All the time he’s ripping open

motel room coffee sachets

and cajoling stubborn kettles

into ensuite sinks

and each time he pays double

tournament rates

for a room in Bathurst

and through all the hours

driving tolled ringroads

with a sunrise-sullen

ear-budded passenger

and throughout the pre-season

10-nil thumping

from the leggy assassins

who play one division up

and even as he’s massaging

a budget overstretched

to the development tour

two weeks in Spain

and each time he’s harassed

by silence on the sidelines signs

or hobbled by pre-season

signed undertakings

of parental non-interference

designed to discomfort

him leaning over

advert-plastered hoardings

to deliver the individualised

second-half game plan

there’s always this feeling

he’s looking down a tunnel

to a post-match interview

with someone else’s daughter

expressing gratitude

for her parents’ years of sacrifice.