Asked if he could win, Griffin had answered conclusively: Yes. No doubt in his mind, no uncertain scribbles in his journals, no shimmers in his visualisations.

It could just be my state of mind, but I can’t remember a less anticipated finals day.

A lacklustre forecast, stretched out til the very last day of the waiting period. The prospect of watching thoroughbreds masticate absentmindedly in an overgrown field.

Regardless, Paul Evans carried the commentary with the tone of man compering the local fete. Admirably upbeat, at least. Kaipo, graciously, appeared to have gone home. (And where exactly is Jesse Miley-Dyer?)

But I could find little joy in watching favourites canter to a finish.

I had no bets withstanding on finals day, and even less hope.

It’s a headstate poisoned by years of betting on sport. The two things are intrinsically and forever linked.

Yes, as I said in an earlier report, you could win your life’s fortune with a few lucky choices.

Or you could watch it ebb away day by day. The weight of loss holding you down, like a giant hand pressing your face into the cold, stony earth. Stay down, a voice says. An alien utterance of your own being. Stay down where you belong and watch life trample by around you.

But you only lose when you stop playing.

If we can take lessons from the finalists in Portugal today, it’s that you play your own game. And you keep playing, despite outside influences.

Ethan Ewing continues to play his own game, steadfastly refusing to compromise the purity of his lines and rails. It must take some degree of fortitude, to stick to what you do best against surfers with more in their repertoire.

Ewing is as technically gifted a surfer as they come. You’d think he has the capacity to introduce more aerial surfing to his game. But then, why would he? Especially when his surfing is endlessly validated by judges and pundits alike.

But it wasn’t enough against Griffin Colapinto in the final. Lefts were better than rights, and waves on the whole were not conducive to Ewing’s major skillset.

And in truth, Griffin Colapinto didn’t look like losing either his semi-final against Medina or the final against Ewing.

It was the kind of run we’ve seen Griffin Colapinto on before. The kind where he is entirely in his own zone, seemingly impermeable to pressure.

Against Medina, who had been one of the form surfers of the event, Colapinto controlled the heat early and throughout. Both surfers opened with high sevens that they would keep in their final tally, but Colapinto backed up quicker, then bettered it again.

Medina likes to control heats. When he loses, it’s inevitably when his opponent scores early.

But Griffin Colapinto’s rhythm was relentless, and in this the best opportunities came to him.

Griffin’s best waves came late in the final, an 8.27 immediately backed up by a 9.67 for one of the few deep barrels of the whole event. But he’d already won, and the scores he threw away would’ve been enough to take the victory.

The barrel Griffin Colapinto got seemed to materialise from thin air. There were few if any waves all day that would’ve offered such an opportunity.

And it was a situation unique to the sport of surfing, where a wave meets a man who is not only ready for it, but has been expecting it.

Asked earlier in the event if he could win, Griffin had answered conclusively: Yes.

There was no doubt in his mind, no uncertain scribbles in his journals, no shimmers in his visualisations.

Play your own game. Block out the noise. Wear an eye mask if you must.

And when the fire is burning, throw another log on and watch it burn stronger, so Colapinto said in his post victory interview.

All easier said than done, of course.

And it’s curious that this approach seems to work in surfing. It works for Colapinto, it works for Jack Robinson, and it’s worked for others who’ve perhaps been less vocal about their methods.

Curious because so much comes down to chance in surfing. So much comes down to the sheer luck of being in the right place at the right time, on the best waves.

But Griffin Colapinto’s evolution from home-schooled simpleton to spiritual guru and harnesser of mystical energies should be studied.

“I felt like I tapped into the source on that one,” he said of his barrel from the final. It sounded corny, but somehow I believed him.

I could do with something to believe in right now. I’m sure lots of us could. Some of Griffin’s energy, for focus, for luck, for transcendence.

I’d take anything.

I keep thinking about writing a redemption story.

That’s the unique insidiousness of this habit, you’re always on the cusp of being free.

I keep imagining a big win, quitting on the spot, then telling everyone properly about where I’ve been and what it’s been like. I can’t face it right now, can’t face the sordid details, because I’m still not ready to have lost.

After all, you only lose when you stop playing.