He is a family man and fisherman, more than he is a footballer.

By a long way.

Even in grand final week, ahead of the supposed pinnacle of a footballer’s career, Patrick Dangerfield doesn’t want to talk football.

At 32, he says he’s tired and bored talking about himself, even though what he has to say – as he meticulously, almost lovingly, prepares two fishing rods in a bid land a couple of Australian salmon off the beach at Moggs Creek – is the most candid he’s ever been.

He’s different, Patty. A good different. Happy, playful, relaxed and, he says, he might never have been in a more content space than he is right now.

After all, this was planned to be about a man in the waves, with a fishing rod in hand and the salmon running, a kind of calm on a Thursday before the storm on Saturday.

“The hardest thing this week is preparing yourself outside of the moment of playing,’’ he said.

Here, he cites his new favourite guy, US sports psychologist Michael Gervais.

“When Michael talks about the moment, and when you strip it back, it’s just another moment,’’ Dangerfield said. “I love that. Because you can build this up bigger than Ben Hur, but what you’re doing when you’re doing that, is you’re making yourself insignificant to do it. So don’t do that. You’re not small, you’re up for it. What you contribute and how you play individually and collectively matters. Yeah, his stuff, for me, just resonated.’’

As he speaks, Dangerfield pores over his fishing line, wrapping and tightening and cutting. He prides himself on his preparation – rods, lines, tackle, lures, knots, weather, tide, wind, the moon.

“As Neil Craig would say, good preparation prevents piss poor performance,’’ he says.

He’s thorough all right, maybe even a perfectionist, but insists he doesn’t take fishing that seriously.

“I don’t take it that seriously, it’s probably a bit like footy,’’ he says. “What’s the worst that can happen? You can’t catch any fish. What’s the worst that can happen? You don’t win the game. No one’s died.’’

Don’t confuse the matter-of-fact nonchalance off the field with the beast mentality he exudes on it.

“No, no, no, once you step on the field, nothing else matters,’’ he says. “But the reason why I said yes to you three weeks ago, and it was my point to do this interview, and you’ll understand why, hopefully, when I say … but it doesn’t mean absolutely everything because of everything else I enjoy. That’s what I hope you’ll get over the next hour or so. I think you will get it.’’

You can’t “get’’ anyone inside an hour. But you can get an insight, if you haven’t already. A premiership on Saturday would be wonderful, but not defining, because clearly Dangerfield won’t change if he wins or loses a single football game.

THE LURE OF FISHING

Dangerfield’s big double garage, which is connected to his big, spacious and mega-beautiful home, which sits on a big, green, manicured beach block, where his big, black Ford Ranger resides, is Dangerfield’s playroom.

In it is five surfboards, two motorbikes, an e-bike, a boat, a whole bunch of camping gear, enough fishing gear to rival a small tackle shop, and fishing rods, so many fishing rods.

For salmon, he’s opted for a silver metal lure to try to beat the breakers.

It is a glorious morning. Light blue skies and deep blue seas. But there’s an issue. “The tide is up and the swell is big,’’ he said. “Salmon is such a fun species to catch, particularly for the kids.’’

The amount of fishing gear he owns is astonishing. “Some people go to the races and punt, this is my vice,’’ he says.

He points at all the lures. “Blue water, freshwater, heavy tuna, squid jigs, four fly rods, there’s 40 rods, maybe more,’’ he says.

He loves to “hunt’’ trout, rainbows and browns. “I’m not a hunter at all. I shot a gun once in Adelaide at a police base, so I’m not a hunter. But I like the hunting element of fly fishing. Because you can see the fish and I’m going to put myself in a position to drop that fly – first pick a fly to match what they are feeding on – and then you can get satisfaction from a cast, because it’s hard to do, rather than just catching.’’

Clearly, he enjoys talking about fishing more than he does football.

“Way more enjoyment,’’ he says. “Because throughout my footy career, I feel I’ve been very, very open around footy, my views and that sort of stuff. But it’s got to the stage now where I’m sick of it to be honest. I don’t want to talk about myself and my journey because I just get asked the same questions, so I’m over it.’’

And that one question is about the elusive premiership, which everyone else seems hung up on more than Dangerfield.

“I’m just over it. Of course, I want to win it, but I’m over that question,’’ he says. “Maybe if you’ve only ever had footy in your life, it means more. But there’s so much other fun stuff in life. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to try less hard, and I get the narrative around it, but I don’t view winning or losing on Saturday as the be-all and end-all in a career.’’

When did you start thinking like that?

He laughs. “When I got sick of people asking the question.’’

Maturity brings greater wisdom and, in some people, a sense of contentment and appreciation. Certainly, no matter what happens on Saturday, Dangerfield feels it.

“I remember listening to Matthew Pavlich, and this was maybe 2016, and he was at a grand final,’’ he says “He was talking about, and I’m paraphrasing here, he was talking about satisfaction, and still feeling complete, even though he hadn’t won it. I didn’t quite get it at the time, like, you haven’t won it, how could you feel complete when you’ve had this incredible career, just how could you feel complete.

