mid-air and knocked the ball straight into my path as I raced past on his right. I broke through a Hood tackle and was suddenly in clear space.

I could hear the roar from the crowd as I sped towards goal. I took a bounce, got myself balanced, and ran a few more paces before firing at the goal. The goal umpire didn’t have to move as he signalled full points. I jumped in the air, throwing my arms up to encourage the noisy crowd to make even more noise. They did. I ran back to the centre, glancing at the scoreboard. We were four points down.

‘Bloody ripper,’ Fisk panted to me. ‘Watch out for their number eleven. He’s gonna take you out.’

Sure enough, a mean-looking kid with spiky hair and a gold stud in his ear raced over to me.

I felt a few blows to my ribs as we jostled for possession in the packs. But the Wetherhoods were good at getting away with this sort of rough stuff, and there was no whistle from the umpire to signal a free kick.

For the next ten minutes or so, both sides only scored a couple of points each. The ball drifted between the two half-forward lines.

I was continuing to get my share of pushes and shoves. But finally, the kid on me went too far. A pack formed about halfway between the centre and our half-forward line. He elbowed me as we stood waiting for another ball up. It was too much, and I shoved back, harder. The kid fell over dramatically, arms flying in all directions. Wetherhood players rushed in, pointing at the number eleven lying on the ground. The umpire blew his whistle and I knew straight away that I’d been sucked in.

‘You’re a loser,’ number eleven snarled at me as he bounced up to take his free kick. He made as if to kick, but then at the last moment he dummied and started to move the other way. He was trying to run around me to gain ground. I bounced back onto my right foot and flew at him. I got a decent hold on his jumper and, as he dropped the ball to kick it, I flung him off balance so that all he kicked was air.

There was a cry of ‘Ball!’ from the crowd. The umpire agreed. I picked up the footy.

A moment later Fisk flashed by and I went to handball to him. The Wetherhoods’ number eleven was jumping in the air with his hands outstretched, ready to intercept the handpass. But I had my own dummy ready.

While he was off balance, I ran around him easily, took a bounce and looked up. There was a Hood player close on my left, but I knew I had a few more metres before I had to release.

Surging on, I gained a few more precious metres, getting closer and closer to the goals, before finally taking the shot.

As the ball thumped into the goalpost, I was crashed to the ground by a head-high charge. I went down in a heap, dazed and sick.