Although it comes with far more bells, whistles and dollar bills than in past generations, Australian Rules Football – at its beating heart – is still a game.

In the 168 years since scholars from Scotch College and Melbourne Grammar first kicked a spherical ball on a playing field a stones throw from the MCG; the goal of the game remains the same - the team with the most through the posts is able to boast.

The aims of those that have entered the arena across this sesquicentenary and change have not been amended either, with the select few that have been deemed worthy of lacing studded boots all doing so whilst holding dreams of skippering their sides and exiting the game atop their teammate's shoulders with a metallic challis in their hands.

Still, as it has tended to do on a global scale these days, reality can often bite harder than first anticipated and even the best laid plans are prone to being scuppered.

According to research conducted by a trio of academics just after the turn of the millennium, the average career span of an AFL footballer stands at just 30 games.

Despite entering the doors of the SCG as the brother of a Swans great and the son of Rugby League royalty, this mean was nigh on met by Brandon Jack, with his days in boots ending after 28 senior appearances.

In this current age where ex-players seem fit to speak in unfairly disparaging terms about their supposed inabilities during the days when numbers adorned their backs, Jack has produced a book that chronicles the collective tale of those that enter the game with bright eyes and often depart with a jaded soul.

The former Swan's unflinchingly frank tome is the proverbial breath of fresh air that was desperately needed to penetrate the throng of ill-fitting bashes and the ever-present bravado that is seemingly welded to the game and the people who play it.

Even though it could be argued that the typical tale of football's everyman has now been told, this brilliantly segmented body of work cannot be confined by a painted white line.

While the 27-year-old's endeavour does provide a rare and brutally honest window into the world of someone desperate to be seen as wheat rather than chaff within the four walls of a football club, readers that have hung on Jack's prose before closing the book's back cover will know that his efforts are not entirely dedicated to talking about the oval ball code.

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Irrespective of the fact that football and the experiences thatched through it are at the literal and metaphorical heart of the New South Welshman's written work, it is the lessons that were learnt through alcohol fuelled trial and error that emanate as the most significant contributions that this groundbreaking labour offers society as a whole.

Across his opus, Jack tells the familiar tale of a kid who dreamed big until the throws of reality extinguished them. Even though this is usually a narrative that ends in tears, those that have consumed his plot into the present will understand that the footballer-come-musician's memoir ends on a profound note of hope instead.

Unlike the numerous ex-athletes that have molded externally unfazed personalities to protect themselves from the unsorted trauma of their snuffed faiths, Jack moves in a contrary direction by explaining how he eventually found solace in the fact that despite his best efforts, a cluttered mantle of trophies and rewards was not what had unfolded in actuality.

Notwithstanding the time, and toll, it took to reach this acceptance, it is the bohemian's raw and unconventional honesty that allows readers to see beyond the guernsey and into the human who owned it.

Even if football is not your go, Jack's ability to understand the individual space he occupies, as well as those of other straight, white, cisgender, millennial males is a refreshing revelation from a contemporary human that once made their living between sets of goalposts.

Even though there is plenty of evidence of this across the near 300 pages produced, this  thought cemented itself in my mind when the former small-forward added weight to one of his many completed thoughts by quoting literary behemoth Susan Sontag – something you are unlikely to receive from anyone else that is familiar with the smell of liniment.

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA - DECEMBER 05: Brandon Jack runs during a Sydney Swans AFL pre-season training session at Lakeside Oval on December 5, 2016 in Sydney, Australia. (Photo by Mark Metcalfe/Getty Images)

With the front cover of his paperback shows a half-naked Jack staring at potential readers, those that are yet to take the time to pour through Jack's words should know that this is exactly what the book offers – a nudity unlike any other memoir penned (or ghostwritten) by a footballer. The newcomer to bookshelves provides prose that is simple to devour, yet remains rife with allegory and subtle connections that force vivid imagery to rise for consumers of all creeds.

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Although the tapestry of vignettes involving modern mateship, toxic downfalls and an infamous visit to Sydney's red-light district is one that would have captured imaginations even if it had come from a poorer pen, it is Jack's use of his fearless voice and his honed writerly devices that allows readers an unimpeded ability to indulge on a chronicled work that shines so bright it requires Ray-Bans.

If this is what is on offer first up, then there are certain to be plenty more banners to tear, goals to kick and cups to claim, in a literary sense.

Put simply, this clean recount of an at times sordid story is akin to a footballer kicking five and collecting 30 on debut.

As someone that shares an age with the title of the manuscript currently under the microscope, I felt seen by many of Jack's experiences as I tore through his pages. Irrespective of the fact that the last time I pulled on a jumper was over a decade ago, the pressures, the lows, the biting of the bit and the inability to have a quiet drink were feelings and misfortunes that I have often felt were mine and mine alone.

Thankfully for myself, an estranged relationship with ones parents is not something that rings true, but due to the pain that it obviously caused him to pen this disintegration, a retooled empathy for Jack, as well as anyone that shares his truth, is now a part of my arsenal.

It is conventional practice when reviewing an author's work to best find a place for it on a bookshelf. However, I am torn.

Jack's insightful use of his playing day diaries to paint a scene of a young athlete on the fringe should logically have it aside my copy of Andre Agassi's ‘Open' and other kindred tomes, but as the winter game does not consume the sum total of what is told, it currently resides between my sporting and non-sporting stacks.

Due to the trailblazing nature of attaching a human element to an at times brutal industry, the best descriptor I can find is that the book reads as though it was assembled by a Sherrin fluent Patti Smith.

In spite of the fact that his highs were not as high as he would have liked – unless of course we are discussing some of his extra-mural activities - Jacks' journey from Pennant Hills to the SCG and then into the alternative abyss of the harbour city has seen him travel further than many that have earned a crust dedicated to our game.

While his initial plans were rebuffed before being replaced along a different avenue of life, Jack's sage words from the lessons learnt in throwing himself whole heartedly at his goals should be chewed and consumed by folks from all walks and his understanding of what it means to be a contemporary man should be shouted from the top level of his old haunt, World Bar.

Football may not have provided Brandon Jack with a permanent contentedness, but having served us his soul after polishing the pride his efforts have rightfully yielded, we all wait with bated breath for what is next from this deep thinker and Aldi wine drinker.

You can purchase a copy of Brandon Jack's '28 - A Memoir of Football, Addiction, Art, Masculinity and Love' directly from publishers Allen & Unwin or at any good bookstore.