ANTHONY Koutoufides' hips ached and so did his shoulders. His gait was stiff, his face unshaved, his eyes blank. He was making his way around the boundary line at Princes Park to the John Nicholls Room, to announce his retirement. A solemn entourage of board members, staff and coaches surrounded him.

On the ground, a dozen of Carlton's next generation skylarked, twirling footballs on their fingertips as Kouta once did, or else flicking them up with their feet, as Kouta probably never will again. Koutoufides glanced sideways, across the boundary line and across time.

"David Parkin used to tell me all the time, 'The pages of youth turn over very quickly'," he said. "I used to laugh at him when I was 19 and 20 and 21. But those words are ringing in my ears now."

The youthful Koutoufides was the image of an immortal. He was not so much built as sculpted, he was as light on his feet as the champion schoolboy hurdler he once was, he had abundant — if raw — football talent and he played for Carlton, then still a mighty club. In 1995, still just 22, he dominated the finals series and won the premiership, seemingly the first of many, in fact the last before the great fall.

Fans loved him, to the extent that Stephen Kernahan, then his premiership captain, now a board member, apologised yesterday for the way the club prevailed on him to meet requests. "We've driven him mad," he said.

But Kouta loved them, too. Also still ringing in his ears, he said, was the way they chanted his name in the big moments. It had borne him to ever greater heights, he said.

Not that Koutoufides carried himself like a god — then or since. In a photo-shoot for The Age in 1994, he was loath to take off his shirt. Groupies camped on the lawn of his parents' house, but inside, he slept in a single bed. When he went to the Brownlow Medal count, he took his mother. The second word Kernahan used yesterday to describe Kouta, after "fantastic", was "humble". It would recur often.

Koutoufides still remembers the day a letter arrived from Carlton asking him to training. He was 14. "To get onto the list in 1991 was a dream," he said. "I never really thought I'd play seniors."

Kouta was the prototype athlete/footballer, able in any role or position. But this was a new threshold for the game and his worth was doubted by some. Astonishingly, he could pluck the football from the air or off the ground with one hand, but could he do anything with it?

Little-sung Wayne Brittain became his mentor, guiding him in games, at training and at the death of his father, and later putting him at the centre of Carlton's match plan. Kouta warmly acknowledged Brittain yesterday.

The years passed in a blur. Brett Ratten, a teammate in the under 19s, is now coach. Kernahan's flecks of grey are spreading, not entirely because of the traumas of the past five years. Necessarily, the character of the club changed: next year, its average age will be scarcely 20.

Climbing the stairs to the Nicholls room yesterday, Koutoufides passed an ever-ascending black-and-white gallery of club greats: Bruce Doull, Craig Bradley, Greg Williams, Kernahan, Nicholls himself. The past, at least, is assured at Carlton.

Kouta's place in the pantheon is curious. Kernahan called him "a giant of this footy club, a giant of the AFL". He described Kouta's three finals in 1999 as "absolutely unbelievable". Reflecting on his form in rounds six to 20 the next season, he said: "I haven't seen any other footballer in my time do the things Kouta did in those games."

Koutoufides could be breathtaking. Twice in his 16 years, in 1995 and 2000, he was the best footballer in the competition. His last quarter in the epic preliminary final of 1999 was worth a trophy by itself. At other times, injuries cut him down to a mortal size. Carlton's travail of the past five years was not his doing, but will cloud judgements on Kouta's career.

Not in doubt is that Koutoufides is among the most loved and respected figures at his or any club.

Teammates, kitted out for training, crowded into the news conference yesterday, their stops leaving temporary indents in the carpet.

It was only 20 minutes since Kouta had told them of his retirement; this was a way of paying their respects. Kouta's integrity, as man and footballer, made him a leader. Watching intently, some wondered who the baby Blues would look to now.

Kernahan and Ratten shared the microphone with him. After they had spoken, each reached across and patted Kouta on his knee, the least conscious gesture of genuine affection. Even the media — usually at microphone's length — applauded.

The years have taken their relentless toll. Adonis has become middle-aged. His shoulders already were sore, perversely, from years of sessions of recovery swimming. "I couldn't swim eight, nine years ago," he said. "I shouldn't have learnt because it's destroyed my shoulders."

He had hoped that his hips would hold up for five more weeks, so that he could, as they say, die on his feet. But a doctor's prognosis, delivered by mobile phone on Monday night, confirmed what intuitively he already knew, that his hip was degenerating fast. He has spent enough time around footballers to know that arthritis would follow.

He had been braced for this day. He had had 16 years in the football "cocoon", he said, but now had gone into a business with old mate Ang Christou and was writing his autobiography. He would spend time with his wife and two daughters, "travel, eat and drink — whatever I like". He could only be grateful.

Nonetheless, he felt numb in the moment. He slept little on Monday night, then felt his voice catch in his throat as he told teammates yesterday. "My family's sad, but they understand the day comes to everyone," he said. "My time's come." Outside, training had begun and the footballs were flying.