I always try to keep my football following in perspective. If we win, fabulous. Brown and gold icing on the cake of life. If we lose, that’s a damn shame. But the sun will still come up tomorrow. Chin up and get on with it.

My old footy-going mate Angus isn’t quite so magnanimous. He tends to take defeat personally. Very personally.

Saturday was a day of mixed emotions. It’s rare as a footy fan that you’re celebrating even before the ball is bounced, but every Hawk worth his or her Johnny “the Rat” Platten novelty wig floated into the MCG giddy with anticipation and pride. We knew we were about to be part of a famous day in our beloved club’s rich history.

Tuck, Matthews, Crawford, Langford, Scott, Moore and Mitchell had all got there before him. But there is a place in Hawthorn hearts reserved for Luke Hodge that will forever set him apart. He is and ever will be our leader and our hero. To be at his 300^th game was an honour, pure and simple.

To be honest we were smiling a bit more than most, after Angus insisted we have a couple of cans and a pizza for breakfast as a nod to the somewhat cavalier approach to professionalism Hodgey displayed when he first arrived at the club. I’m not in the habit of drinking before the footy, at least not at 8.30am, and I was already feeling a bit dazed and confused even before I took a call from an old mate who happens to be the garbo down at Colac (long story). He knew I’d be off to the `G, and asked that if I happened to bump into Clarko (as you do) would I kindly let him know that picking up and disposing of other people’s household waste is a hell of a lot harder than standing at centre half-back waving your arms about and yelling at blokes to get on a man or fill the hole.

Anyway, by the time Hodgey broke through the banner with his three boys in tow all distractions had passed and we were on our feet cheering (and if there is a god, may Cooper, Chase and Leo be the three greatest father-sons the game has ever seen). Two-and-a-half hours later we were heartbroken. That’s footy, although there wasn’t much point telling Angus that.

Gus has remarkably narrow vision when it comes to watching footy. He occasionally notices things the opposition do, but if you’re not wearing brown and gold (or white and whatever the design gurus choose to stick on our away jumper) then you’re as anonymous to Angus as a face on a crowded street.

This really hit home when we beat Melbourne in round seven, and on the way home Gus said, “I thought we were in strife when that No.6 kicked a goal that got them within a couple of points with a minute to go.”

“You mean Jordan Lewis?” I replied, hardly believing my ears. “Who played 264 games for us, including four premierships, won two Peter Crimmins Medals, was an All-Australian and is a Hawthorn all-time great?”

“Yeah, like I said,” Gus replied. “No.6 for Melbourne.”

On Saturday he was at it again, opining midway through the last quarter that “if someone doesn’t take that No.35’s other leg out and stop him kicking goals I’ll jump the fence and do it myself!”

“You mean Patrick Dangerfield, the reigning Brownlow Medallist?” I replied.

“Who?” Gus said, face as blank as a fresh page.

It’s safe to say he’s more attentive when it comes to the names of umpires, and if Ray Chamberlain didn’t have an Angus-inspired headache on Saturday night then he must have been wearing earplugs. (Gus told me to write “as well as his blindfold”, but we’re better than that here at Ghost Manor).

So that would seem to be it as far as our quest to play finals for a 10^th time in 11 seasons goes. But I’m not giving up, no siree. I’m loving watching our team develop, the new faces becoming more assured each week, the picture of what we’ll become taking shape so fast not even Tom Mitchell’s personal statistician could keep up. I can’t wait to get over the Nullarbor and get stuck into Fremantle on Saturday night. I’m even looking forward to hearing Angus ask, “Who’s on that No.7 for them with the stupid hair?”

A dream scenario is playing in my mind, and it’s all about faith. The clock’s ticking down, we’re half a kick behind, Mitch wins another clearance and sends it forward, and it lands in the arms of Isaac Smith. And every Hawk in the house believes he’ll kick it. And of course he does.

Go Izzy. Go Hodgey. Go Hawks.