“Life is like a football; you never know which way it’s going to bounce.”

Those words were penned by my friend Tyson in a poem he wrote in grade seven—long before the film Forrest Gump hit the cinemas and just a few months before his tragic death.

I played Aussie Rules; Tyson played rugby league—but we both loved cricket. And as it was for most kids our age growing up in Australia, sport occupied a massive part of our lives.

Just like the bounce of a football in his poem, Tyson was always full of surprises. There was this one time when I was invited to his home for his 11th birthday party, only to discover he was also an incredible artist. Despite being really good at everything he did, nothing came easy for Tyson. His hands would constantly shake as though he had sculled a litre of RedBull, and it always seemed more pronounced whenever he was holding a pencil or paintbrush.

He was a miracle baby, born with a hole in his heart, and by the time we met in grade five, he’d already had numerous heart surgeries. His heart had endured so much trauma, the doctors had warned his parents that he would never be strong enough to play sports, let alone beat an entire grade of healthy boys, in the 800m final.

But it was that courageous heart of his that made Tyson so special. He was a warrior with a smile so big you just knew he had no enemies even though he was a ferocious competitor.

Then suddenly, on just another ordinary Friday afternoon, Tyson’s life took a cruel and fatal bounce. One minute he was running and laughing with his mates after school; the next, he was hit by a speeding car. The impact was so severe that he died instantly—gone.

Though I wasn’t there when his lifeless body was wheeled unceremoniously into the back of an ambulance, I’ll never forget witnessing an entire gymnasium packed with family, friends, and classmates mourning, remembering, and celebrating an extraordinary boy—my rival and friend.

I was only 12 years old when Tyson died. I’ve lost a few close friends over the years, but that was the first time I felt that kind of devastating pain—loss.

Of all things, it was footy and the indiscriminate bounce of an oval-shaped ball that had taught Tyson to accept, navigate and overcome the unpredictable nature of his brief remarkable life.

And ever since then, each time I would step onto a field to play—or watch my kids play, now that my competitive footy days are long gone—I am reminded of one of life’s great lessons and my friend, Tyson.

So—for those of you who might be feeling a little battered and bruised by life and all its cruel bounces and perceived failures, allow me to encourage you today and remind you of this simple, yet profound truth…

Never forget that what really matters in life is the courage to be in the fight; and that win, lose, or draw—you can say you left it all on the field. And when the crowds and the commentators call out and complain as they spectate safely from the sidelines, you can hold your head up high knowing that the evidence of real success and a life worth living can only be found when you fail trying. And I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather fail trying than fail watching—regardless of which way the footy bounces.