Round 24, the stage was set. Bulldogs v Dockers. Winner makes finals. Loser calls time.

Historically, when the Dockers are on match point, they’ve always double-faulted.

First bounce, I was pacing my friend’s loungeroom. By quarter-time I was doubled over, unable to stomach the thought.

This was bigger than finals, bigger than the game. It’s a storyline that gets right to the heart of footy.

It couldn’t end here.

Last year, I was laying on the big, grey couch in my then-boyfriend’s little, grey apartment. A rumour popped up on Facebook: Nat Fyfe was going to retire.

I gasped. It was too soon. I thought I had a year or two more.

As I explained the situation to my boyfriend’s blank expression, honest tears prickled at my eyes.

“Why do you care?” he said.

Sport is, if nothing else, an exercise in caring.

We were playing in Sydney the next weekend. I immediately looked up Airbnbs.

At lunch, my friend, Caro, mumbled over her phone.

Another friend baulked. “John Farnham died!?”

My heart lurched.

Caro shook her head. “My Uber driver’s name is Farnham.”

I relayed this story to my father, John Farnham’s biggest fan, at dinner.

“It will be a very sad day,” he whispered, red-faced and teary at the mere mention.

Maybe loving freakishly talented and slightly tragic icons with longish, blondish hair runs in my genes.

‘In a patriarchal society, it’s no small thing to be a fan of a man who has, as yet, never let me down.’ Photograph: James Wiltshire/AFL Photos/Getty Images

Dad’s never met John Farnham. Whereas I, working in footy, have met Nat Fyfe many times. I’ve always treated the high-profile people I meet as if they’re normal people–because, well, they are.

Which is to say: I love Nat Fyfe, the player. But I also respect Nathan Fyfe, the person, enough to feel embarrassed about it.

But really, should I be?

Over the past 16 seasons, Nat Fyfe has been the hero. He was Achilles on the beaches of Troy in our highest of highs and Atlas holding up the sky in our lowest of lows.

Off-field, as far as I could tell, he was simply a good person.

In a patriarchal society that’s perpetuated some less-than-inclusive and more-than-unsavoury attitudes, it’s no small thing to be a fan of a man who has, as yet, never let me down.

And hey, every footy tragic has their man.

My friend was gifted a poster of Marcus Bontempelli with her face superimposed to remind her husband who he’s supposed to love more.

Another friend found out he was having twins. We joked their names would be Colleen (middle name Wood) and Penn (middle name Dilbury).

There’s a child-like fun in the admiration of heroes. But why does it have to be “child-like”?

I booked the Airbnb and took my brother (not the boyfriend) on a road trip to Sydney. After the game, we stared out over twinkling city lights and caught up on our lives.

“Isn’t it funny?” I mused. “If it weren’t for me randomly caring about Nat Fyfe, we wouldn’t be here, spending this time together.”

“Isn’t that life?” he replied. “Just finding meaning in things until we die?”

The day the 2025 fixture was released in November, I booked flights to Perth.

I was also planning my years-in-the-making European bucket list trip.

The itinerary: leave Rome, fly to Perth, and then fly back overseas to finish my holiday.

In the 22 rounds before his actual retirement announcement, Nat Fyfe played in only four matches.

I was there for two of them.

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A young Nat Fyfe clashes with Hawthorn’s Cyril Rioli in 2015. Photograph: Heath Holden/AAP

I’d never been to a home game before, never been to Perth.

Come June 14th, when North Melbourne were up at three-quarter-time, and I had travelled 37 hours to be there, my head was in my hands.

Why did I leave Italy for this? Why do I follow this sport?

But when Fyfey came on as sub and the whole crowd cheered, I was swept up in a swell of 30,000 people who cared like I did.

Monday, 11 August 2025, the retirement announcement came.

I gasped.

“What?” my friend asked.

This time, I didn’t explain. Didn’t let tears prickle at my eyes.

At least I’ll still have my team.

It’s just… I was a kid when Fyfe became a hero of mine. His retirement isn’t just the end of an era for him, or the Dockers, but for me, my youth, and my last foray into fantastical fandom.

I can picture it: it’s 2040, my teenage daughter is bringing a friend over.

I’m on the couch, red wine in hand, watching the 2015 Crows v Dockers match – Nat Fyfe v Patty Dangerfield.

“Oh my god, Mum, you’re so embarrassing.”

And I’ll smile, like, just you wait, kid.

Drafted two years after Dangerfield, Fyfie is retiring before him, having played 110 games fewer.

He’s had over 25 surgeries.

Footy, as a grand metaphor for life, can be just as cruel.

I know why I follow football, why I flew 37 hours from Rome to Perth, why I haven’t let myself cry, but why I need to.

Because I want to care about things in my life.

Because that’s what gives it meaning.

People talk about getting their children pets to experience the life cycle of love and grief. May I suggest the Fremantle Dockers?

Your kids will know heartache.

But they’ll also know loyalty, integrity, courage and perseverance.

Despite all bets against the Dockers, victory over the Dogs kept the fairytale and fever-pitch feeling alive.

It is my solemn belief that there’s no greater honour than to be a one-club player.

On Saturday night, in Fyfe’s first final since the broken-legged heroics of 2015, in his last-ever match at Optus Stadium, trust I’ll be riding every tackle and goal.

This story isn’t over yet.

But no matter what happens – he has done enough, been enough, and I am grateful to have had Nat Fyfe as my last childhood hero.

Liana Black is a creative writer, advocate for women and queer folk, and an Australian sports fan with over 10 years in the industry