My connection and affection with the Saints began, literally, in the cradle.

Our babysitter, Paddy Murphy, was a Saints player and lived around the corner from our house. Who is Paddy Murphy the Saints player, you say? Well, I have made a small fortune on behalf of my babysitter, Paddy, with one of the great footy trivia questions over many years.

"Which Saints player played their one and only game against Collingwood in 1966?"

The question usually has trivia buffs mentally scouring the Saints line up in September of ’66 – sadly you won’t find Paddy listed in the finals footy record. After they complete their mental anguish, I utter the two words of a player that perhaps is a metaphor for all things St Kilda – what could have been, what could go wrong – Paddy Murphy.

Paddy was a young rover, completed his schooling at St Kilda CBC and was, as many seasoned pundits would say, “a promising junior”. While Paddy’s form in the Saints reserves was steady in the first part of the ’66 season, but with the senior’s performing well, there was limited opportunity. In reality, he was probably competing with another young Allan Davis for the second roving role to Ross Smith.

However, as luck would have it, Paddy got the call for Round 10 – a match of the day encounter with the Magpies out at Victoria Park. Paddy got the usual Melbourne media fanfare – Back Page picture and article announcing his selection in The Sun newspaper on the Friday with Paddy smiling awkwardly as a Buddy Holly look-a-like with his black coke bottle thick glasses.

Unlike Geoff Blethyn, of the Bombers, who played with his glasses on and attached with elastic, Paddy would opt for the contact lenses. In hindsight, perhaps Paddy should have gone with the glasses given what was to beset him at Victoria Park.

Paddy arrived at Victoria Park in good time for pre-match preparation. This pre-match included a brief radio interview with Geoff Leek of ABC Radio before venturing to the rooms to change and warm up. Like any first gamer the nerves are starting to build – even more so when you have to self administer the placing of your contact lenses. The degree of difficulty to accomplish this delicate procedure is significant when you consider you’re attempting this in a grimy and dirty visitor change room rather than in the security of a clean bathroom.

So, imagine this. You’re in the change rooms, first game, match of the round, players changing, instructions being barked out and you’re fumbling to put your contact lenses in. What could go wrong? You guessed it – poor Paddy drops the lenses in the change rooms – frantic panic sets in – where could they be? – even with his glasses on he can’t locate it. Suddenly, news breaks of Paddy’s dilemma – “Everybody stop – don’t move – we have to find Paddy’s contact lens.” Teammates join in to scour where the rogue lens could be. Even the coach, Allan Jeans, not known for his pre-match compassion, is swept up in the search for the contact lens.

Sadly, only one is found. Well one is better than none, right Paddy? So having exhaled a torrent of nervous energy in the hunt for the contact lens, Paddy is quickly being hustled into the queue to make his way onto the ground, past the Collingwood supporters, and onto Victoria Park. The problem for Paddy was that he was virtually playing blind – a frightening thought when you think of the task in front of him – get to the fall of the ball, be at the feet of the big men and move the ball quick. Paddy had no hope. Unsurprisingly, Paddy didn’t draw on too much ink from the statistician that day – finishing with four kicks and being dragged at half-time. Perhaps most of the Saints energy had been spent pre-match on the contact lens hunt judging by the final result with Collingwood defeating St Kilda by 72 points.

Oh, what might have been for Paddy had luck gone his way.

Years later, I was privileged to meet Allan Jeans at a club book launch. After the usual small talk I took the brave step and asked him if he could recall that day in ’66. The coach’s response was brief and swift, “Bloody Paddy Murphy”.

Similarly, I recently met ’66 Premiership hero, Brian Sierakowski, who burst into hysterics at his recall – “Jeansy had us going under benches looking for those bloody lens – it was filthy and no chance of finding them. Felt sorry for Paddy, poor bastard.”

Paddy left the Saints after 1967 and became a bit of a footy journeyman and crossed the border to play in the South Australian SANFL before heading up to play for St Mary’s in the NT where in 1971 and 1972 he was the Northern Territory Football League medal winner – the promising junior finally got the acknowledgement for his footy skill and ability. He might have been handy at the other Saints that year in 1971, who knows.

In a lovely post script, during some school holidays in the mid 70s, Paddy was in town and took us to see the Saints train on a Thursday night at a club that he hadn’t been near for the best part of a decade. It was amazing to see the reaction of Cowboy Neale, Barry Breen and Allan Davis getting around our Paddy like some long lost mate – which, I guess, is what he was.

As a family we were die-hard Saints from the get-go. Living in Moorabbin there really wasn’t much excitement in the suburb apart from the Saints and the sporting theatre that was located at Linton Street. The footy ground seemed like some sort of extension to your own domestic property – you had an emotional stake in the place – an investment of mind, body and soul – your paid up membership was your mortgage.

