Mannah from heaven: Johnny's special gift Tim Mannah and his father share a smile as they pose with the Johnny Mannah Cup. JOHNNY Mannah left behind, among so many other things, a pile of handwritten notes. Thoughts scrawled in those final days when he was bedridden. Unable to eat. When even that famed physique of his had wilted, simply up and leaving him. "And having read those notes since," says older brother Danny, "you notice so many were about the need to stay positive. Johnny understood that, despite the media attention, he was just one of millions with cancer, and that a lot were suffering far greater than him. So he wrote about staying positive ... for them. Indeed, this is why we are here. Parramatta Eels co-captain Tim Mannah says it was special to receive the Johnny Mannah Cup following a 13-6 win over Cronulla Sharks. Why, right now, some 60 members of the Mannah clan are gathered in this private Parramatta Stadium suite - watching two footy teams battle for the most unlikely piece of silverware anywhere on the planet. "Yeah, we were only talking about that yesterday," younger brother Jamie grins. A prop whose career finished on 24 NRL games ... no one should even know who he is. But this, remember, is not a football story. No, this is about a Youth Ministry leader from Faith Baptist. About that mate who never stopped smiling. Tim Mannah with his father Fred and Brothers Danny and Jamie with the John Mannah Cup after the game. Picture: Tim Hunter A fella who, even the day after chemotherapy, went abseiling in the Blue Mountains, because, well, isn't that the attitude he preached to sick kids during who knows how many hospital visits? It's a yarn about the son of a Lebanese migrant; a roof tiler who will tonight require five minutes just to sit for dinner such is the back and knee pain he refuses to talk about. When you ask Fred Mannah to explain the toughness inherent in all his boys, he simply laughs: "Props breed props." Anything else? "No, their coach teaches football," he says. I teach my boys about the word of God ... that's the biggest thing I can give them. It's a humble faith, too. A quiet, unyielding belief that kept mum Abir at Johnny's bedside, both in hospital and home, for three months. A faith that in those final days saw Danny, knowing little brother's legs were shot, arrive at hospital every afternoon to help him walk one slow, agonising lap of the hospital ward. "Johnny even did it on the last afternoon of his life," Danny smiles. He was in so much pain but he still got up and shuffled himself slowly through a lap. And then, as we were finishing, he looked and me, smiled and said, 'C'mon, let's see if we can get around again'.