Why the Dockers’ grand final run is WA footy’s great unifier

This is a confession many hard-bitten Eagles supporters may be reluctant to make publicly, but I’m going to be barracking for the Dockers in the grand final.

I know it sounds laughably hypocritical, given I have spent most of 20 years in print and online ruthlessly mocking Fremantle. Still, in my defence, it’s been easy to deride the Dockers at times.

Much like the Ancient Greeks, Fremantle have perfected the art of tragic, comic drama for most of their time in the AFL.

For a West Coast Eagles tragic who has passionately followed the club since its inception, showing even a hint of affection for Freo can feel almost unnatural.

However, I genuinely hope the club win their maiden flag against the Lions this Saturday, because the Dockers have played this season with a daring bravado that’s been captivating and illuminating to watch.

Over the past two weeks I’ve found myself experiencing deeply confusing emotions for Freo. An unexpected feeling of admiration and respect has enveloped me as the Dockers have shown grit, spirit, and resilience rarely seen in the club’s 32-year history.

I unashamedly and unapologetically started whooping and hollering for Fremantle while watching their stunning comeback against the Swans.

My partner and son gingerly tiptoed out of the loungeroom during the dying stages of the game, fearing that I was going to burst out Freo’s theme song because I’d been subjected to some form of footballing conversion therapy.

The Dockers’ victory against Sydney was the gutsiest win I’ve ever witnessed in a final and widely regarded as the greatest ever by Freo.

But that hasn’t always been the case. My uncompromising, illogical disdain for the Dockers isn’t partly my fault; it’s entrenched in our DNA.

Shortly after our ancestors took that evolutionary jump from the trees and started kicking around a giant fig, the humanoid spectators watching on exhibited the first form of tribalism.

So, when the Dockers first unveiled the club’s purple, white, and green jumper, with the white anchor awkwardly plonked in the middle, on that wintry Perth day in July 1994, a “hate circuit” rooted in the primitive part of my brain was instantly triggered.

I’m convinced it has nothing to do with an irrational fear of the colour purple, although I have felt the unhealthy urge to hurl the TV onto the verge when my kids used to watch Barney the Dinosaur.

For sports agnostics or fans who are far more noble and rational, harbouring a seething dislike for another team might seem a tad dumb, illogical and plain imbecilic.