I was as agitated as a kid on Sunday waiting for the big one.

“Are we there yet!” I demanded from my two kids who were wondering what had got into Dad.

Not by a long shot – first we had to sit down to the NRL rugby league entrees as barbecues around the country started to sizzle.

I had to take my chops watching the Baby Broncos get done in extra time as the Raiders got lucky.

“Are we there yet!” I roared

Then the pre-game entertainment began to fizzle from some disposal store dancers and some Weber barbies the NRL had found left over from the 2000 Sydney Olympics storeroom. I half expected Billy Idol to stumble out of the mists of NRL infamy looking for a place to plug in his amp.

“Are we bloody there yet!”

I heard the one of the kids mumble something about leaving home until the season was over. Finally Rabs Warren got the game under way.

Then in the 24th minute Manly hooker Matty Ballin got the show on the road with a four pointer.

Who cares if the Beaver had taken to the field for his record-equalling 349th first grade game, this was not about Manly – this game was about sheer revenge. The rotten mongrel Melbourne stopped it from being a possible Brisbane-Manly showdown.

The grand final for me was a vehicle of pure hate. I was one of the many hundreds of thousands of death riders on the Storm on Sunday.

It was bizarre, because this was a side that made up half the Queensland Origin side these days, but if ever I have any doubts I think back to 2006, just before the Broncos dished out some humble pie, when some of the Storm players already had the grand final rings on their fingers.

They are a side only a myopic mother could barrack for.

So on Sunday, at the 34th minute mark, the Sea Eagles’ Michael Robertson, opened the throttle to get me closer to my cold comfort.

But at 8-0 at half time we were not there yet – not by a long shot.

When Brent Kite went over to make it 24-0 and the Storm were looking more like a spent force, I realised we were just about there.

By 40-0 I had arrived at the situation of my own making.

For eighty bloody minutes I had cheered every play against the Storm – and had helped make the Sydney Silvertails the premiers for 2008.

I let out a primal scream every bit as gut-wrenching as the one Locky let out after Brisbane lost the final to Melbourne. I was there ... out there.