OUT of sight there has always been a struggle that carries on like one long tug-of-war. On one side is the power that fights to make the game faster, slicker and easier on the eye.

To balance the ledger, the other side features a staunch team of romantics fighting to keep the charm and tradition alive in a technology and efficiency-driven world.

It's a see-sawing battle of balance and compromises.

We no longer have the ability as a spectator to wander onto the ground at quarter- and three-quarter-time to listen to a coach's passionate address to his players, but on the flip-side we have the luxury of watching every game on television in the comfort of our homes.

As long as there is compromise, then to a degree we should all have to take a few hits along the way. It's a little of the yin and yang — the traditionalists will give up a small piece of the cultural tradition in exchange for some new practice that gives us another perspective on the game, taking us that little bit closer.

Take the example of the public's right to have a kick on the ground after the final siren. In return for giving up this once treasured privilege, we got … hang on, what did we get? I'll have to come back to that.

The constant internal battle I hear in my head is like the noise of two battleships firing cannonballs, over and into one another, until one is sunk and the other hailed the victor. The time for diplomacy is gone, and the small causes that make up our great game must be fought and won by the people, or in this case their representatives — the players.

On the back of the handshake debate raised in this column a few weeks ago, I was talking to Cameron Ling and he raised the topic of players from opposing teams making the effort post-game to have a beer together, just like the old days.

This proposal will be met with a dismissive tone by some clubs, and then we'll hear the old reminders about recovery and hydration and so on. As with any idea that has a slightly romantic slant, it leaves itself open to the sound of robots clamouring for data on biomechanics and the like.

But unless I misheard Lingy, he wasn't saying we need to bring back the Sunday keg session.

He was more interested in the symbolism of sharing one or two beers after a long day's battle on the ground. (I would insist, of course, that all players would "cheers" their drinks to make sure no poisoning had taken place.)

Flags out at the kennel this week have been at half-mast as we mourn the loss of one of our all-time greats, Jack Collins. I've never been too good with numbers (always been a letters man myself), but the No. 2 is closest to my heart.

Playing for the Bulldogs and being given the No. 2 guernsey, it didn't take long before I was flicking through the history of the men whose locker I had inherited. It's a link all players have with the generations who have gone before them.

I regret to admit it, but when I arrived at the Whitten Oval I had no idea who Jack Collins was. I soon found out.

If the current Bulldogs are the sons of the west, the obvious question to ask would be, who are the fathers? The 1954 premiership team is held in such high regard out west that it would be foolish to look anywhere else.

I had the privilege of meeting Jack a few times in recent years and he was always a gentleman. One night, I had the honour of walking him to his table at an official occasion, which was pretty special. I can still remember, as I walked alongside him that night, Jack commenting to me that the Bulldogs are a proud club, and that I should wear the jumper with pride. As a young player those words can ring in your ears for a long time.

By then I knew he was the man who, as much as anyone, took Footscray to its first flag, bagging himself seven goals at the big dance. As anyone who knew Jack would be aware, he had an amazing clarity when it came to recalling every one of his majors on that famous September afternoon.

Amazingly enough, the Dogs come up against the Demons in the week of Jack's passing — the same poor sods he terrorised on that grand afternoon. In the unlikely event that players from both Melbourne and Footscray this weekend gather to cheers and share a beer, I'd like to think we would all raise our glasses to one of the fathers of Footscray, and one of the all-time greats. Thanks for the memories, Jack.