”A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.” -Anais Nin

I wake and the search begins. Fumbling in the dark for clothes, shoes and a warm hat. With the soft touch of my hand, I feel my way along the walls of my bedroom to the front door, careful not to wake my sleeping family.

The fading street lights tell me that it’s the start of a new day, but I cannot start play until I’ve had my first hit.

Depending on the time of year, I’ll either drive the short journey or walk my dog, Arthur, to the arranged meeting spot. Today, it’s the dead of winter. Arthur stays curled up in his bed.

My eyes stay low, shoulders hunched, it’s the gait of a prizefighter walking to the ring. I open the door to my illuminated destination and I’m filled with the warmth, the aroma of the goddess. I wait my turn. The addiction has not yet taken my manners or my dignity, but I can’t deny that the anticipation adds to the romance.

One shot, one cup. Beauty in its simplicity. A different, more intense warmth now hits the senses like a cannonball, a goodness exploding to all corners of my insides.

Every man needs a vice, or so I’m told. Mine is coffee. We are crazy in love. I step back into the cold and harsh winds of the world with an extra cup for my sleeping girl, and press my shoulders back. Now the day begins, now I can play ball. I can still remember my first cup. It was around the time I started my footy career at the Bulldogs. My teammate Patrick Bowden was already a few cups into his romance with the coffee bean, and he wanted someone to ride shotgun with him.

”Just keep putting sugar in it until you can down it, then slowly reduce the sweetness over time,” was his advice.

Back in the year 2000, we seemed to have a lot more free time to indulge ourselves in new hobbies, like legal stimulant drinks. While some of our peers went off to work on golf handicaps and university diplomas, Pat and I dedicated a good chunk of our time away from the grind of football training to drinking coffee.

The footballing landscape was changing. The game was newly professional, and although there was still a healthy social scene on weekends and throughout the football season, bonding sessions aided by a few beers were becoming less and less frequent. Coffee was edging in on the tradition of ”male bonding”. Fast forward 13 years, and the idea of getting players together for a beer and some bonding is a bit like the panda – on the decline. The notion of a ”Sunday keg” seems like an almost mythical creature in the vein of the Loch Ness monster. Surely such a thing never existed.

A football season is a roller-coaster of wins and losses, but my love for coffee remains a companion throughout. The morning after a win, my coffee feels like a subtle, dignified reward for effort. Even after a loss, my morning hit takes on the role of a consoling arm around the shoulder.

Bonding over a cup of your favourite brew can be a symbolic gesture. ”Should we grab a coffee?”

Athletes are confronted with all kinds of pressures and anxieties. Pressure to perform on game day, internal pressures from coaches, the constant hum of being watched and critiqued by hundreds of reporters and thousands of supporters. Sometimes the best confidant can be someone who feels those same pressures, your teammate.

Over a steaming cup, the difference between ”How are ya?” and ”How are you?” can be a chasm.

Then there is the pressure of dealing with serious injury. Our young teammate Clay Smith will miss the rest of this season after a knee reconstruction. He has the best medical and rehab people available, and 40 teammates for counsel or a cuppa. Or both.

The Bulldogs are off to Tassie this week, and we’ll need our wits about us to combat the might of Hawthorn. When I wake on Saturday morning I’ll begin my search of Launceston for the best cup I can find. Then the search will turn to bringing home four points for our footy club and a fallen teammate.

This article originally appeared in The Age. To view the original article please click here.