When his health began to improve last year, Aunt Moony had pushed him to enroll in classes at a nearby college. Still restless, he joined a recreational footy club. He loved being on the field, running, dodging, punting, catching, tackling. It was almost like flying, and the only time he didn’t second guess himself. After the first game, when he wrapped up a player twice his size and tackled him to the ground, they called him a "mad dog.’ Embarrassed by the praise, he joked, "I’m no Fluffy, the teacup terrier." Unfortunately, Fluffy had stuck. They made up a special kit with his number 7 and "Fluffy" emblazoned on the back. His teammates were arseholes, but they didn’t talk in hushed voices around him. For that, he would let them call him Fluffy. 