There was an article in the newspaper the other day about the increasing corporatisation of football in Melbourne. The piece talked about how Melbourne footy clubs no longer have any real connection to their history; how the AFL’s relentless “rationalisation” policy means that all the Melbourne clubs now play out of the same ground. Carlton; Essendon; St Kilda…they’re all just names, now, and their proud and strong suburban foundations have long been buried under a cloned, national, corporate identity.

That’s a shame because Melbourne’s footy culture is fairly unique - as is the game itself, of course - and any time I go into an oldtime pub I love to look at the footy memorabilia on the walls: lantern-jawed men from the 30s, 40s, 50s. True community spirit. The authentic glow of nostalgia.

A few weeks back, I found myself drinking with a Hawks supporter who I didn’t know particularly well; a friend of a friend. I started in on him about football, not realising the extent of his passion: “You’re supporting a brand name, now: the AFL. Your club has no connection to Hawthorn anymore; the lifeblood of the suburbs has been drained from it. You may as well support McDonalds, or Microsoft”.

He was pissed off and quivering, and a nerve over his temple swelled and throbbed like it was a spice worm breaking through the desert sand in Dune. For a minute I thought I was going to get glassed with his pint, that I’d be picking up my face from the floor. He had a right to be angry. Because I messed with passion and a fully paid-up supporter and nothing can get in the way of that. It’s something to believe in, even if the original spark that ignited the flame has been long forgotten.

The friend I was with tried to defuse the situation by telling me she was watching rugby league when a forward got flattened into unconsciousness. After quick treatment by the club doctor he was back on his feet. She said his eyes were totally glazed over, though, and he was clearly in la-la land. No matter: the doctor just pointed him in the direction of the ball and he started running with his head down like a wind-up toy.

I wish someone could do that to me.