I was first signed up with a membership in 1970 – it always seemed in the early days that the Season’s ticket always coincided with the arrival of the Easter Bunny – chocolate Humpty Dumpty Egg and a Saints membership was part my natural life rhythm from age five to 10.

From the start, I was totally immersed in the Saints. My Dad would walk with us, my three siblings and me, to the ground and, as the youngest, I would be carefully lifted, between the barbed wire “roofing” and placed on the concrete slab that was attached to the players race where the Saints would enter from the change rooms – literally the best seat in the house. To my right I had the Animal Enclosure who were anchored between the Saints and the Umpires race and on my left I had the die-hard “intellectual” supporters. You could not but feel safe, as a five-year-old, surrounded by the throng of St Kilda emotion – it was like a wave and when the roar would go as the umpire held up the ball to commence the game – the sound would crash and wash over you – amazing.

I held that vantage position for a few years before I was “promoted” to make my way to front fence, next to coaches' box, where two “little old ladies” would save me a spot and would require my assistance to point out players and complete their goals and behinds column in their footy record for them. In return, they fed me lamingtons and went as far as one season in arranging to sew George Young’s '27' on my Saints jumper – my how the world has changed.

In my early years, in the 70s, the Saints were regular finalists. I remember clearly my first final in 1970 at the vast MCG on what seemed to be a warm September Saturday and all the noise was how special the match was because it was triple Brownlow Medalist, Bobby Skilton’s, first final and that they had a chance because of the newly minted Brownlow winner in Peter Bedford. Thankfully the Saints were ruthless and toweled up South Melbourne comfortably. Home from the train trip, collect the pink Sporting Globe and read about what occurred at the MCG seemed to be part of life’s cycle as a Saint supporter at that time.

I have clear memories of my involvement for the following final series of '71, '72 and '73, which when I look back, smile and shake my head with amazement.

Securing finals tickets was very different in the 70s to today’s online, barcode and keyboard stress event. Life was a bit more simple back then. Finals tickets were offered up as a series where you queued at the football club to be allocated a ticket in the purchase queue. My kids find it amazing that at age seven, I was entrusted, as the earliest one home from school, to take up residence in the queue at Linton Street. It was a simple military operation. Both my parents were at work, so I would return home from school, get out of the school clothes, change into something warm, collect the Butternut snaps Mum had left on the bench and make my way for the 10-minute walk to the ground – cross over Nepean Highway (I never used the foot bridge – honestly, don’t know why), make my way to the car park near the Lawn Bowls club, and join the queue for finals tickets.

Like most military excursions, timing is critical – so to get there by 4.00pm, before a lot of the adults meant that you were usually in a queue with aging supporters who often looked fondly upon you and would let you shift further up the queue. So with my spot in the queue established all I had to do was to wait for my older brothers to arrive for the shift change over, which usually occurred just before 6.00pm and they would undertake the overnight queue until the raffle tickets were issued for your purchase point in the queue – after the hand over was completed I would then walk back home, just in time for dinner – mission accomplished. Try and get a seven-year-old to do that today and their parents would be brought before the Department of Social Services.

I think I’m still a bit scarred by the 1971 Grand Final – perhaps because I rode the whole September adventure with the team – a tight second semi loss by two points against the Hawks which we should have won with some easy goals missed, followed by the Preliminary slog in the wet against the Tigers where we won in order to have the rematch with the Hawks.

I often reflect that at three-quarter time in the Grand Final we were three goals up and we had the same single premiership cup in the cabinet as Hawthorn and yet since that moment, the Hawks have won 12 more flags – somehow, I have to get over it. That day I sat front row, forward pocket – literally meters from where Cowboy almost delivered Peter Hudson’s ear to us on a platter. I can still recall the “thunk” as they collided.

In 1972 our September ritual was interrupted as we headed to the wilds of Waverley under the new finals five system which saw us play Essendon. VFL Park Waverley had no orderly system of exit at the best of times, so the prospect of leaving the ground in a timely manner was not even an option for a final with 70,000 others. My Mum worked for Primus which supplied outdoor barbeques and she and Dad had the novel idea to bring the gas burner BBQ in the boot of the Holden Station Wagon for a post match barbeque in the carpark after match – pure genius. So, I am convinced that it was my Mum and Dad who footy commentator, Bobby Davis, must have seen that day in order for him to coin the phrase that finals at Waverley were simply “The BBQ Final”.

Twelve months later, same venue and opponent for the final in ’73 and the witnessing of one of the greatest finals performance by a Saint – the six goals from George Young from a half forward flank were simply amazing and forever etched in my mind that George probably goes down as the most under rated player to wear the red, white and black.

George became my second Saint hero after the one and only Big Carl – who to this day, as fifty-something year old, I can’t help but get excited when I see his highlights.

