Buddy, I’m no footy expert, but I think you did your self in on Friday night.
I watched you on the TV from the comfort of my loungeroom.
You exuded a bustling, bubbling and effervescent energy from the time you planted your long, scarlet banded legs upon the verdant, and, as some say, slippery turf of the SCG.
Your zap was put to superb use for a good while, drowning your opponent in a sparkling spray of feistiness, angst and domination.
In one wave after another, like the Bondi surf, you kept rolling through.
In one contest after another, you reigned supreme.
Red and white was all I could see. Scarlet blazes, bleeding bright with redness across my screen; whiteness, crisp and sharp.
Buddy, I saw you fly.
I saw you lift, all legs and torso, twisting, reaching and lunging towards the ball. The ball was yours. You knew it. I know it.
I was nestled into the fireside end of the lounge suite, so I had an experts view.
What came over you Buddy? At the last moment, you changed your tack. Your shoulder, instead of steering the great ship of your body into the mark, it turned and pointed to another direction.
Your intention shifted its focus from the ball to the player. Your shoulder rose, pummelling your opponents head, flicking it towards the dirt; his arms tangling as his torso lost shape and flopped, heavily to the ground.
You made high contact.
The ball swung to the side as you landed on top of your man.
After that you seemed to have been done; flattened and spent.
The scarlet blazes and bleeding redness that had splashed across my screen earlier, faded to watery, rose-pink dribbles. The crisp, sharp whiteness turned sallow; becoming limp and turning to a flat, muted grey.
Friday night Fizz.
Buddy….was that all you had?