My grandfather was a stoic man. Settling in the western Victorian town of Ballarat upon arrival as a child from a small town in Ukraine, he took up interest in the nearest VFL club, Geelong. Thus began a lifelong affinity with the Cats he would pass down to his four sons and eight grandchildren.
Battle-hardened by a modest upbringing, the loss of his mother at an early age and the mental scars of his service in Kokoda, football became a comforting escape from everyday life. Too frail to get to games himself, his lounge room and pay TV were always open to watch games, where most weekends, I would join him. Mostly, he sat silently, absorbed in his favourite armchair, oblivious to the world around him – including, much to her annoyance, my grandmother.
