Geelong could afford some profligacy, knowing by the first break that its dominance was told in a 10-2 ascendancy in scoring shots that would eventually translate to far more than the three straight kicks that separated the combatants on the scoreboard.

Steve Johnson was rampant at that point, doing as he pleased from a flank on Gilbert without hurting the Saints as he might have on days when his mind is fully engaged with the challenge. His output slowed, yet the cleverness of his kicking created several goals.

As ever, the Cats' rhythm came from their heart. Jimmy Bartel and Gary Ablett continued their game within the game, going kick for kick and handball for handball, one seeing the other's majestic deed and raising it with a minor football miracle.

Bartel took five marks, not an eyebrow-raising stat, yet four of them were contested, taken with the courage, positioning and clean hands of a bigger man. Ablett's third quarter, when he had 12 touches and did everything but sell pies in the Ponsford Stand, was the best work experience Robert Eddy will ever have.

In the voting for the Cats' best and fairest, Bartel might just have shaded him, but it would have been an exercise in splitting hairs. It would be no bad thing to see a Brownlow draped around both their necks in a fortnight.

A familiar cast of leather-loving mates such as Joel Corey, Darren Milburn and Cameron Ling ensured Geelong won its usual weight of possession, 72 more than the Saints, or nine Gwilts worth. They could afford to miss targets, knowing other chances would soon come.

St Kilda had no such luxury, and its mistakes might as well have been made with the rest of the ground shaded and a spotlight on their backs. Where the Cats moved the ball slickly through the middle, the Saints had Gilbert sabotaging a promising attack by kicking 10 metres straight to a Cat. Or Steven King kicking to a whole litter of them, leaving his teammates in red, white and black wondering if he was suffering from separation anxiety.

Or Jason Blake seeing Max Hudghton free upfield, and Brendan Goddard the next link in the chain, and kicking straight into his opponent's raised arm. Painful slip-ups that give a coaches and fans heartburn.

Route one to goal was through Riewoldt, and he got his hands to the ball many times in the first half. Yet he could never hang on, beaten by Harry Taylor's fist, a slippery Sherrin, or simple sloppiness.

He started the second half up on a wing, Goddard going forward as Ross Lyon tried to inject something, anything into the contest. There was a brief fillip, until Hudghton gifted Brad Ottens a goal, and Stephen Milne's stupidity made it a double when he bumped Johnson before the umpire had waved his flags.