A few weeks later, I actually met Richo. He had just missed a match through a fractured cheekbone and the right side of his face was puffed up, literally, like a football and tinged the colour of a plum. He had the genial manner of the much older man he would shortly become and, looking at me through one bloodied eye, said he would have played that day had the swelling in his face gone down. I thought he was joking but then realised he was serious.. That's why the Tiger fans loved Richo. He was so transparently human, a walking barometer of the difference between what we are and what we could be. In Richo's case the needle fluctuated between triumph and disaster with not much in between but in spite of everything, the wild inconsistency, the broken bones, the smartarses like me, Richo kept coming back. He was a man for the times, a hero even. Go Richo! Go Tigers!