THERE comes a time, I suspect, when we all begin to take on the characteristics of our fathers. Perhaps it is fatherhood itself, but this year more than any other I have felt this magnet drawing me to do things in the same way my dear old da' does.

It's not like I've been resisting the forces of a son to a father either; the more I become like him the more comfortable I feel in my own skin. I might even change my name to John before long — never felt like a Robert anyway.

After locating the black box from Saturday's game against the Cats, Monday was spent analysing the details of the turbulent flight that, John Denver-style, ultimately crashed into a mountain (or at least the You Yangs).

Despite the bellowing calls from the football council that the loss signalled the end of the Bulldogs, the black box revealed that while the plane was in fact destroyed, the entire crew and passengers from flight "JQ four points" parachuted to safety, and will be available for selection for this week's next voyage. Flight "JQ another four points up for grabs" departs 4.40 on Sunday afternoon.

As I was saying, Monday was a big day spent poring over flight details, safety procedures and the like, and we were satisfied that with some minor mechanical changes we could avoid such problems in the future. In fact, the findings were as such that my co-pilots and I would love another go at the Cats, and with some luck we may even get to play them again this year to test out our new and improved aircraft.

By 5pm Monday evening it was time for home.

Still weary from Saturday's flight, I retired to my chair, set the record player for Irish folk band The Fureys, poured a glass of wine, got some cheese and biscuits on a plate, and tried to forget about the Cats.

But as much as I tried to switch off, I couldn't stop thinking about two things. They swirled in my head like a leaf stuck in the breeze at the Whitten Oval.

The first was this: when did my choice in music, cheese and six o'clock refreshment turn into my Dad's? And the second: was the blue cheese I was eating off? And if so, how does one tell?

It smelled not quite right and looked a little past its best, but surely that's part of its appeal? Yet what was that thin layer of moisture doing on the surface?

After staring at my cheese for a long time, I decided I had to throw it out — the moment had passed. Whether it had turned was not the point — I couldn't enjoy it if there was a chance it had gone bad.

The game against the Cats, for me, became a bit like the cheese — in my mind, they both went bad and sometimes you're best to just throw it out and move on.

With my cheese gone it seemed pointless to carry on with the wine and biscuits. As a team they flourish, but individually it's just not the same. Like Elvis without sideburns, or Martin Flanagan without a beard.

With my plate and glass empty, all I had was the stories and tunes of Finbar Furey to whisk me away.

Me da' was more than likely sitting in his chair doing something very similar, and I asked myself what he would do if (God forbid) his cheese and wine had lost their appeal?

Undoubtedly he would open a book and sit for a while.

So, in keeping with the theme of fathers and sons, I took out my book and began flicking through the pages.

The Devil and Miss Prym is the latest instalment of my book club, formed by teammate Daniel Giansiracusa and our former assistant coach Chris Bond. We convene every couple of months to talk about the book we've just read, then take turns to pick out the next book, and so it goes.

In truth we spend very little time talking about the books themselves, rather we just cackle away about stories associated with the game and the characters that move through it.

Footy has become a lot of things, just like life I suppose, and we can complicate it ad nauseum. But as long as we get to debrief with good people who can share a laugh in a crowded cafe, then that's all right by me.

Having made a good start on my book, it was time for my Jarvis to wake up and sit on his Dad's lap. The way he wobbles his head to The Fureys and lunges at a discarded bit of cheese suggests he will follow in the family tradition.

This weekend's game is another chance to fly high into the sky. Sometimes the plane crashes, other times it's a smooth, breathtaking ride.

That's the beauty of the game, just like a dancing 10-month-old and the cackles of good friends who started a book club are a small part of what makes life grand.