I ALWAYS thought NRL grand final day was about enjoyment.

So you can imagine how surprised I was to find myself a quivering wreck in the hours before the kick-off to Sunday night's game.

Nervous walks around the bowels of ANZ Stadium, dispensing high fives to red and green clad kids and thinly-veiled scowls to their blue and white counterparts, did little to sedate the butterflies in my belly.

What was going on?

I'd seen all the great grand final moments of my time. Darren Albert's dramatic match winner in 1997, Scott Sattler's desperate dive in 2003, Steve Menzies's fitting farewell in 2008.

Great moments, great days. Something was different.

The truth was hitting home like a Greg Inglis fend: you've never really lived a grand final until your own team is playing.

A crowd of 83,833 South Sydney Rabbitohs and Canterbury Bankstown Bulldogs fans crammed into the Olympic stadium hoping their pre-game nerves would be replaced by post-game elation.

Happily, after an engrossing 80 minutes of football, I was one of the lucky ones.

A couple of entertaining lower grade games provided credible distraction in the early afternoon, but as the fans flooded in and the setting sun blinded those in the eastern stands, there was an undeniable sense of impatience in the aisles.

Flags waving, chants booming, nails chewed to the point of non-existence.

Ready and waiting.

Not even the spectacle of Train frontman Patrick Monahan struggling to remember the words to his own songs could dampen the sense of anticipation, although former Guns 'N Roses guitarist Slash playing 20 seconds of the iconic riff from Sweet Child of Mine before abruptly stopping came close.

"Do you know these songs?", asked an older man of close acquaintance.

I nodded.

"OK."

He just wanted to watch some footy. So did I.

When it eventually started the game itself failed to reach any great heights as a rugby league spectacle. Rare pockets of footballing brilliance drew surprised roars from the crowd, but the brutal physicality of the battle, especially in the centre of the park, was what kept the fans on the edge of their seats.

Television can not do justice to the sheer power of a George Burgess hit-up or the (mostly) legal impact of a James Graham tackle. These guys are immense athletes and it was a privilege to see them at close quarters.

On one of Australian sport's grandest stages it was an Englishman who stood tallest. Sam Burgess's effort of playing almost the entire game with a fractured cheekbone has well and truly secured his place in rugby league folklore.

Dally Ms be damned; through these biased eyes he was easily the competition's best player in 2014 and richly deserved Sunday's accolades.

Medals, trophy, lap of honour; the Rabbitohs faithful roared their approval. "Glory, glory to South Sydney ..." To Bulldogs fans every note must have felt like another drop of Chinese water torture.

Outside the stadium trains departed every 90 seconds, transporting fans to Redfern's celebrations or Belmore's commiserations.

Somewhere inside Russell Crowe was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Bring on 2015. I smell a dynasty.