When I was thirteen years old I wanted to be Warwick Capper. You see, Warwick Capper had long blond hair, white boots, and took spectacular marks. He played like a bird, fragile on the ground but always dexterous in flight. When I was eleven, even twelve, I didn’t really know who Warwick Capper was, in fact I didn’t know what a mark was nor did I understand Aussie Rules, which at the time made little sense to me or my parents, as we had just emigrated to Australia. But I learnt quickly.

‘Dad, what are the sticks?’