Words on the death of Trevor Hopf. Advocate. Footballer. Father. Drinker.

On Wednesday night, after a call from a friend, I found well-known advocate at the Pretoria Bar Trevor Hopf, 62, dead in his home in Elardus Park, where he lived alone. A former CBC scholar, Trevor was a free-scoring amateur footballer and the life and soul of many gatherings at Tom's Tavern, a haunt for old footballers in the area.

Hopf, skipf, jumpf

Rest in peace Trevor

You won at the death

Imprinted that picture

With your very last breath

And you went as you said

Marooned in your fate

Alone with your pain

No last message of hate

Was there one last drink

As you started to sink?

For those 62 years

With a brain too quick

Drowned your fears;

Got about on a stick

Laid low by disease

You struggled to walk

Got back on your feet

But you could always talk

God handed you curses

Wine, women and wrong,

Like sharp bible verses

Still you were strong

Three wives, three kids

And great days in court

But it all hit the skids

Just as you thought

Slash your way out?

Even that wouldn’t do

But you never did doubt

Death was coming for you

We all knew Trevor

Was nobody’s fool

Ever so clever

Broke every rule

But life laid him low

It’s true, it ain’t fair

As he limped on

And still tried to care

And for all the bile

As he came to the end

Let me put this on file:

He was nearly my friend