The first game of rugby union I ever saw was the Wallabies v Barbarians game at the end of the 1984 tour of Britain. Not a bad initiation, for those pundits who remember that classic game, David Campese at his brilliant best, Mark Ella, Michael Lynagh, Simon Poidevin, the flying wedge, the Wallabies winning 37-30 at Cardiff Arms Park in the wee hours of December 15.

It was our final week of high school and we had just finished the Big Bicycle Tour of Orange, which, if you knew Orange back in the 1980s wasn't all that big, visiting various establishments along the way. Our last stop was, if I remember correctly - we did visit several of Orange's finest - the share house of three male teachers.

That sort of thing wouldn't be kosher now, ending a night at a teacher's house, drinking lemonade, and eating party pies and sausage rolls (remember it was a share house) past midnight. But that's what we did. And as said teachers were rugby nuts, we watched the rugby.

Watching Campese weave his way down field, before off-loading, one-handed, as he fell in a tackle, with winger Michael Hocker switching back outside to take the pass and score the try, I think I fell a little in love with the game.

When I came to Canberra to go to university I soon discovered that it was easier to wander down to North Oval to get a weekend fix of football. I lived with some boys who played down the grades for ANU and sometimes I'd tag along on Saturdays to watch a game.

I still got my league fix by heading out to Seiffert Oval to watch the Raiders play. We'd catch the bus out to Queanbeyan, file in, buy a beer and hang about by the tunnels in the hope we might glimpse a player or two.

I was there on May 2, 1987, the day Mal Meninga hit the goal post and broke his arm - you could hear the crack from the far end of the field. I was one of a crowd of about 5000 for the game against Manly (the two teams would later play in the grand final) and I'll always remember it.

I remember watching the Dragons (my team) play too, back in the day when the Red V could beat the Green Machine, and being overawed by the sheer size of players such as Graeme Wynn and Craig Young, who are probably midgets compared to today's players. A different day, a different game.

But on a weekly basis it was rugby union that filled my football fix. The royal blue and white striped jerseys of ANU. I remember watching Laurie Fisher, now the Brumbies forwards coach, captain the team for my entire degree.

He'd lead the team out, his blond hair flowing in the stiff breeze that would pick up over Sullivan's Creek, and be in every scrum, ruck and maul that formed for the next 80 minutes.

Peter ''Branches'' Bradley was never far behind him, a tall, rangy second-rower, a high-ranking police officer if I remember rightly, with all the imposing demeanour that came with that position, but could always be found after the final whistle, smiling with a beer in hand.

There was the dashing back Jeremy Wilcox and jack-of-all-trades Bill Stefaniak, who later went on to make his mark, of sorts, in politics, was always there manning the sausage sizzle or pulling on the boots for fifth grade against Jindabyne or some other team from the far flung rugby reaches.

In the mid 1990s we jumped on board the Canberra Kookaburras train, heading to Manuka Oval to watch them beat up those fancy Sydney teams in the AAMI Cup.

They made the grand final in their first season, losing 11-24 to Gordon, and finished fifth in 1996, eliminated by eventual premiers Randwick. And then in 1997 the NSW Rugby Union's first-division presidents voted 12-1 to kick us out.

Now this may well be where our hatred for the Waratahs stems from but perhaps it also provided the impetus for a certain culture at the Brumbies.

The Brumbies first played Super Rugby in 1996, when the ACT had to work extra hard to prove themselves on the national stage. No one liked us, the Sydney media particularly, once again we had turned up to their show with little, or so they perceived, right to be there.

How dare you crash our party, you no-hopers from the bush. And crash it we did. The Brumbies finished fifth in their first year, lost the 1997 final to Auckland and after a couple of up and down years, made the final again.

Just as I'll always remember the day Mal Meninga broke his arm, I will always remember this final against the Crusaders. It was bloody cold that night but the rugby got our blood boiling as the valiant home team lost by a point.

It was a heady couple of years. In 2001 we beat the Sharks in the final, the first team outside New Zealand to win the title, and then in 2002 the Crusaders gained their revenge, winning the final 31-13 in Christchurch. In 2004 the two teams met again and it was our turn, a 47-38 win at Canberra Stadium. George Gregan, Stephen Larkham, Stirling Mortlock, Joe Roff, Owen Finegan.

And bloody George Smith. He's been there since 2000. When my son was born in 2003 we signed him up to be a Brumby and received a George Smith growth chart in the mail. It's still hanging up in his room. George hasn't aged a day in 10 years. Still plays like he hasn't aged a day.

And all this brings us to this afternoon. When I wonder why I care so much about a team, about a sport, that I grew up knowing nothing about - I think it's got to do with all of this. With Saturday afternoons spent freezing at places like North Oval and Phillip District and Campese Field.

With Campese himself. With a history of being belittled and beaten by those Sydney folk who think they're better than us. With players like Gregan, Larkham, Finegan and Roff, who took the Brumbies, who took us, to the world stage and succeeded. With little boys who believe they can grow up and be a Brumby.

Good luck boys, we're with you.