When you play key forward, you get whacked. A lot. In the back of the head, around the ears, in the kidneys, in the ribs, on the arms. You get stops down the Achilles, kicks in the ankle. They step on your feet and squirrel grip your nuts.
Defenders do all these because they are inferior beings, crude ape men who can barely speak in sentences, read, or tie their own bootlaces.
One of my most satisfying moments on a footy field occurred in the last quarter of a game in which I took a lot of marks and got whacked each time. The last time, I turned around and dropped him with a beautiful short left hook to the jaw. I got sent off and abused by the opposition spectators, but we won easily and I smiled for the rest of the day.
I love Tom Lynch.