It has been an article of faith among Geelong fans for almost 25 years. Gary Ablett snr, with his whispy hair, slightly stooped shoulders and quiet menace, is The Greatest. Not just the greatest Cat, but the greatest of all.

At the height of Ablett's powers in the late '80s and early '90s, I knew a normally sensible man who bought a cat and named him 'Gary' even though he'd had no interest in pets before; I had two friends - Geelong supporters - who had not seen each other over summer and then happened to spy each other in traffic one day when stopped at a red light. They both got out of their cars and from 20 metres away, shouted one word to each other - which was all they needed to identify their one mutual and binding love on the eve of a new season - and that word was: Aaabbbbbbbbleeeeeetttt.

Even now, middle-aged men gaze off into the middle-distance, lost in their own private Ablett dreamworld, whenever his name is brought up in conversation. Before starting the next sentence with: ''Do you remember the time he .......''

Drouin's rough diamond represented the one beacon of hope for Geelong supporters in that grim period through the 1980s, as the years turned into decades since the club's last premiership win, and 1963 began to seem like an eternity ago.

All the odd character traits - his reclusive nature, heart-on-the-sleeve, out-there Christianity, diffident nature and slightly anti-social manner - were forgotten about by fans or simply overlooked. Ablett was loved purely for what he did on the field - and what he did was truly spectacular.

Ever since he was plucked by Ted Whitten to play in the Victorian State of Origin team in 1984 after just nine games on the wing for Geelong - a selection that had supporters of the other 11 VFL teams asking: what the hell's this kid doing wearing the Big V? - Ablett proved a class apart. He kicked eight goals against WA that night - from a forward flank, if you don't mind - and no-one ever questioned his ability again.

(My own limited personal experience with him came on a boys' live-in cricket camp at Peninsula Grammar, outside Melbourne, in 1977; we happened to share the same dorm - he and his rough-hewn mates, only 15 or 16 years old, but already men. How Ablett laughed when he saw my white underpants on that first night. He, of course, had a leopard-skin print on his Speedos. He said I'd have been laughed out of Drouin if I was seen wearing 'whities'. But he proved a loyal friend that week. And several times in later years when we crossed paths - me as journalist; him as champion footballer - he'd lament how the busy-ness of life meant he couldn't enjoy playing cricket with his mates any more. How those simple pleasures were denied superstars in one-team towns.)

Anyway, the reason for the history lesson is Malcolm Blight's remarks in the Herald-Sun today - where the former Geelong coach, now Gold Coast Suns board member, said Ablett may now have been superceded as a player by his son, Gary jnr.

Blight said while the father was a one-dimensional forward (apart from the odd foray in the midfield), the son was the complete package, who could play anywhere, anytime and do anything.

And Blight, who coached Ablett snr at his peak, and has now seen Ablett jnr at close quarters each week in Queensland, is perhaps as well placed as anyone to make such a judgment.

Sacre bleu and sacrilege, cried caller after caller to talkback radio. Most of them Geelong fans, most with silver flecks in their hair.

But, the thing is: Blighty's got a point.

Ablett snr was a forward whose concept of 'team' was always a little fuzzy. In any given season, you could count the number of handballs he dished off to teammates on both hands.

And a leader of men? Not really. Just a leader by example. Perhaps there was a good reason he won just one best-and-fairest award at Geelong - and that came in his breakout year of 1984.

Still, that's not meant to denigrate. On the matter of brilliance, freakish ability, strength, spectacular marking and match-winning bursts, you'd take the old man every time.

But footy's a team game. And who would I rather have in my team now - if I was coach or a prospective teammate? I think the answer on that score is equally clear. Little Gazza - the selfless workhorse, on-field leader and contested-ball king - every time.