After The Game With Snaps Truly - Grand Final 2026

Been here all week. Thousands of us. Filling the cafes and pubs and streets of Melbourne with our colours and our hope. Grinning like goons, giddy with ‘pinch ourselves’ wonder.

Superstitious and silly. Seeing purple, red, and green lidded bins huddled together in a Carlton street and believing them to be a sign. Surely.

We’re here.

So is our team.

And we deserve to be here.

Wanting a win so badly for Uncle Colin or old Rita next door who hasn’t been well and for Freo the port town that has nursed too many bruised hearts over too many years.

For ‘The Champ’ Nat Fyfe, for Pav, and Sonny and Shane Parker and Anthony Morabito and Todd Ridley who kicked our first ever goal in the AFL … and everyone else we’ve cheered for or forgotten about, who pulled on the jumper on our behalf and made it a statement of who we are.

Chanting ‘Freo, Freo …’ when we gathered in the grey mist at Fed Square this morning, wanting to present ourselves as a mass choir of the irresistible.

And what a sight we were. Wearing lucky jumpers or our favourite retro incarnations. Buying a new Isaiah Dudley badge to keep Kepler company on the scarf knitted by Granny all those years ago. The one she hoped would bring us warmth, comfort, and luck.

Geez Granny, if only you knew how long it’s taken to get here again.

In a week when Nick Daicos deservedly won the Best Midfielder in the AFL award, formerly called the Brownlow and ever so occasionally given to a great ruckman or centre half back in the old days; it was Lachie Neale who dominated headlines. Again. Would he play, would he not?

I liked Stocky Lachie back in the day. But not much now. Sneakin’ around punching blokes when they aren’t looking.

If he kicked a goal today, I was hoping they’d play ‘You’re Cheating Heart.’

There were 100 thousand of us inside the Colosseum, and plenty of prowling Lions too. They’re generous fans though, success means they purr more than growl. They are hard to dislike, no matter how one tries.

Before the footy started we spent 20 exhilarating minutes in the company of Kylie.

What a beaut kid she is, what a bloody good sport. And while twenty minutes was about as much fizzy pop I could hold in before burping; watching her climb into the skies was both magical and great fun.

That’s what I wanted today, great fun. Not me hacking away at me nerve rashes … and allowing doubt to creep in.

I won’t give it to you goal by goal because you’ve already seen it. It was an exceptional Grand Final. One of the best. Two evenly matched teams going hammer and tongs.

Freo calm. Not overwhelmed by the occasion like before. Up for the fight of their lives against a team who loved this big stage.

Scores level at half time.

But in the third quarter, our skipper went down. Chasing hard, Alex Pearce felt his achilles tear and he collapsed. He lay, sprawled and for a moment, completely still. He knew he was done and we all wondered, might we be done, without him.

Well, no, not yet anyway. Freo bounced out to a 15-point lead thanks to ‘dorable Duds, before the reigning premiers answered with three goals in just six minutes to take it back.

But two goals from 2027 Brownlow Medal winner Hayden Young, the second of which a magnificent snap, meant that Freo turned for home ten points in front. He looked up into the stands, pounding his chest.

The narrative belonged to us. We’d do this for Moose.

Surely.

It looked that way. Late in the game it bloody well did whenPat Voss kicked his third and the margin was out to a game high 17 points.

Then Wharfie Time was ignited. Hells Bells and all that. The momentum seemed ours. And Junior Snaps next to me allowed the first tears to leak. We were four minutes away from victory.

One hand on the cup.

As they say.

Relief in sight.

And then it was simply prized from our grasp and taken away.

What followed was not chaotic or shambolic. Freo were not robbed. Nothing was stolen. We were just overwhelmed by Brisbane’s blonde ambition. Will Ashcroft and his golden teammates choosing again to show why they are one of the greatest teams of all time. Logan Morris, well held all day, now bobbed up to kick two in a blink, as the Lions feasted on four in a row.

That was that.

A quick, clean kill.

Chris Fagan and his team had won their third premiership in a row. The margin 7 points.

One of the great Grand Finals.

And Freo’s players were left to inhabit the place reserved for those who lose. One of deeply personal hurt. Not that they were given much time for stillness or contemplation, the Prancing Pony was soon upon them, wrenching them to their feet, demanding they stand and be proud.

Andy Brayshaw and his mates had nearly become immortal,but in the end were merely human.

What about you and me?

Well, I guess some of you wept bitter tears or drank too much or tried to console the inconsolable with ‘They did well.’ and the utterly dreadful ‘It’s only a game.’

Perhaps you watched everything and read everything that followed. The hindsight expertise of pundit, analyst, stats man and of course, David King in his one shiny suit.

Was Wharfie Time to blame? Was it ignited too soon? Were we celebrating too soon? Did the Lions use it for their own motivation?

What about Treacy and the goals he left out there, goals that would, might, could, should have sealed the deal.

Or the valor of Shai Bolton, who perhaps tried too hard to win it by himself, and who probably won the Norm Smith because they decided it just before the finish.

Just before The Bashcrofts decided otherwise.

I didn’t care about any of it. Because I couldn’t bear to hear any of it.

Or see any more of it.

And so, with a hug and the understanding of Mrs. and Junior Truly, I walked away.

Not angry or even disappointed, but sad. Not quite, ride into the sea,’ C. Y. O’Connor sad.

I didn’t have a horse.

Just bloody sad.

For those young blokes who’d given their all. For all those who’d pulled on the jumper before. For Uncle Colin and Rita next door and the bruised hearts back in the Port.

And me.

And my kids.

And you.

And now the season was done.

Just like that.

I imagine some of you are done as well.

Maybe next year you’ll choose to spend your time doing other things. Joining a community choir or learning to play the bagpipes or cooking like Ottolenghi. Good for you.

But see, for me it’s not so easy.

I don’t have choices.

I’ve got to hold on tight to the dream.

Because otherwise, what’s the bloody point?

What’s the bloody point indeed.

Anyway, thank you for being part of The Season. It was still the best season yet.

Maybe I’ll see you next year.

You’ll be there, won’t you?

I’ll keep an eye out.

Yours Truly

Snaps Truly

*By our multi-talented and amazingly insightful footy scribe, SNAPS TRULY. Snaps has seen and done it all. He may or may not have been a fringe player at Fremantle. Don’t miss Snaps’ report after each Freo Dockers match here on the Shipping News throughout the 2026 season.

~ You’ll find more Snaps Truly right here.

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