If you’ve ever wondered what happens to all the old, retired jeans of the world, well it’s a one-way trip to the youth of city-dwelling Australians. Here they represent a fashion staple of the streets, worn as jorts and paired with long white socks poking above a pair of high-top sneakers. On AFL Grand Final Day in Geelong, they can be seen adorned by large cohorts of moustached boys with shaggy mullets as they bounce excitedly through the streets shouting “Up the Cattas” in raucous harmony. Walking through the bustling streets you are bombarded with an impressive assortment of Geelong Cats stash from every corner; a rather peculiar form of blue and white “Where’s Wally”, except this time Wally is doing a very terrible job at hiding. Here people are passionate and excitable, blood pumping with competitive patriotic energy that can only be channelled through constant chanting and jeers of celebration towards anyone and everyone.

 

The Geelong Cats winning the AFL Grand Final that night was a dream many had been yearning for since their last success in 2011. A new set of fresh, young fans hungry for success had since entered the arena, proudly wearing the old Geelong jerseys of their parents and grandparents. As the whistle blew marking the Cats’ triumph, men, woman, girls, and boys alike streamed out of their various homes, bars, and pubs into the streets of Geelong and united in a frenzy of pure joy. Besides the odd overly intoxicated few refusing to admit defeat, most Sydney Swans quietly retreated, heads down after such a tragic loss. Meanwhile, the intersection of Malop and Moorabool street became the perfect playing field for Cat supporters to come together in a game of “Markers up”. Or to the female observer, an opportunity to drunkenly show off their strength and masculinity through who could kick the ball the highest and tackle another to the ground. This game continued throughout the night with interludes of loud music, fireworks, and a rather amusing show of two overly confident men climbing onto the roof of a building only to realise that they would have to get down again. All of sudden, these men became boys and their faces dropped with visible fear.

 

Further down, tucked away in Little Malop street you find those who consider themselves too sophisticated to be likened to a cat and instead delicately sip on their glasses of wine at the Cellar Door. However, even this cohort are unable to hide a hint of pride in their smile. Just nearby, you can find long stretches of young Geelong Cats’ fans queuing for the nightclubs Bloom and Lambys, pent up energy seeping from their every pore as they crave to dance the night away in the spirit of success. Some have experienced such emotional highs throughout the day that they have already reached the end of their night, staggering out of kebab shops with an HSP precariously in hand, rarely for long.

 

Ask an international like myself, ignorant to AFL and all it means to Australians, and this represents an evening of cultural unity and shared happy energy. Ask a Sydney Swan and it was simply a boring one-sided game with little significance to AFL supremacy. But ask a Geelong Cat and it was one of the best moments in history.