After the brutal tackle he’d struggled to his feet, dusting himself off.
He’d waved away the physio with the magic sponge, he was fine, really.
He’d shrugged at the manager, he didn’t need a substitution.
He’d even leaned in to the referee and asked him not to send the other guy off.
His captain patted him on the back, told him he was the good bloke he knew himself to be. The crowd? Simply ecstatic.
It’d all been brilliant, before he took the penalty, and missed.