My bizarre Josh Schmiedel encounter: 'You ready for it?'

"Sorry for running late," he says, sitting down opposite me. His short brown hair is shaved to the scalp at the sides, and his short thick beard is well-groomed. He continues: "I got caught up at the butcher's. Brock Wadwell was punchin' the sh*t out of a cow carcass in the meat freezer. He's started pre-season training early."

"Seriously?" I say.

"Yeah. He read recently - I think you wrote the article - that Liam Ball wants the Bears' No. 9 jersey next year, after Blanchy retired. But Brock wants it too. You should've seen him. His hands were strapped and bloody, and steam was comin' from his mouth 'cause it was freezing, and he was pounding that poor dead animal like it was his worst enemy. He's pretty old, Brock is, but I reckon Bally's got some stiff competition."

"Sounds like it," I say.

A dark-haired hipster waitress arrives to take Schmiedel's order. "Flat white," he replies, then leans forward - his thick, tattoo-covered forearms splayed in front of him. "So, what's up?" he says.

"I read -"

"Before we start, I hope you don't wanna do one of your relationship stories. We can end this right now if that's the case."

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"No, mate, it isn't one of them. I texted you because I read an article this week in which you said 2024 was definitely your last season. The thing is, you seem to say that every year, at least since you lobbed back in town a few years ago."

"Mate, you should do your research. A couple of times I said a coming season may be my last. Actually, I said that last season would probably be my final one. But this is the first time I've said it will definitely be my swansong."

I sip coffee. "So, no more footy after next season? Finito, for real?"

"Yes," the 37-year-old replies, then grimaces while rotating his shoulder. "Mate, the body's a wreck. I'm literally falling apart."

"So why play on?"

"Because my old man said he retired too early. It's his biggest regret."

"Retired too early?! He was 50 when he hung up the boots, wasn't he?"

"Yeah."

The waitress returns with his coffee. She places it in front of him and says: "Excuse me, do I know you from somewhere?" She peers at him. "Holy sh*t! You're Buck from Love Island, right?"

"Nah, mate. I'm Josh, son of Mick."

She notes him suspiciously.

"Hey, Jules," a young waitress hollers at her hipster colleague. "You've gotta see this. Some old dude is chasing a chicken down Peel Street. Hurry up!"

I shake my head slowly and think: "Punching a cow carcass. Chasing a chicken. You're not in Kansas any more, Mark."

"Chasing a chicken, hmm?" Schmiedel says to himself. He cocks his head, seemingly in thought, then punches his palm. "F*** yeah! That's the edge I need." He eyes me intently. "I've got a scoop for ya, Bode. You ready for it?"

"I'm all ears, mate."

"Here's the headline. 'Schmiedel shelves retirement talk: plans to play until he's 44'." He leaps to his feet.

"Where're ya going?"

"To chase that chicken," he replies, then sprints off.

"Go hard, Buck!" the hipster waitress yells as he powers past her.