An old man who should know better runs through the drizzle. In his wrong season sunhat and his non-lycra, he’s an odd-looking figure, a lulu and a lemon. Walking toward him is a taller man, perhaps half his age. The man is well built, his face dark. At the sight of the quaint old man, that face breaks into a smile.

 

This happens quite often to the older man, younger people smiling at him when he runs. Nowadays the run is more a shuffle, the limbs jerking and creaking arthritically. The smiles signal a sort of surprised admiration, with a bit of amusement, a touch of sympathy for something at once pathetic and brave.

The smiles always warm him.

 

Today there’s all of that, but something more. The smiling face looks familiar. The runner stops and turns and calls a name. Nicky! The smiler turns and walks back to the old man. He smiles again.

 

Nicky? Nicky Winmar?

Yeah. That’s me.

Nicky, I saw you on the cooking show. 

I want to say something to you. You changed Australia – that day at Victoria Park. I’m a Collingwood supporter and I was ashamed that day. You pulled up your shirt and you showed yourself and we started to learn. You helped Australia to change.

 

The tall man’s smile deepens, goes inward inward. He steps forward and throws his arms around the older man and pulls him close and holds him. The men unclinch. The black man extends a hand to the old bloke. The grip is firm,the clasp is warm. The smile has widened. They shake and part.

 

And I run on through the light rain.