My favourite memory hasn’t happened yet.

But I still remember it like it was yesterday.

It’s vivid and clear and I can see it now, exactly how it unfolds.

It’s deep in the fourth quarter of the big dance.

The scores are close because the Saints like to do that to us.

A desperate lunge effecting a spill, a huge bump eliciting a deafening roar from the crowd.

A Saint on hands and knees, a flick out the back to the outside runner who breaks the line and nails a big one from 50m.

The goosebumps resurface every time I picture it.

I won’t lie, small tears do form in the eye.

A few more moments of heroics. Tense moments.

Not exactly the miracle Dom Sheed clutch goal, but a close win that only becomes certain with a few minutes left on the clock.

Those last few minutes – when heart-wrenching anxiety and the fear of falling into the abyss once more – finally and for once, slowly evolve into raptured celebrations.

The weight of the world is lifted, and all the years of waiting become worth it.

It is my favourite memory of all time.

I love that I’m able to share the memory with my children, and my long-suffering brother, who blindly followed me to the red white and black without realising what heartache lay ahead.

It is the day we’ll never forget.

Like I said, it hasn’t happened yet, but I can see it.

Clear as the light coming in from the window.

It’s a memory of the future.

And it’s coming.


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