A point is added to the lead and Collingwood look unable to even somewhat close the deficit.

Brazill’s deployment into a struggling midfield leads directly to a Collingwood inside 50 – picked off Ainslie Kemp. She and Shelley Scott hold off early Collingwood charges before the Demons launch one of their own – Hanks with her first goal of her career ices the match.

Brazill’s dazzling debut on royal Collingwood ground is not yet complete. She tears down a brilliant contested mark, runs onward and launches the ball forward.

Sarah Dargan’s ensuing toe-poke is Collingwood’s only goal but is greeted with the loudest bellow. Steph Choicci fires up when she is bludgeoned in a marking contest – but her shot is left. Melbourne dash forward – Brazill is always there in the goalsquare.

Victoria Park’s siren sounds with an unpopular vehement Collingwood defeat, with the Pies’ final score of 1.3 (9) their equal lowest of their AFLW career. There are little positives for a Magpie side completely bullied and shanghaied by a much stronger, much more efficient Melbourne outfit.

Mick Stinear’s mood was buoyant, lauding his side’s ability to rebound off a tough loss in sweltering heat just six days beforehand.

“The girls were brilliant…to only let the opposition score one goal, I was really pleased with the group.”

The following presser is illuminating. Wayne Siekmann and Steph Choicci, glum in media polos, speak of youth, of growth. The mood is downcast. Siekmann commends his backline for the pressure they absorbed. Emma Grant injured her shoulder in the second quarter – her coach laments the loss of his vocal vice-captain. Choicci is asked about her sides’ record-equalling low score – “I couldn’t care less, to be honest,” is her frank answer.

She leaves the conference in a flurry. “We’re alright,” she says. “We’re young.”

Amid the heaving, departing crowd, I spy a pair of young girls running from the grandstand, out of the terraces, out the gates. They are both adorned in Collingwood black and white. I see hundreds of kids like them, and their mums, and their dads.

The Twittering consensus that blares incessantly from my phone is a game lacking score and entertainment.

But the memory for the kids in scratchy beanies and their parents’ scarves is Ash Brazill, screaming down a wing, running with the football. The memory is the crowd’s voices lifting with her.

They are out there now, kick-to-kick on Victoria Park. They will not be denied.