IT IS Friday evening. Rush hour. It seems the entire city is preparing for a game of football. I walk up Flinders Street towards the MCG. Cars toot. Trams ding. The rain comes down. The wind blows the leafless limbs of wintry trees.

I am in a throng of excited people. Lucky people, happy and thankful to have tickets. People making predictions. Nervy Geelong fans ("The rain's good for Collingwood"). Pies fans not even entertaining the prospect of loss.

All week, people have talked about Geelong and Collingwood in a preliminary final. Like this is how it's meant to be: two local clubs continuing their century-long rivalry. But there is also a hint of lament in the conversation.

Not now, though. Only thoughts of the game. This game. A massive crowd queues at the members' gate. I meet the Handicapper and my brother Mick. I have two seats in the Olympic Stand for them; I have a standing-room ticket. We go in and then separate, planning to meet at half-time. "We've got to win this," I say.

"Surely," says the Handicapper.

Mick is jittery but he forces out a routine "They'll be all right", like he's talking to his six-year-old.

Geelong fans voice their concerns. "Please," we say. "Please." Like it's a prayer. "Please." Like we have to ask permission of the Universe. "Please." Like we have no control over things. "Please." Like things happen to us. "Please."

I try to find a position, standing behind the goals at the Punt Road end. It is eight-deep with rabid Pies. When their side runs through the banner, they sing the song like a choir of hard knocks. The affection is magnificent. The pride is endearing. I have to stop myself: I am finding Collingwood fans endearing.

I feel OK about the game. Sort of. My head is telling me we should win. And I am ever-hopeful. But I've spent a lifetime watching wonderful Geelong seasons dissolve in half a quarter of footy.

As the ball is bounced, too many people are squeezed into standing room and I'm at the back. This is no good. The most important game for years and I can't see much, only a little bit of the forward pocket where Tom Harley drops a sitter, but I can't see the goals at all, so when there is a big cheer, I race to a TV at the back. I get there just in time to see Harley spill another one. "Oh, no." It's not happening.

I have to find a better spot, which I eventually do. Only four deep on the half-forward flank. I move with those around me. On tip-toes, peering between heads. It's not easy. Harley gets back into the game. He fires out a couple of handballs. He directs traffic. But why is he on Medhurst?

The entire crowd is engaged. Every tackle is roar-inspiring. Goals are cheered wildly. The noise is phenomenal. It doesn't let up all night.

The Cats move the ball quickly, creating chaos, and little Stokesy goals. The signs are good. Then Chappie shows poise to find Ottens inside 50. This is really good. I like this. I like that Ottens looks so determined. I like how he's winning every ruck contest.

But the Pies are gutsy. They tackle and harass, smother and annoy the Cats. They can't keep it up all night. Two more goals to Stokes are reassuring and by quarter-time, we have a handy lead.

The character of the game becomes more obvious during the second quarter. Nothing happens easily. Tight. The Pies kick the first two goals and are in front. That makes no sense. Ottens dominates and the Cats surge again. Johnno is the creator and the Cats pull three goals clear again. But the game has no rhythm. It's just a series of contests from footballers completely committed to the cause.

At half-time, I can't contact the Handicapper and Mick. The phone network is busy. So I stay where I am.

The second half is monumental. All sense of play is sucked from the ground. A spirit of profound struggle replaces it. You can feel it hovering. Ottens continues to dominate the game but the burdened Cats can't convert. We kick five points in a row. We should be well in front. But we're not. And that lifts the Pies, who are relentless. Like their working-class forebears, they know they have to make the most of any opportunity. Their fans cheer every effort, every tiny victory.

Medhurst kicks another and, bizarrely, the Pies are in front. Mooney replies. I have never felt collective tension on this scale. People leave the ground at three-quarter-time, unable to watch, unable to bear the strain.

The game has had the quality of drought. Always the promise of a crop, but it never seems to eventuate. During the opening minutes of the last quarter, Johnno is the rain. He dances clear and finds Mooney, who goals. Then Johnno flies for a Gary Ablett bomb, takes the mark and kicks the goal.

But it's not over yet. The Pies fight back courageously, until Ablett snaps a beauty. Surely. I look at the clock at 28 minutes. We lead by 11. As I'm mouthing the words, "We couldn't lose from here," Medhurst steers one through. "No, surely not." Like another prayer. "Please, no." This would be too much.

The clock gets beyond 32 minutes. Hands over mouths. Screaming. Hearts pounding. Siren. The ground erupts.

Somewhere in the stands, the Handicapper is in tears. She is not the only one. There are tears everywhere.

I stand motionless. Totally drained. "Otto," I say to no one, and everyone. I applaud the Pies off. They are noble.

I find Mick and the Handicapper near the Betty Cuthbert statue. Mick looks spent. The Handicapper is bouncing, lively, excited. She wraps herself around my exhausted body.

She understands now.