‘We are the champions,’ we used to sing when Mike and I hung upside down like monkeys from branches of that oak tree along the lane. ‘We’ll always be champions, Damian,’ you’d tell me as our faces reddened the longer we hung there, not wanting to be the first one to give in.

Our rivalry, do you remember, was amicable? From Play Group, to primary school, we vied with one and other like amiable competitors. Then we went up to the comp. Different world for us, wasn’t it Mike? Minnows in a big pond where pike circled waiting for a chance to gobble us up.

We stood side by side, sticking up for one and other. Your antics and my straight man act had the class in stitches and, though we were skinny lads and couldn’t punch our way out of a paper bag, we became popular with the rest of our peers.

Sports day was another matter. On those occasions, we competed against one and other without mercy but, if either of us ended up the winner, our rivalry ended and we’d chant, ‘We are the champions.’

You and I made a lethal combination, do you recall, when playing for our local under 16’s football team? It was almost a telepathic experience between us. Each knew what the other was going to do next.

When we sat our final exams, both of us did okay. On your eighteenth birthday we went out to celebrate but, on that night, you were quiet and thoughtful. ‘We’re not kids anymore,’ you said, studying the frothy head of your pint.

‘No, Mike.’ I waited for a smile to break that solemn expression.

‘I’m not going to university,’ you said.

‘But we’d planned on going together,’ I replied. ‘Think of the girls we can chat up.’

You shook that mop of dark hair that, despite gel, refused to lie flat. ‘I’m joining up.’

Can you remember my expression because you suddenly grinned? ‘God Damian, you’d swear I’m telling you I’m bloody pregnant the way you’re looking at me.’

I didn’t find your banter funny. ‘Why?’

‘Need some excitement,’ you said. ‘University will suit you. You’re more academic than me.’

I got up and went to the bar for another two pints. Taking them back, I put yours down in front of you and, when you looked up, I swear I saw a hint of tears in your eyes.

‘We’ll still meet up,’ you said after gulping down half of your beer in one go. ‘Write. Text.’ You shrugged. ‘I’ve got a pressie for you.’ You ducked down, lifted up a sports bag and slid it across to me.

‘What’s in it?’ I asked, suspecting another one of your jokes like the time when you gave me a tin of sweets full of slugs on my eleventh birthday.

I unzipped the bag and inside was a rather deflated football, the one that we kicked around before going up to the comp. We wrote our names on it which you said at the time we would sell on eBay when we became world class players.

‘Make a fortune,’ you’d said as we sold pilfered orchard apples down the back lane.

So two years later, Mike, your mother is gazing at me. Then she gives me a small nod. Now I dribble the football towards you and it drops into that dark hole where your coffin lies and I tell you, ‘You are a real champion, Mike.’