Release me.

I was standing in the lounge room of the house I grew up in as a kid. In the corner, my Dad lay dead, in his coffin. We were to bury him today.

It was June of 1995, I was 18 then, he had died of a heart attack, his third. He was 44.

He was a man that lived life, hard. He, as many do in the country, drank, smoked, and laboured, in his case, at the local power station. He was also a supremely talented sportsman, more so a footballer. So the fable goes, the most talented full forward to come out of the Spencer Gulf. In a small country town, my Dad, they all called "Wigg", was a legend.

My Mum and Dad had divorced, when I was nine. Myself and my older brother had moved to Adelaide with Mum, what would prove to be a prosperous move for us all, at the time though, it made no sense.

Whilst it is not a day I will forget, I remember a few things about it, vividly.

We woke up early and drove to Port Augusta, I wanted to arrive early, as we had an opportunity to see him, before the procession for the burial. It was a clear day, but it was still cold. The heater was on in the house, it was a kerosene heater. That is vivid memory #1, any time I smell burning kero, I gag.

Dad was still very involved with footy. He had also been a successful senior coach, but had recently taken to coaching the under 14's. He and his mate, having fun teaching the youngsters, they loved it. He was taking them on a warm up lap, jogging and bouncing the ball around the oval he made his own, when he collapsed. By the time the ambulance had arrived, he was pronounced dead.

I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears and walked slowly across the room. I was petrified. Without a doubt, walking across that room, and looking into the coffin, has been the single hardest thing I have had to do in my life.

He looked peaceful. Strong. Well groomed, and masked with a slight smirk, he was famous for it. I cried, a lot. It took me some time until I could talk to him, I gathered myself and whispered a few things. I told him that I loved him, that I would miss him, and that I would go on to be a man he would be proud of. As I spoke to him, I tucked a gold medal in his top pocket, right above his failed heart. It may have stopped beating, but it was golden, to the core.

He must have fallen hard when he collapsed, there was a mark still visible under his eye. They had used make up to cover it, that is vivid memory #2. The smell of that makeup. I have only smelt it once since that day, it gave me chills, and I am sure the person wearing knew it, it was impossible to hide.

I guess I must have been going through a Pearl Jam phase at the time, as TEN was the album I decided to play on the final drive in to Port Augusta. The CD was on random, and as we were entering the city limits, and went past the cemetery, Release came on. All other songs had been played, this was the last one. Coincidence, most likely, but it sure was eery. I had played this song the night he died, I light a candle, sat there and watched it as this song played. That is vivid memory #3.

There are many other things about that day I remember and recall, frequently. The overweight funeral director whose tie wasn't even half way down his shirt front, the guard of honour his under 14's team made as we entered the cemetery, the amazing amount of people who turned up to pay their respects, and the love and adoration one man had, from far and wide. We shared beers, tears and laughs with many of them that night.

One of his good mates said to me as we left to drive back to Adelaide, "Son, if you turn out to be half the man your father was, you will be a fine individual."

Well Dad, I'm still trying.

Release me.