“But I get it now, having not won one. Footy for me has provided so much. I don’t get any of this,’’ he says, his hand sweeping the home, the garage and the toys.

“I will always be, and Mards (wife Mardi) as well, we will be so grateful for football, honestly. Words can’t describe how grateful we are and what it’s provided for our family and me. So, it’s perhaps with that more balanced wisdom of life and its experiences that you can acknowledge that, hell yeah, a premiership is all that matters now and nothing else scratches that itch. But if it doesn’t happen, it’s actually not the end of the world.

“For some people, they will find that preposterous. How could that possibly be … right handed or left handed?’’

Um, right-handed

“If you’re right handed, you should be reeling left handed. Like, as soon as the lure hits the water, it’s bang, it’s only a trout thing. Because as soon as the lure hits water, you want to get it moving.

“But, yeah, people would think that preposterous.’’

THE SPECIAL ESCAPE OF MOGGS CREEK

Commentator David King has spoken about it often, about the Geelong environment, the lifestyle and the hours required from players, which forms the DNA of the Geelong Football Club.

Dangerfield describes it as the “special sauce’’ which has, in part, enabled Jeremy Cameron to renovate his whole house while being a full-time footballer, for example.

“The special sauce is the people involved. They provide the environment. Look, the senior coach still dictates the vibe of the place. If he’s shitty, people will be nervous because of that. Chris just never is, he’s so balanced, and that reverberates through the group,” he says.

“Yeah, the club has been successful for such a long period, and perhaps being at the coast, you’re away from the bright lights of Melbourne, but it’s still got to be the people in the building. The work-life balance is pretty good, but don’t get that confused with, when it’s time to train, it’s on for young and old. You earn that right. And if you don’t have that ability to do that, we’re going to require more hours of your time.

“I’m strong on the fact it’s driven by Chris and before Chris it was Bomber. They were big on that. When you come into the building you get better and then you can go home.’’

Home is Moggs Creeks, 50 minutes from Geelong, on the other side of Aireys Inlet. Population is about 100. They include Dangerfield, Mardi, and their two children, George (five) and Flick (three).

“She’s Felicity, but she’s definitely Fick. Her nickname is Flick the switch because once she flicks it, strap yourself in,” he says.

From the lounge room window, you can see the lighthouse at Aireys and the point at Lorne. It is a beach view worth millions.

Moggs Creek is Dangerfield family stronghold, and while he says he’s tired of doing interviews, his nan isn’t.

“I’m over it, so I can’t imagine how over it other people are. My nan’s not over it, though, my nan loves it. She’ll be happy about this,” he says.

Dangerfield has always understood the power of media, and the role it plays in bringing personality and pomp to the fans. More than ever, he understands the importance of fans in the game, people, just like his nan.

“I remember playing a game against Melbourne, in 2020, the worst game of footy I’ve ever been involved in. It was terrible, so bad. What the last little while has proved to all of us, and I’m not sure anyone needed proof, but it’s the people which make footy so special.

“Without that it’s soulless.

“Fishing is my outlet, but to so many people it’s footy.’’

Do you feel old?

“Nuh … at all,’’ he barks. “Once I get the tap on the shoulder I’ll be OK, I was closer than I thought, but I don’t feel like the end is near. But I might have my head in the sand about that.’’

Dangerfield has always been the subject of opinions from others, and today, in the solitude and sanctuary and happiness of Mogg’s Creek, those opinions are a world away.

Dangerfield couldn’t care less what others think or say.

“I remember listening to Matthew Lloyd saying I polarise people,’’ he says.

“I didn’t think I did. What have I done to polarise people other than be myself? But perhaps people don’t like all those who are jovial, and smile and enjoy life. I like to have fun, I don’t take it too seriously.

“Isaac Smith comes to the club and it’s like, man, I can’t spend too much time with you because people will think we don’t talk about anything seriously.

“For me, it’s about living authentically and just being yourself and if that pisses people off, or that doesn’t resonate, you know what, that’s fine. But if you’re always trying to please people then you’re just going to never satisfy anyone, let alone yourself, because people will always look for chinks in your armour.

“If you just be yourself at the very least, you can’t go wrong. Yeah, you’ll say things at different times, and you’ll think I probably shouldn’t have said that, but that’s fine, too. We all have that. I really enjoy the media. But I get sick of talking to you about me, I’m over that time in life.’’

The beach is out his backyard and 10m to the Great Ocean Road. Across the road, it’s down a track and then down the stairs and soon enough the waves are lapping the feet.

He’s fit, Dangerfield. And strong and balanced. He plants his feet in the surf and flicks the rod. In footy terms, it’s called keeping your feet.

But the fishing is brief. The swell has too much vigour.

He has a second favourite spot at Moggs Creek, a long chair at the top of a hill.

“There’s nothing more relaxing than looking at water,’’ he says.

“A fire at night maybe.’’

He’s a coastal boy, more than a country boy.

“This is an extension of my childhood, and now my kids are doing the same thing. Footy gave me the opportunity to live down here. It’s just awesome.’’

And that sentiment won’t change no matter what happens on Saturday.

“It’s OK, footy has been great to me,’’ he says.