AFL is unavoidable in Melbourne. The state’s pastime, it’s a sport that transcends class and social boundaries, weaving its way into almost every community. Anyone from the shit-kicker to the CEO, from the tradie to the poet, can apparently get behind it. Everyone’s got a team, and if you don’t, you better choose one quick.

Since moving to Melbourne in 2020, I’ve felt accosted by AFL culture. Unlike country NSW, where I moved from, footy-talk is everywhere. My first week in Melbourne a woman in a café remarked ‘you bloody tigers’ fan’; carelessly, I’d worn a black and yellow scarf out of the house that morning. In arts circles, I’ve had acquaintances seamlessly transition from the poetry of Omar Sakr to a breakdown of such and such player’s form.