IT IS a big-city conceit that says the AFL premiership cup has at last returned to Melbourne. Precisely, it has returned to Geelong, which is not Melbourne, but not not Melbourne.

That became starkly apparent yesterday as a convoy of several thousand hit the Geelong Road. Loosely speaking, it acted to make a procession of the cup to its new home, surprising even the club by its scale. Vicroads, in its infinite wisdom, shut two lanes of the West Gate Bridge, which gave the journey the stately pace of a procession.

The Geelong Road is a kind of umbilical cord between the city capital and the country capital. Many from the football club travel it both ways daily, including, until recently, the coach, living in one and working in the other.

Similarly, a disproportionate number of fans — as irrational as only true followers can be — keep their affairs in one place and their heart in the other, among them former premier Steve Bracks and state opposition leader Ted Baillieu, who towered in the crowd yesterday. For them, the premiership cup was both back in town and, agreeably, just a bit outside.

Geelong has a unique status as a regional club in a national competition. In a smaller town, folk feel closer to their club, even those from beyond the city limits, and its success means more.

This was touchingly apparent yesterday as Brownlow medallist James Bartel pointed out to the crowd the spot at the northern end of Kardinia Park from which he watched the Cats as a lad, and Cameron Ling told of how he had been a member of the club since he was six, and had been to many family days like yesterday, though never so rapturous.

These were footballers not merely at Geelong, but of Geelong. By their names alone, Scarlett and the Abletts announced that they were till-death-us-do-part. It helps to explain why this premiership somehow felt more cherished than any other since 1990. Of course, the 44 years between drinks was also a factor.

So it was that all roads led yesterday to — let's say it as it is still in the theme song — Kardinia Park. Geelong's city centre was deserted, but the stands were full, and so was the oval. Police temporarily closed the gates shortly after 1pm until more seats could be opened up in the new Reg Hickey stand. Many came with picnic blankets and hampers, knowing they would wait three or more hours for a glimpse of their cup. But what was three hours besides four decades?

Police estimated the crowd at 28,000. The club has had its head down and arse up these last six months, and frankly did not see this coming. Somewhere during the whirl of the previous evening, coach Mark Thompson had confided in a friend that although he had played in three premierships for Essendon, he could not believe the scale of the outpouring of emotion for Geelong.

Everyone had a story; premierships are like that. One caller to the ABC told of how she had watched the first half of the grand final on television, then gone to the cemetery to sit by her mother's grave and listen to the second half on radio.

Another told of how at a Melbourne Symphony Orchestra performance at Deakin University the previous evening, the conductor had interrupted the program to announce that Geelong had won the preliminary final by five points, then led the orchestra in an impromptu rendition of Bizet's Toreador Song from the opera Carmen, recognisable to all today as: "We are Geelong."

The concert was in the Costa Hall, named for its benefactor, Frank, the selfsame president of Geelong these last nine years, who yesterday announced that he was staying on for a 10th.

Costa, his usually raspy voice almost hoarse, told a story against himself. The headquarters of his fruit-and-vegetable empire is an old church, complete with belltower, barely a Billy Brownless torpedo away from Kardinia Park. From it, a tubular version of the Geelong theme song had sounded into the the small hours of Sunday morning, until at last neighbours complained to police. The pealing stopped — momentarily.

"Geelong will never be the same again after what happened yesterday afternoon," Costa declared.

Geelong holds its own. In the players' race yesterday, committeeman Gareth Andrews sported the woolly guernsey he had worn in the 1967 grand final, a little pilled and careworn now, but somehow magnificent again.

It has been 40 years in mothballs.

Leading the celebration yesterday was Brownless and former captain Andrew Bews. Brownless spoke of a conundrum the previous night to which no-one at the club had an answer: "What do you do when you win the premiership?"

Evidently, the players learned fast. Yesterday, they were as premiership players generally are, unrecognisable even to themselves as the determined, drilled and dedicated unit they had been all year until the final siren on Saturday.

Few wore socks, let alone shoes, though Max Rooke was still in a suit; it was 2pm, but he had not yet been home. Cam Mooney and Steve Johnson, paragons of temperance these past few months, supported each other in rickety communion up the ramp to the stage, and Johnson's attempt to speak to the masses came out as a slur.

Corey Enright rolled on the stage, Paul Chapman re-enacted his grand final mark of the day, Shannon Byrnes danced. Darren Milburn, in contrast, carried his two children with him onto the stage. No one said anything meaningful; their deeds had said it all already. This was a day for heroes and hero-worship. "I touched Lingy," a fan exclaimed.

Blessedly, Cook spared all the usual nonsense about preparing already for next year. "Let's not worry about that," he said. "Let's just worry about enjoying the moment." And so they all did, and not even the cold shower of rain that passed over Kardinia Park could dampen the jubilation.