I KNOW I've waffled on over the years about how unique our game is, and the specifics that set it apart from the other codes. I've tried to point out some of the less obvious jewels in the crown of Australian rules, but there is a diamond so big it deserves its own place in the spotlight.

For mine, the high mark is undoubtedly the most awe-inspiring thing seen and enjoyed on a football field. Call it a "speccy", a "hanger" or a "screamer", it is synonymous with our sport.

Anyone who has ever played the game, or even just enjoyed it as a spectacle, will have a favourite speccy memory. Mine was always Gary Ablett over Gary Pert at the MCG in the early '90s, the way the clouds almost sucked Ablett skywards to throw himself at the ball — a ball he had no right to think was his, until it fell off his hand and ran down his arm before settling in his belly for the long journey back to earth.

I suspect most young kids will have one particular mark that is etched in their memory from a very early age. As a child, seeing such a wonder as Ablett's mark had a lasting effect. All I wanted to do was take a hanger on my mates' shoulders in the playground — before, after and (sometimes, if the teacher was distracted) during school.

Up until then, I had been a pawn in my brother's own private Michael Roach fantasy. He had been profoundly affected by Roach's screamer against Hawthorn in the early '80s, and with me being the little brother of the perfect step-ladder height, he set about trying to stand on my shoulders while our cousin kicked the ball high into the air. The five years that separated us at times felt like a huge chasm.

Up until I saw that Ablett mark, I wasn't too fussed about football or speccies — hardly surprising, considering I never got to have a go at taking one. Rather, my role was exclusively to be "speccied" on at family functions.

Life and football are a series of moments — some good, some forgettable, some thrilling and some that leave you with a chill. Our meeting with the Hawks on the weekend was a game I'll remember for two moments in particular.

The first was a high mark — I don't think we could call it a speccy or a screamer, but for a split second it felt high enough. The only time I've enjoyed heights was sitting up the top of my old gum tree Herbie, back home in Warragul, and that was only because Herbie was always looking out for me and would never let me fall (he told me this once, in a quiet moment).

I've not taken too many big grabs, but any that I have managed have left memories that don't fade easily. Of that moment when the play unfolds quickly, but for some reason you can see it in slow motion, and there is a split-second like a camera flash where you think you just might be about to launch.

The best comparison I can come up with is being on a surfboard, when you are about to attempt a wave that you realise is way beyond your ability. You're moving with the swell of the water, aware that you have no intention of catching the wave as the fear rips through your arms and legs, and your eyes peer down the wave's glassy face.

Then, inexplicably and out of nowhere, there is that split-second where you think, "Stuff it, I'm going here." This split second of courage is usually followed by enormous regret.

Having never had the skill (or complexion) for surfing, I can only relate this to the split-seconds on a football field and how they can make you feel.

Kicking, for instance, is such a basic of the game, but a fundamental so crucial to winning or losing. The exhilaration of kicking one through the big sticks or placing the ball on a teammate's chest is a thing of pure joy, and often you will know a good kick before it leaves your boot.

When the stars align and you feel the rhythm, it can be as if you've seen the outcome before it happens. The flipside, which I know a lot about too, is the clanger. The crowd will give a collective sigh, and maybe a curse, as your kick falls into a post or the arms of an opponent.

We all make mistakes on the ground, but sometimes when you turn it over you feel like an alien with the eyes of the stadium burning into you. There are so many split-second moments in the game, such as knowing you are about to be crunched. To use the surfing analogy again, it's like standing under a three-metre wave and knowing that you have to keep your eye on a seagull that's flying in your direction.

There is also the possibility that you could be on that wave, about to crash into an opponent. You have a split-second to act, and a mindset of being physical but also with the tenderness to take due care.

I found myself in this situation, too, last weekend against the Hawks. It's just one of those things in footy, I suppose, a moment that now means I'll have two hours of split-seconds to experience from the stands on Sunday.