The mountain has chosen. Sometimes it isn't sought. Sometimes it isn't an object of desire. Until you realize you're standing at base camp and you're in love again.
How to sum up our emotions at the foot of this current mountain? Looking up, it's the most fearsome peak yet - filled with hidden valleys, haunted by storms, cursed by maddening false promises and cold, empty dead-ends.
Mr Damien Hardwick has done it again. A mailman delivering on time, as promised, despite copping more than one flat tire along the way. Players old and new speak passionately about his undying capacity to motivate, to enthrall, to elicit the very best from a man's soul. Experts, fans and coaches alike talk of 'rewiring', of 'refreshing', of 'renewal'. That's precisely where we sit, as confronting as it might seem. The glittering era of 2017-2020 is but a brilliant memory - alive, but intangible. In many respects, gone. This team is on a heist run - should we claim the unthinkable, it would be a bandit raid to eclipse Hawthorn of 2008, Adelaide of 1997 and a host of other thieves in the night.
So many stories to this most unlikely of finals runs. A club meandering for much of the year has found its purpose, its collective resolve. A seed has been planted, a narrative has gathered glorious momentum. We know our coach loves nothing more than a good story, told both in furious bursts and quiet moments over a long campaign. As always, those without the ultimate success, whose who look sideways at premiership cups and medallions, ride high in the players' imaginations. Robbie Tarrant, hardened knight at the end of his crusades. Tyler Sonsie, elegant teen discovering the layered universe of his silky ability for the first time. Maurice Rioli Junior, brilliant starburst plastering smiles on faces all over the country.
The mountain has chosen. This club has been imperiously successful for some time now and in some respects grown fat off the land. We could forgive some players for failing to find the rabid, feral edge that turned them into junkyard dogs in previous campaigns. We could forgive some players for finding nothing but pleasant reflection inside where once a dark resolve glittered like a knife in the night. We could forgive our club for charting a stately course to the next halcyon crop of stars, a frontier for other leaders, other coaches, other dreamers.
But the mountain has chosen. We stand in the furnace once more, where there is nothing else to do but fight for your life. The crucible is near - the darkest, most sinister challenge I've seen. As foreboding as the next month must surely be, I am equally certain that fear has been eradicated from the fabric of this amazing, amazing club. Whatever is thrown at us in battle tonight, we will raise the fight.
The mountain has chosen. In so many ways we didn't seek it. But rising to meet the coming storm could result in the sweetest victory of all.
How to sum up our emotions at the foot of this current mountain? Looking up, it's the most fearsome peak yet - filled with hidden valleys, haunted by storms, cursed by maddening false promises and cold, empty dead-ends.
Mr Damien Hardwick has done it again. A mailman delivering on time, as promised, despite copping more than one flat tire along the way. Players old and new speak passionately about his undying capacity to motivate, to enthrall, to elicit the very best from a man's soul. Experts, fans and coaches alike talk of 'rewiring', of 'refreshing', of 'renewal'. That's precisely where we sit, as confronting as it might seem. The glittering era of 2017-2020 is but a brilliant memory - alive, but intangible. In many respects, gone. This team is on a heist run - should we claim the unthinkable, it would be a bandit raid to eclipse Hawthorn of 2008, Adelaide of 1997 and a host of other thieves in the night.
So many stories to this most unlikely of finals runs. A club meandering for much of the year has found its purpose, its collective resolve. A seed has been planted, a narrative has gathered glorious momentum. We know our coach loves nothing more than a good story, told both in furious bursts and quiet moments over a long campaign. As always, those without the ultimate success, whose who look sideways at premiership cups and medallions, ride high in the players' imaginations. Robbie Tarrant, hardened knight at the end of his crusades. Tyler Sonsie, elegant teen discovering the layered universe of his silky ability for the first time. Maurice Rioli Junior, brilliant starburst plastering smiles on faces all over the country.
The mountain has chosen. This club has been imperiously successful for some time now and in some respects grown fat off the land. We could forgive some players for failing to find the rabid, feral edge that turned them into junkyard dogs in previous campaigns. We could forgive some players for finding nothing but pleasant reflection inside where once a dark resolve glittered like a knife in the night. We could forgive our club for charting a stately course to the next halcyon crop of stars, a frontier for other leaders, other coaches, other dreamers.
But the mountain has chosen. We stand in the furnace once more, where there is nothing else to do but fight for your life. The crucible is near - the darkest, most sinister challenge I've seen. As foreboding as the next month must surely be, I am equally certain that fear has been eradicated from the fabric of this amazing, amazing club. Whatever is thrown at us in battle tonight, we will raise the fight.
The mountain has chosen. In so many ways we didn't seek it. But rising to meet the coming storm could result in the sweetest victory of all.
