You ever been to Leichhardt on a Sunday? Proper Sunday. One where the sky’s a bit too blue, the footy has your heart racing, and you’ve already got sunburn on the bridge of your nose by kickoff?

I’ll tell you, there’s nothing quite like it.

I was there. Right there on The Hill, wedged between a dad wrangling two kids and an old bloke shouting tactical advice at the Tigers like Tim Sheens had him on Bluetooth. The beer was warm, the pies were hot, and the air buzzed like a half-spilled radio…