For Max

Max Rooke, one of Yellowleaf's most beloved players is retiring. It is a sad thing when our favourites retire (hope mine are years and years away from it!). So I've written something for Yellowleaf to make things (hopefully) easier.

He never thought it'd end this way. But maybe if he allowed himself to be realistic, he should have known it would. That the way he played was not sustainable. Injury would have eventually taken him out. And now it had.
He wished he'd had more time. He wished he could play that one last game. But maybe it was better this way. Because he knew he would have cried. And what sort of a tough man cried infront of people?
He knew it hadn't fully hit him yet. It would, next year. When the new season started. When he would be on the sidelines watching the boys play. This year there was always hope. His knee could have come good. All that money spent on the specialist knee surgeon in Europe could have been worth it. But it didn't and it wasn't.
And now here he was. A retired player. He knew he'd had a better run of it than most. He was a premiership player. And he'd got to play with his friends. His best friends. He wouldn't lose any of them. They'd always be friends. The bonds they shared couldn't break so easily.
He owed so much to this game. To this club. For believing in him. For everything he'd achieved. For Joel. If nothing else, he'd always be grateful for Joel. He knew Joel was hurting. Joel probably found this harder to accept than he did. They'd get through it though.
This was the fate of all who played their great game. No one can play forever and it all comes to an end sooner or later.
This was his time. He wasn't angry or bitter. He'd miss it desperately but he wouldn't fight the inevitable. So this was goodbye.
Now for the rest of his life.