There is one name right at the top of the list in the Manly max-fixing scandal, and that name is Kieran Foran.

Parramatta pretend that he has a shoulder injury that has ruled him out for the season, just as Foran himself only a few weeks before pretended that he was taking a leave of absence from footy for personal reasons.

Both stories are bullsh*t.

Foran has been tossed by the police, and faces imminent arrest. There are phone taps, documents and records, and surveillance videos that put him directly in the frame for selling out his mates and throwing games.

He’s f*cked, and so he should be, because a bloke who lets his mates down for thirty pieces of silver is nothing but a c*nt.

Imagine if you were in the trenches at Gallipoli, your mate had been taken captive by the Germans, and your number had been called to spring from the trenches and try to bring him back. The bloke next to you is going to run covering fire to give you an even money chance of bringing both your mate and yourself back alive.

Guts churning, you vault out of the trenches with legs like like steel springs, and as fast as a leopard you race across no man’s land, covering 20m in mere seconds. You’re halfway across and almost on the German side when a noise starts ringing in your head, and you stumble and turn. The sound that’s caused you to falter is silence. You are supposed to be hearing the rattle of guns. But there is nothing, a mere void, no sound, no bullets.

As you turn you there you see Keiran Foran, folding a wad full of deutschmarks and slipping them into his pocket as he ducks back under the parapet. You turn back to look at the Germans, or you try to at least, for you never make it. Your body is cut down by a hail of bullets, and you bleed to death alone, a thousand miles from home. You and the mate you were trying to save lie today in unmarked graves, only an empty white cross attesting to the fact that you ever existed at all.

That’s what Kieran Foran has done.

May God have mercy on his soul.