A lone figure strides along a dark blue running track underneath forlorn Manchester skies. The clouds are thick enough to make the Beautiful South swoon and a cotton vest damp in a glance. The half-prised tuna can of the Etihad Stadium lurks in the background. A couple of weary floodlights strain against the gloom, the only things to break through the greyness of the scene the luminous orange trainers and bright blue knee socks sported by the solitary runner. “First track session of the year,” goes the caption. Richard Hawley croons in the background: “Love you and never be old, then we feel the hope … you leave your body behind you.” It’s a pointed choice of tune.
On the other side of the globe, another figure – shorter, stockier, clad in creamy white – is slowly walking off the sun-soaked turf at the Sydney Cricket Ground. Kissing the badge on his green helmet and holding his arms outstretched like a milkmaid’s shoulder yoke. He soaks up the applause from thousands of spectators, including family and friends, who have risen to him inside the stadium.
