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.

It started before the game even kicked off. You could feel the electricity—one of those afternoons where everyone’s already cheering because they want to believe it’s going to be something special. The Sharks fans were there too, of course. Patchy in their teal and black, huddled like a scout troop in enemy territory. But fair play to them, they brought voice.

The first try was a cracker. Tigers, straight off the line like a bar tab left open too long—Galvin, the young halfback, peeled one out wide and bang—Samuela Fainu thundered over. Crowd went up like a busted pressure valve. I spilled half my schooner. Didn’t even care.

But before you go thinking it was a one-way street, Sharks bit back hard. Mulitalo—God, he’s slippery—found the chalk just before halftime. One of those ones where everyone’s yelling knock-on, but the ref points to the spot and, well, there you go. 10-6 at the break and suddenly the game had teeth.

I queued twenty minutes for another beer and a sausage roll, which might’ve been older than some of the players, but it didn’t matter. The second half was about to start and nobody was sitting down now.

That’s the thing about Leichhardt—it’s old, sure. Bit crumbly around the edges. But when the crowd leans in, when every tackle’s a shared heartbeat, it doesn’t feel like a stadium. It feels like a hymn.

Turuva added another for the Tigers, crowd roared, someone threw their hat, and a bloke near me kissed a stranger. Fairytale stuff. But then the Sharks, bloody Cronulla, decided they weren’t done. Kennedy danced in like a backstreet poet and it was game on. Then Fonua Pole copped the bin and everything tilted.

Billy Burns crashed over like a drunk uncle on Christmas Day and suddenly, somehow, it’s 18-all and everyone’s screaming about field goals. People yelling “take the one!” like it’s a discount meat tray. Balls flying everywhere. Hooks. Misses. More hooks. Sharks had one—missed. Tigers had one—missed again. It was chaos. Beautiful chaos.

Then, golden point drama. A penalty. Not the prettiest ending, sure. A strip here, a whistle there. But mate, it was fair. Doueihi stepped up, crowd silent like a held breath. Thirty out, breeze dancing, ball floating. Through the sticks. Boom. Game.

20-18, Tigers.

I didn’t care who won by the end. I mean, I did, but only in the way you want a good story to end on a punchline.

The pub’s humming. The telly’s replaying highlights in the corner. Someone’s talking about ladder positions. Doesn’t matter. Today was a proper game of footy. Passion, pain, and the kind of theatre you can’t write, only live.

So here’s to Leichhardt. To The Hill. To the Sharks fans who stayed loud. To the Tigers for holding nerve. And to whoever left their hat on the field—mate, you’ve made the highlight reel.

Cheers to the game. Long may it rumble.

Next pint’s on me lads.

– Ian

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