AUSSIE Rules is a unique game. Most tourists don't understand it, and some misguided locals don't enjoy it. And as a person born and bred in Queensland, I'm in the minority when it comes to following AFL.

While my friends watch rugby league in prime time on Friday nights, I wait up until the early hours of each Saturday morning to catch the replay of that night's AFL match.

But ever since running out for the Mt Gravatt Vultures in my under-eight's debut many years ago, to running out onto the very same field to umpire a group of under-eight's in their debut games last year, footy has held a very special spot in my heart.

It hasn't always been this way though.

My family came from a rugby league background. My father has followed it since he was a child growing up in Sydney, and the majority of my mother's brothers have played it, one at a representative level. So it was only understandable that at age seven, when I was finally old enough to take up junior club sport, I wanted to join a rugby league team.

My mum, though, didn't fancy the idea of her precious seven-year-old being bashed up by kids twice his size, and instead signed me up at the local AFL club.

We knew nothing about the game. And, to be honest, I was never any good at it either. I played for seven years though, stopping only because of an increase in work as I entered my final years of schooling.

But despite the end of my playing career, my passion for the game only grew. I began to live through each week just waiting for the Lions to run onto the Gabba that Saturday night. Not even a thunderstorm could stop my passion - my dad loves recounting a story of one time when everyone left the stands as the rain came pouring down except for my eleven-year-old self.

I'd been won over, and it was a love affair that reached new heights last year in my first trip to the game's heartland of Melbourne.

After unpacking in our apartment only metres away from Etihad Stadium, I immediately threw on my favourite Lions jumper and grabbed a footy to accompany me as I checked out the surroundings.

I dragged Dad with me in the hope of a kick, yet he was quite pessimistic about our chances of finding a field. In the end, though, I convinced him that the outdoor Docklands plaza was suitable enough, and he reluctantly began to kick it back to me. 

It had somehow escaped my attention, though, that a Collingwood match was only a few hours away. So it wasn't long into our kicking session that fans, adorned in their club's supporter gear (the majority, unsurprisingly, wearing black and white), began to walk past us on their way to the ground.

This was the scene for one of the most surreal experiences of my life. One by one, they asked if they could join in with our kick-around, until we had over 40 people on each side kicking the ball back and forth between each other.

Dad looked a little worried, but I was experiencing pure ecstasy. The feeling of eighty-odd people in a busy plaza all passionately (and probably dangerously) competing for the ball was something I will never forget.

Throughout the entirety of what I called my 'AFL pilgrimage', I was never seen without my Lions gear proudly on. And it didn't go unnoticed either, particularly in one moment on the final day of our trip.

Walking along the Docklands plaza early in the morning on my way to return our room key to reception, I noticed the plaza's garbage man heading my way in his golf buggy. At this early hour it was just he and I out.

My heart started beating a little faster when I noticed him speeding up and heading towards me, before rationality kicked in and I told myself, 'Dom, he's in a golf buggy'.

Nevertheless, though, my curiosity bordered on fear as he drew closer and seemed to change his direction whenever I did. It was only just before he made contact and I was sure I was about to die the most embarrassing of deaths that he swerved and pulled up behind me.

I turned around to see a wide grin on his face before he drove off, laughing to himself and belting out a tone-deaf but passionate rendition of the Hawthorn club song.

That's why I love footy. In a world where everyone seems too busy to even talk, and disasters are striking at every corner, footy is a welcome escape.

And I don't mean just what happens on the field either. I mean the brotherhood that exists within a particularly tight-knit team. The loyalty of the fans who head down to see their local team play every weekend. The dedication of the parents who get up every Saturday morning at an unnatural time, cut up the oranges, fill the water bottles and head off in the car to see their children do their best.

Footy brings people together. It unites us in the hope of something better, of rivalries formed only in jest and bonds formed stronger than steel. It's an escape to a world that makes sense, away from a world that makes none.

Footy is everything to me, and I feel sorry for those who see it as merely 'a game'.

It's so much more.

The wonderful people of Melbourne realise this, and it's why I'm counting down the days to my return trip this year. AFL, and the love that Victorians have for it, is something that has completely captured my heart - and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Perhaps I'm a Victorian trapped in a Queenslander's body. Or perhaps I'm part of the awakening, as the rest of Australia begins to realise just how amazing this sport is.

But one thing's for sure. I'm in love with this game. And it's the only sort of love affair in which the passion will never die.

The views in this article are those of the author and not necessarily those of the AFL or its clubs