Carl was something else – he was a footy superstar before the term had even been determined – tall, young, blonde long hair in the early days followed by the army crew cut and then the head band and back pocket hanky – what a fashion icon of the field.

In 1971 Carl, for me, was all consuming. I would watch him train over school holidays – he was everything I know I couldn’t be – tall, athletic, tough – a Saints hero. In that year I compiled a “How to Play Football Booklet” – simple drawings of each step to taking a mark, a hand ball, a drop punt a torpedo. Naturally, Carl was this budding artist’s subject.

Unbeknownst to me, my father had a friend who knew Carl. Dad’s friend gave Carl my How to Play Football book. I will never forget that on a Saturday in 1971 when mail was actually delivered on a Saturday I received a letter – a letter from Carl! He complemented me on my drawings and on how pleased he was to feature in the book.

That simple letter in my greatest football possession – I have it framed and hanging 52 years later.

Somehow this club seeps into your soul and your very being.

Resilience is one of my great qualities which has not been instilled by family trauma or tragedy, rather it has been established from the affection, association and connection walking every step of each season’s journey with my Saints. From the barren years of the 1980s where I stood from start-to-finish to watch three consecutive 100-point losses – always hopeful that there was a spark or ray of light to journey out to watch the following week – to the re-emergence in the late 80s when the great Plugger began to pick up the team and carry them on his broad shoulders into finals action in the early 1990s.

One of life’s great decisions, as a parent, is the prospect of the team your progeny follow. Am I inflicting unnecessary pain and unfulfilled expectation upon my children to follow the Saints? I needed a sensible approach to this emerging challenge in the 1990’s given that I had entered into a mixed marriage – I married a Carlton supporter who would regale me of her enjoyment watching Buckley, Harmes, Kenny Hunter, Sticks and SOS and the joy of being there for the ’79 flag.

A simple solution – if we have girls they barrack for the Blues and if we have boys it’s the Saints – it’s in God’s hands, I figured. Thankfully, I was blessed with three extra Saints memberships – which, over the years, has facilitated more Saints Therapy Sessions than I can count.

So, over the journey I have seen the Saints in five Grand Finals – '71, '97, 2009, 2010 x 2. Each of them haunt me in different ways. 1971 Bob Keddie – done nothing all day and buries us in 5 minutes. 1997 – losing our 2 ruckman in the lead up, Nicky losing his Dad – and of course Jarman – the Gods conspired against us in ’97. 2009 – a hit post by Hawkins, missed shots from 20 metres and the toe-poke. Who has ever heard of a toe-poke in football before 2009 – only against St Kilda. 2010 draw – I still have dreams of the ball bouncing up to Milney and he runs in and drills it at Joffa and we win. The Replay – we were cooked, say no more.

So, the best team I think I have seen over the journey? I find it hard to go past the team of 2005 – a great blend of leadership, hardness, skill and experience – Harvey, Hamill, Hayes, Gehrig, Riewoldt, Milne, Kosi, Aussie Jones, Ball, Goddard, Baker et al. But I’m sure there’s debate there because they didn’t get to the big dance that year.

150 years of existence is an amazing achievement for this club – more so when I remember the can rattling to Save Our Saints in the 1990s and the various administrative and management decisions that took the club to the edge of extinction.

To be there for the 100^th as a supporter in 1972 and now the 150^th gives me a great sense of pride. It’s probably the last club milestone for me to celebrate so this means there is only one thing left for me – a premiership. That would fulfil a lot of emotional investment and connection I have to this club.

The prospect of our second premiership almost has become a burden – something to overcome rather than seizing and securing. Perhaps we have to change the narrative for our next silverware. The comedian, Jerry Seinfeld, once said that being second means that you’re the best loser – I surely feel like the best loser following the Saints, sometimes. Rather than focus on our second flag, perhaps we reframe our objective and strive for our first AFL Premiership, given we have a VFL flag already when we were the best of 12 Victorian teams.

In 2016, the football club produced a magnificent limited edition history book which chronicled the Saints season of 1966. Each round was detailed and included player portraits of the men who represented the club, including Paddy. Through the magic of photographic editing, the authors consolidated the now famous 1966 winning premiership team portrait with photo-shopped additions of those players who played in 1966. How ironic that the only player they failed to include in the revised 1966 season portrait was – you guessed it – Paddy Murphy. How St Kilda!

And yet, this final irony is not lost upon me – Paddy Murphy has become my St Kilda metaphor – almost, nearly, not quite there.

Throughout my football supporter journey I have had the joy, the sadness, the exhilaration, the frustration and a healthy dose of optimism in following our Saints. In a strange way I could not imagine following any other team – this club is ingrained from within – it gets into your heart and soul and becomes a part of who you are.

Thanks, Saints for being a part of me – I wouldn’t have lived any other way.