A friend and I are both of a certain age. That is to say, an age at which footy still matters to us even though we know it doesn't, and we are comfortably reconciled to that contradiction.
Young Pies react to the loss at the Holden Centre.
Photo: AAP
My friend barracks for Hawthorn. I'm stuck with Collingwood. I happily admit that, though I'm a sportswriter, because I think most people come to the game through a club allegiance, which cannot be renounced just by saying so. It is for others to judge whether or not it shows.
Anyway, in my mate's lifetime, Hawthorn have played in 19 grand finals for all 13 of their premierships. In his living memory, it is 17 grand finals for 12 flags. For me and the Magpies, it is 16 grand finals in my lifetime, 13 grand finals in living memory, and all for just two pennants.
This is the lived reality of following Collingwood. It's the fatal flaw in the club's DNA, and yes, I do believe that a footy club is enough of a living organism to have genetics. If you don't believe me, ask a St Kilda fan.
I've seen the Magpies lose grand finals as red-hot favourites and distant underdogs, from a long way in front and a long way behind, by big margins and the smallest possible, and twice in agonising draws, the most draining experiences of all.
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The outcome is that I just don't trust Collingwood in grand finals. You could hardly blame me. I didn't even quite believe in the two they won until deep in the final quarters, though the margins were emphatic both times. Midway through the first quarter last Saturday, as the Magpies piled on the goals, the woman sitting next to me – who was there because she worked for a sponsor – nudged me to say it would be nice if it was a bit closer. She must have seen my scowl, because she turned away and we did not speak again for the match. I hope now she understands, though I doubt it.
The match proceeded to its famous conclusion, so breathtaking and yet so inevitable. At the final siren, I went numb. I'm well conditioned to this feeling, even braced for it. It is harder to watch younger others, new generations, go through this conditioning process. They are not yet inured to the rawness; their scar tissue is not so thick. As I wrapped my arm around one distraught son, I felt his tears run down my sleeve.
The hurt has a different quality now. Once, the powerful Magpies could be certain of another grand final, soon. Because of the designer volatility in the comp now, there are no such guarantees. Since regulation, 10 different teams make the grand final every decade, consistently. Happy returns are fewer than ever now.
How to process all this? I won't be so glib as to say premierships don't matter. But if you still believe that footy matters even though it doesn't, then the club you follow becomes like the country of your birth, an accident in which you had no say, but which shapes and defines you, for better and worse. You carry it, own it, live it. I have no doubt that my Hawthorn mate and I in some way show the contrasting fates of our footy clubs in our bearing and being.
And it's not a bad thing. Collingwood keep getting hurt because they keep putting themselves up there; this was one theme on grand final night. It's ennobling in a tragic sort of way. Look at the masses, who have not wavered. Look at the past players, who keep coming back. Look at Nathan Buckley. He is as revered in Collingwood legend as Bob Rose, and now nearly as ill-starred. Yet if anything he grew in esteem this season and in this grand final. His dignity is his hallmark, and his club's.
I can hear the social media sneers already, and don't care. What are they beside the half-century of slings and arrows us Collingwood supporters of a certain age already have survived? Resilience, stoicism, staunchness, a little gallows humour, phlegmatism, but also inextinguishable hope: this is how our club has shaped us.
Maybe this is all too philosophical. Maybe it is an alibi and I can't even admit it, a shield. But that's not how it feels. After that first wave of numbness passed on Saturday, an entirely different emotion saluted, unexpectedly. This was the season that came from nowhere and grew out of nothing. Very little had been expected of Collingwood this season, less after two early defeats. Then injury struck like a rash, forcing them to dig deep into their list. Even to have made the top four was a feat. To make the grand final was valorous, to be leading still with two minutes left heroic.
And ultimately to lose was pre-ordained. But this wasn't the Colliwobbles. They lost to a better side, on the day and across the season. Three meetings, three West Coast wins brooks no argument. In all these circumstances, it wasn't that the Magpies failed to hold on, but that they so nearly did. Mourn the day, of course, but also cherish and rejoice in the season for what it was. The new feeling was pride. It will wax and wane, but it won't wither.
The eternal call of the Magpie, as familiar as the namesake bird's own warble, is: there's always next year. And it cannot come too soon.
Greg Baum is an Age senior writer.
Greg Baum is chief sports columnist and associate editor with The Age
