Then a big piece of turf knocked him arse over tit, and when he awoke in his hospital bed, and saw what it had done, christ, he wished he was dead. Never knew there were worse things than dying.
And as his plane flew into newcastle quay, he looked at the place where his knee used to be, and thanked christ there was nobody waiting for him, to grieve, and to mourn, and to pity.
And the band played waltzing matilda, as they carried him down the gangway. But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, then they turned their faces away.
And now every world cup, he sits on his porch, and watches the parade pass before him. He sees his old teamates, how proudly they march, reliving the dreams of past glories. He sees the old men, all twisted and torn, the forgotten heroes, of a forgotten tournament. And the young people ask "what are they marching for?" and he asks himself the same question.
H E L L O