The footballers were staring down the face of finals elimination and the Saturday knock-out game was still an eternity away.

They were no longer rough, tough footballing gods that they were led to believe from the slick television ads that promoted them like so much available hot property.

Someone had forgotten to put a lid on the well-hung libidos of these prime ribs in a sexy meat market – especially when the after-game drinks, and whatever else was slipped their way, really kicked in.

Blokes who believe they were as peerless and fearless as the newspapers and the club’s own fan days told them they were, were now literally in the firing line and acting like scared little kids afraid to venture outside and face the real world.

They had gone clubbing for one post-game bonding session too many and it had all gone belly up with a bare flesh romp that was probably about to hit YouTube.

It would have been hilarious, they thought, if it had been someone else.

So what’s a young football star barely past the legal drinking age to do?

Nothing.

The team dynamic would take care of that.

Enter the senior role model (SRM) to have the pre-final pep talk with the troubled kid (TK) to try and get his mind right.

SRM: “Hey, stop moping about and get your chin up, you can’t let the side down … we’ll be counting on you out there when the big hits are on and there’s a game to be won.”

TK: “I thought we already had let the guys down. Getting caught out was just so stupid … not that we did anything really wrong. It seemed like we were doing her a favour. She seemed to really like us.”

SRM: “Of course she did. What’s not to like? You bench press well above your weight and you never dog it on your mates in the hard slog when the going gets hard. Chicks dig that in guys – they want it to rub off on them, whether they fully realise it or not. But let this be a lesson, kid, you’ve got to be a little discreet about things. The whole public toilet thing is asking for trouble. Just ask SBW.”

TK: “So what do we do now? There’s talk everywhere that our careers are through.”

SRM: “We do what we always do in these situations – one in all in, if you get my drift. We hang tough. We tell the media maggots nothing and we take them nowhere and pretty soon it will all blow over once it’s proven you guys have got no case to answer.”

TK: “But what about the fans? I sort of feel that we’ve let them down in some way.”

SRM: “Rubbish! I bet guys in every bar would like to be you, or be with you, when you’re blowing off steam after the big games and getting a bit of the action.

Except they’re too scared and untalented to be out there in the middle taking it back into a pack of animal forwards to get the good lookers.

What do you owe the fans who get drunk and want to take cheap shots at you at 2am in the morning when they’re full of false courage?

And as I said, the ladies seem to like you enough. Most I’ve seen you with can’t keep their hands to themselves. So what’s a guy to do with so much testosterone – it’s gotta come out somewhere.

Come on, I’ll take you to training via a back alleyway to avoid the stinking cameras. It’s us against the world now, kid, one for all and all for one towards finals glory.”

TK: “But what about the coach? He’d be dirty on us for sure.”

SRM: “He’s dirty alright, but the club needs this game so bad, they can almost taste the grand final. And you know what that means after we win...”

SRM and TK together: “Party time!

SRM: “And our favourite Police Minister is up for it!”