I grew up "high on the hill looking over the bridge to the MCG". In those days you could sweep up autumn leaves and burn 'em in the gutter. You could build a jump for your Dragstar out of timber off-cuts and leave it on the footpath for days. The milkman delivered by horse and cart and the Dees were never gonna make the finals.
On footy Saturdays, Dad's business partner Jeff would swing by in his green '67 Chevy Impala and pick Dad and me up and we'd all drive to G. Around the corner, down Punt Rd hill, checking the temp on the Nylex clock high on the silos as we went. They'd disappear into the Smokers Stand, I'd sit in the stands with a pie and the Dees would lose. I'd find them after the game and be drunk-driven home. These were happy days.
Later on I'd walk to the G on my pat but I've never yet walked past the silos on my to watching a Demons final. I was 26 when they first made the finals and, of course, I was bumming around Europe that year, long moved out of home and gone north-side.
But I'll tell you this, if the Dees ever make the Granny again I'm gonna start the day standing on top of that hill and make a pilgrimage past those silo's, before they turn 'em into penthouses.
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