Anton Hermann is a Melbourne solicitor and St Kilda tragic.

We've all heard the old-time stories about initiation rituals in the military: a liberal dose of corporal punishment, humiliation and physical degradation before earning your stripes, so to speak.

For a Saints supporter who grew up in the long, dark years of the 1970s and 1980s the scars run deep. It was one hell of an initiation into the world of AFL/VFL and, truth be told, until we can finally break through for a premiership win, the scars will remain unhealed.

There were moments of sunshine. I can still recall going out to Waverley in 1973 and watching the Saints beat Essendon in the elimination final. We lost to the Tigers at the MCG the following week. Little did I realise that we would not make it back into the finals until 1991.

That was a long time - truly an eternity - for a kid to watch your side get flogged.  There were some moments of grace.  We just missed the finals in 1978. It was a false dawn.  The following year we won the wooden spoon.  We picked up four more in the 1980s. During one of those seasons we lost our first eight games on the trot. In 1985 we lost our first three games by 100 points or more on each occasion.

Other teams have had a longer premiership drought than us - and we sure can empathise. But the extent of our malaise is simply impossible to describe from a supporter's perspective. The success of other clubs like Carlton, Richmond and later North Melbourne, Essendon and Hawthorn was like a parallel universe.

Faced with this loss of hope we turned to celebrating small victories: upset wins against the better sides (especially in the Moorabbin gluepot), comebacks built more on desperation than skill and, of course, cult heroes: George Young, Trevor Barker, Joffa Cunningham, Greg Burns, Plugger and even Mark 'Jacko' Jackson.  Brownlow medals - even just Brownlow votes - were another pleasant distraction from the reality of our ladder position. Another ripper was when our reserves team made the Grand Final one year. It was a sight to behold the Saints jumpers on the MCG on the last Saturday in September. We lost. I do recall Milan Faletic lining up at centre half forward. The rest is a blur.

We saw some real hope in the early 1990s under Kenny Sheldon and then the indescribable thrill of turning up to the Grand Final in 1997 under Stan Alves.  Winning was inevitable. We lost - and unravelled all over again.

Only time will tell whether we will take the ultimate step on Saturday but we have certainly done the hard yards. We lost three preliminary finals in the 2000s before breaking through to the Grand Final last year. Win or lose, there is something different about the Saints this time. The cultural change that was so desperately needed at our club all these years has been achieved.

Regardless of the result, our club has won the respect that it has so long lacked. There will be no turning back from here. The club is headed in the right direction. And if we win, all the sins of the past will be forgiven and forgotten.  A life-long initiation will finally be over - and the relief will be felt for years to come.