DEAR Santa,

It's been a long season, even before the festive part, but I've been trying really hard and I think I've been a good boy.

I'm not going to ask for much — no beard-testing or peeing in the eggnog jar three times a week with Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and the crew taking notes. And I'll do my best to get by without an update on what Jack Watts has had for brekky and whether he's brushed his teeth before bed.

I won't even ask you to get me a team in Tassie, seeing as it did me no good last year.

As I said, I've been a good boy. I've swallowed all the stuff that doesn't taste very nice but is supposedly good for you: brussel sprouts, cabbage, broccoli, Western Sydney.

And I've made sacrifices so others could enjoy themselves — I even covered a Fremantle game one week.

I've tried to accept people who are different.

I was only a little bit uncharitable when Fev kicked five in the last quarter-and-a-bit to beat the Dogs in round 17, but I promise I said sorry.

And I didn't laugh at all when he got stranded on 99 goals — not like some people I could name — except I've been trying not to dob.

Just like I've tried not to be mean-spirited. I was happy for the Hawks, really and truly I was.

By the time I write to you next year I might even have come up with a reason why.

And since the grand final finished more than two months ago, I've tried to be more generous and open to sharing, to believe there might be room in our little lives for more than just the one sport that we waffle on about and analyse and ponder all year round, even though the bit that matters only makes up half the year.

I've tried to see that maybe other games could get a look-in sometimes too — after we've learned which sock Jack Watts puts on first, of course.

I've tried not to be greedy, to see that maybe we don't need to play on Monday nights, and instead could be at home in front of the telly, or even talking to the missus and kids.

And I've tried to imagine what it would be like if we didn't go searching for athletes from Ireland and Africa and Asia to turn into footballers, just so we can claim to be a truly world game.

To believe that it's OK just to be our game, and that if we looked a bit harder, we might even find there's a few African and Asian kids already living here who might feel more at home if they were asked along for a kick too.

And speaking of Ireland, I've tried not to tell any fibs, not like whoever was counting the crowd at that funny game where they mix up the rules of two sports that are only played in their native countries, call it international rules and pretend it's our very own World Series, then carry on about what an honour it is to represent Australia.

And I don't think I've snarled at anyone, not like the international rules coach did when someone said perhaps it wasn't really that important, and the only people who'd miss it are the players and officials who get to drink Guinness by the Liffey every other year.

And I've tried not to be so easily led, Santa.

Tried not to believe that just because there were 352 mentions of the AFL national draft on TV or radio in the month before "the big day" (up from 238 last year, Santa, in case you're interested), that it doesn't mean the draft is bigger than Mumbai.

Tried to remind myself that everyone knew Jack Watts was going to be No. 1 anyway, just like nobody really knows if he'll bring salvation to the poor.

And I've tried to understand the power of forgiveness, the redemption that can come from offering a second chance.

I've been trying to believe that it's a good thing that footballers who crash their cars when they're driving drunk or go hooning around with murderers or shag their teammates' wives are given another go, but if you're a drug addict you get cast out to sea.

I've tried so hard Santa, that it's still 113 sleeps until the next game and I'm feeling tired already.

Please Santa, I know it's a big ask, but all I want for Christmas is a day with no footy.

Yours, Peter