The reply of Aston Villa was considered deeply unsatisfactory and in those first few months as a newly minted Victoria Police Constable he was repeatedly told the local code was the greatest game of all.

With little enthusiasm he picked a side - Hawthorn - for one simple reason: they were utterly hopeless.

This was not to support an underdog but part of a cunning plan to stop the nagging.

So when the inevitable question, "So who do you follow in the footy, mate?" resulted in the one word response  "Hawthorn," there was silence and sympathetic looks as if there had been a death in the family.

It proved to be the perfect conversation stopper.

Through the 1950s Fred Silvester was content to pretend he was interested in the local code while secretly checking his weekly soccer pools.

(As a youth he saw soccer violence first hand when living with his family at an RAF base near the Khyber Pass. Defying instructions he chased his soccer ball into a village only to be chased by local men with no interest in The Villa. As he tactically withdrew up a hill the young Silvester threw a grapefruit size rock striking one pursuer on the head. This caused a riot which was eventually subdued by British troops armed with rifles and bayonets. But he did get his ball back.)

Back in Melbourne he was slowly infected by the game, which is where my story begins.

As is the local tradition the son follows his father's team although such loyalty was not immediately rewarded.

Despite the 1961 premiership the Hawks soon reverted to mediocrity, which coincided with my early school years.

Following a poncy eastern suburban side when you lived in the Preston housing commission district (where everyone barracked for Collingwood or Carlton) did nothing for your popularity, particularly when your peers realised your dad had locked up some of their dads. It was back then an area where bail jumping was considered an Olympic event.

On Saturdays after playing as a slow frightened wingman for Preston Scouts we would head to suburban grounds to watch the Hawks.

It was 1971, Hawthorn had Peter Hudson in the square and the legendary John Kennedy in the coach's box. I was 14 with boy-band good looks and a tendency to banter.

It proved a chance to learn valuable life lessons through the rough and tumble of football.

We visited Collingwood's Victoria Park, which had its own atmosphere, weather and eco-system. Suffice to say it was living proof of Darwin's Theory of Evolution.

There was a smoke haze over the ground in the very tight first half as I yelled support for the Brown and Gold. These comments were greeted by a faceless voice matured on Southern Comfort and Craven As shouting, "Shut-up you little dickhead."

Clearly he was rehearsing for his own game-show.

Early in the third quarter Collingwood's star mid-fielder Wayne Richardson made his signature move, showing the ball in his right hand as he baulked to the left. Leigh Matthews responded with his signature move - a left forearm to the face. Richardson, as they say, lost interest in proceedings.

Not understanding the gravitas of the moment I responded with a cavalier laugh and mock concern. That was enough for my tormenter who came through the crowd looking to exact revenge by extracting teeth.

When I saw his hands covered with rings parting the crowd I pulled my signature move. I hid behind my father who pulled his signature move by producing his police badge and telling the fellow to turn around or we would adjourn to the local lock-up. He left without further comment.

Lesson One: A good big man will beat a good little man.

We went to Footscray's Western Oval where the pet dogs wore handmade coats and the supporters wore stolen leather jackets, Essendon's Windy Hill, which was like being an extra in a slasher movie and St Kilda's Moorabbin that should have had an "R" rating due to the violence on the field and the subsequent sexual activities in the social club.

It was therefore with some relief we headed to the MCG - the home of football - for a game against Richmond. We took seats between three elderly ladies who on closer examination appeared to be the witches from Macbeth.

One could have been Jack Dyer's first girlfriend, the second must have been Kath Pettingill's mother and the third looked like Uncle Fester in drag. Between them they had two natural teeth augmented with false ones fashioned from piano keys.

They appeared to be drinking cream sherry from a flagon and were equipped with their own spittoon. And they were knitting.

They proceeded to hurl abuse at Hawthorn players with one screeching the praise of Tigers ruckman, Ray Boyanich, who had spent a couple of years on the Hawks' list.

Feeling an overwhelming desire to banter I leant forward and said to Mrs Fester, "Madam, need I remind you he is a Hawthorn reject."

Her response was to grab a knitting needle and stab me between the third and fourth rib.

I looked for support from my father as this was clearly assault with a deadly weapon and knitting under the influence of cream sherry.

"You deserved that because you are a smart alec," was his harsh but fair judgment.

Lesson Two: Never underestimate experience.

The years passedand I watched Hawthorn win seven premierships. Then there were dark times as the club teetered on the brink under the shadow of the 1996 proposed Melbourne merge.

I was invited by Channel Ten's Stephen Quartermain to Glenferrie Oval where a small group led by former captain Don Scott was exploring options.

Looking for a group name I suggested "Operation Payback" a reference to coach Allan Jeans "Pay The Price" Grand Final speech seven years earlier.

The message was simple: It was time for all Hawthorn supporters to pay back the club for what it had given us.

I rang my father, who by this time had retired and moved to the country. His advice was to remain neutral as passion could spill to violence.

At the public merge meeting the crowd bayed for blood. I sat with the head of the Asian Squad, Steve Pierce, a mad keen anti-merge supporter who began to fear for the safety of the pro-merge board. "If they attack we'll jump on the stage and push them back," he ordered.

I thought how unimpressed my father would be if I was caught throwing chairs at middle-aged Canterbury ladies determined to kill random Hawthorn officials who they felt were threatening their club.

I went to Scotty who was sitting in the front row looking like Mussolini about to address a Roman crowd and asked him to be moderate. He began by calling for calm and then ripped a velcro Hawk logo off the merge jumper. The crowd went bananas.

In reality Operation Payback opened the doors. Over the years membership rose from 6000 to well over 60,000, a trend replicated across the competition.

Supporters who will never meet players, sit in a corporate box or get a grand final ticket pay up because they know it is their club and it is part of an invisible contract.

AFL bosses talk of dedicating next year to the fans. They are wrong - fans are fickle while supporters stick fat.

Next year should be about the supporters - Operation Payback Two - where members are paid back for their ongoing loyalty. You could start by awarding life supporter status after 25 years' continued membership and providing family friendly fixtures.

Football is part of the DNA of this city and we are better for it. We have the passion of overseas soccer fans without the violence. Around 100,000 people will pour into the MCG today and there will be a handful of arrests. Despite the shadow of terror threats, police will banter with the crowd and not be stabbed with knitting needles.

Opposition supporters are not segregated. We arrive together and leave the same way understanding each other's irrational commitment to a contest we cannot possibly influence.

The game is living proof that despite the world's darkness we remain a fundamentally decent society.

Cultural, ethnic, religious and financial differences are left at the gate with one simple question.

"So who do you follow in the footy, mate?"