THIS was what is known on the tennis circuit as a popcorn match, one for which even other players stay home, ring for takeaways and sit back to watch, certain that they would be entertained and confident that they would learn, too. Neither they, nor the 86,170 on a big night out at the MCG, were failed as undermanned Geelong withstood driven Hawthorn to record nearly the best of its seemingly endless sequence of victories these past two seasons.

The entertainment was self-evident; the match was worthy of a grand final and the rematch might yet be one. Both coaches professed themselves proud, Alastair Clarkson of Hawthorn's boldness on the big occasion, Mark Thompson of Geelong's depth of resilience. The lesson was that the Cats, no matter how decimated, now matter how assailed, are never beaten.

Geelong was missing Gary Ablett and Cameron Ling. On match eve, it lost Darren Milburn and at half-time Paul Chapman because of a hamstring strain so slight that he would have played on if this were a final, more niggling this night to the coach than the player, for Thompson later remarked that it disrupted the almost automatic rhythm of rotations.

When the Hawks seized the lead seconds into the last quarter, in keeping with the direction of the match, the stars were aligned. As on the Hawthorn run-through, so on the field: a ferocious Hawk hovering over a quivering cat, saying: "Here, kitty, kitty." But these Cats, so sophisticated in their style of football, are also wild in the sense that their instinct for survival is highly developed.

Twice, they seized on Hawthorn slips to kick goals, and they were enough. Luke Hodge in the last quarter was, as he is, a giant of the game, but, cruelly, it was his turnover that led to Steve Johnson's sealing goal. When the teams are this evenly matched and the stakes and standard this high, sometimes it is mistakes that make the difference. Context is important: in a match of such ferocity, there is no such statistic as an unforced error. Clarkson's summation was that, in the clinch, Geelong had fractionally more poise and polish.

Thus, six days apart, manpower crisis notwithstanding, Geelong had dealt with its two likeliest challengers this season, one imperiously, one bravely. Who would bet against it for the premiership now? And who would begrudge it? Four points aside, its prize this night was the Beyondblue Cup, and fittingly: the Cats' football these past two seasons has been a veritable antidote to any form of depression. Hawthorn's second prize was another Friday night special next week against Collingwood, another bumper crowd, another test.

This night lacked nothing against its billing. There was an agreeable nip in the air, the true temperature of football. The floodlights blazed against the the black night sky. In the MCG members' area, usually the softest for crowd figures, there were long queues at the several bars, as if outside a nightclub. In the cavernous foyers, there was a buzz, ever rising in volume and pitch.

An hour before the game, Melbourne Cricket Club chief executive Stephen Gough contemplated briefly the idea of a lockout. In the event, the crowd was the biggest for a home-and-away game not involving Collingwood, Carlton, Essendon or Melbourne.

Around the ground, it was the same. Melburnians flocked, rugged up in their emblematic shades of black, but festooned in footy scarves, until there was nothing to spare, not a seat, not a moment, not a breath. During the preliminaries, an Essendon-Hawthorn classic from 1984 played on the video screens. The ground was heavy, the legs were commensurately big, the pace accordingly plodding. As the night would show, footy has come a long way.

From the start, this was, as expected, a tactical intrigue. Hawthorn made its intentions clear by setting up with the sinister Campbell Brown lurking in the forward line, as if to say that Geelong could run if it wanted, but it had better not hesitate. But the Cats ran anyway. Of course they did; they have not gotten to where they are by dancing to others' tunes.

The first two goals of the match pre-empted its unfolding. Cornered perilously in its defence for what seemed like minutes, Geelong kept its nerve, and the ball, and when it shook itself free, it ran the ball at breakneck speed down the ground for Mathew Stokes to goal; it was a form of soccer's fast break. Its last goal came the same way, the Cats daring fate to hold onto the ball as Hawthorn closed murderously, then releasing Steve Johnson. Hawthorn's early reply was via the usual agency, a Lance Franklin mark and goal. Franklin's return on the night was 4.5.

So the match proceeded, Geelong trying to pierce the Hawthorn zone that manifested as a fog wherever the ball went, Hawthorn trying to wash back over the Cats. Sam Mitchell directed the Hawks as a quarterback might in American football, setting and resetting lines, as if for table-top soccer. Chapman orchestrated Geelong similarly in the first half; his injury would prove crucial to the mood of the match.

In the first half, Geelong prevailed because it had more of the ball, still a virtue, and was more clever with it. Hawthorn, for all its vigour and industry, looked to lack a dimension. But in modern football, as in modern life, industry is prized. In the third quarter, Geelong began to look short-handed and Hawthorn looked to be on a mission.

Momentarily, the match seemed to destined to be won or lost by Franklin. His shooting at goal was like a big-hitting golfer on the tee, never sure which way the ball would veer, only that it would. Three shots in three minutes late in the third quarter told the tale. The first two swung wide for behinds, so for the third he kicked a banana, which curled back to a nicety.

Moments later, Cyril Rioli slithered up the back of Harry Taylor to take one the marks of the year. It yielded nothing immediately, but taken with Franklin's spurt, was as ominous as any alignment of planets. Mark Williams kicked the first goal of the last quarter after 35 seconds to claim the lead for the Hawks. But Jimmy Bartel's goal wrestled it back, and somehow the Cats lasted it out.