The Squad

Nine fingers. Ten gloves. Yet to come for a cross he wasn't entitled to. The tenth digit is a story for the post-match.

Walks out looking like he's been left in the garage too long. Five minutes in he's beaten his man, won the header, and is already shouting at the bench. The stiffness, it turns out, is cosmetic.

Bites at every tackle. Chews nothing. The two are not unrelated.

Stands so still in the box opponents have asked if he's hurt. He's not. He's just thinking.

Will block the shot, the rebound, and the rebound's rebound. Won't always be his keeper's idea.

Slide-tackles in conditions where slide-tackling should be illegal. Wet grass. Wet socks. Wet eyes.

Means well in every challenge. Has twice apologised mid-tackle.

Another smartass chippy on the books — two now, one chant book between them. Quotes you for a deck, then hangs a left-foot ball on a sixpence and quotes you again for the fence. Cultured wand wrapped in sawdust.

Box-to-box at twice the speed of anyone watching. Including the ref.

Plays the half-spaces because the diagram told him to. Reads tactics PDFs in the carpark.

Buries oppositions where they stand. Six feet, studs-down, marked with the names of the strikers he's sent home early.

Long-range shooter. Hits the target occasionally. Hits a parked car biennially.

Insists football was better in the 90s. He'd know — he was watching it on a 14-inch.

Came up through Danish youth football. Now plays Sunday fives with the same intensity.

Quietest player in the squad — until somebody passes square. Then it's a podcast.

Doubles as the coach. Won't tell you what he saw on the team-talk because he was the team-talk.

Smartass chippy with a one-liner for every situation, half of them actually funny. The other half land on Friday after a couple of beers anyway.

Nine on the back. Nine on the menu. Yet to score with anything other than his shoulder.

The other Bullock. Faster, lighter, quieter. Brothers don't pass to each other on principle.

Loves delegating and a good pep talk. Edits the match replay between mouthfuls of dinner. Would die for Caloundra United. Lynne — Club Secretary — is his most-dialled number.

Files the incident reports, drags the kit bag, books the pitches, chases the subs, ferries the cones. Title says Manager; the job is everything nobody else wants to do.

Pre-game playlist, post-game speeches, the chant book. We don't have a chant book; he's writing it.

Films the matches he's also playing in. Yet to drop the camera. Yet to drop a pass either.