On Lance Franklin’s right forearm, you’ll find a tattooed portrait of his mum, Ursula. Just below the shoulder, his dad, Lance Sr. The artwork provides a rare glimpse into the soul of football’s private superstar. Buddy was born into football royalty – Ursula, a Whadjuk-Noongar woman, is a Kickett.

An exceptionally talented footballing family, the Kicketts exhilarated crowds across the country. According to Franklin’s uncle, Larry Kickett, Noongar footballers’ success is built on 50,000 years of life, culture and work: “It’s not too hard for us to pick up a football and kick the thing.” Noongar players make up one-third of the AFL’s Indigenous athletes.

When Franklin was a boy, his family moved from Perth to a property near the tiny Western Australian wheatbelt town of Dowerin, and a whole new life began. This is where the unbreakable family ties he holds so dear were formed.

When you speak with Franklin, you receive softly spoken, thoughtful words delivered with humility and respect. I first spoke with him during Covid lockdown in 2020: he answered my questions politely but seemed more interested in asking me about my life and my family.

Just weeks later, the Sydney Swans left earlier than expected for the AFL’s Queensland quarantine hub, destined for an eight-week road trip. Franklin and wife Jesinta’s daughter, Tallulah, was just five months old. Reluctantly, her dad departed, packing a selection of her favourite picture books for nightly Facetime reading.

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This week, Franklin retired as one of Australian rules football’s all-time greats. The truth is, we’ll never see another like him.

Sport has always been his lifeblood. Long after his sisters had tired of his boundless energy, Franklin, unperturbed by the outback heat, spent hours taking aim at goalposts painted on the farm’s shearing sheds.

That dedication allowed the notoriously shy Franklin to view himself as a footballer through a lens of uncharacteristic confidence. Through means only Franklin himself could understand, he cultivated such powerful self-belief that, combined with his unrelenting drive and undoubted skill, he created the sport’s supernova.

American psychiatrist Phil Stutz believes creating such inner authority is due to connecting with a higher force – self-expression. He says you only need to watch kids playing to see how they express themselves freely and exuberantly. And when it finds us as adults, it drives us to reveal ourselves in the most truthful, genuine way, allowing us to perform with unusual intensity and clarity.

That’s precisely how Franklin played footy; people have always enjoyed the show – even his teammates. “There were many games when he won the game off his own boot, and at times you found yourself watching on as a playing spectator, just watching him do his thing,” former West Coast player Josh Kennedy said.

Franklin has been described this week as “the aesthetic ideal of modern footy”. It’s hard to argue with that when you consider his electric left boot and herculean physique, which somehow travelled with the precision and velocity of a Formula One car. That intoxicating mix precipitated one of Australian sport’s greatest coups. When Franklin approached the Sydney Swans about a possible switch from Hawthorn in 2013, his motives were twofold.

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He wanted to move for love. Jesinta lived in Sydney, and he wanted to join her. “I knew as soon as I met her that I wanted to marry her,” he told Marie Claire magazine. He also wanted success. The Swans usurped crosstown rivals, the Greater Western Sydney Giants, to secure his signature with a $10m contract. I once asked Franklin what he liked most about playing on the hallowed turf of the SCG. “Winning,” he said.

The extent to which the city embraced him is encapsulated in every morsel of footage from the night he became the sixth player in history to kick 1,000 goals. Virtually swallowed by thousands of phone-wielding fans, the moment he triumphantly emerged, arm raised and beaming, is an image of iconic authenticity.

He played for the joy until the very end. “We always want to go out there, play the best football we can and make our supporters happy. We want to put a smile on their faces,” Franklin told me. He certainly did. Hawks fans will recount with delight his superhuman feats of 2008, while Swans fans marvel at their once-in-a-generation gem, appreciating the privileged position of weekly viewings.

The game now needs time to process the enormity of his impact. I suspect the Franklins do too. Then, indulge yourself. Sift through this remarkable career – it’s a manifesto for pure sporting entertainment.