Which details matter?

The cast on my arm was solid,
a badge of honour acquired through
a feat of derring-do, or I fell off my bike.
No matter, the truth has no business
crumbling my delusions and illusions.

I presented myself before a hero,
a sporty nation saviour of the day,
only recently returned to glory,
agreeably he signed the plaster.

This was my first encounter with
a doer of great things, an achiever.

I was much surprised at how small
and regular he was. I can recall a
pleasant man with an easy smile,
curly hair, and bad penmanship.
Or I can recall that day I met a hero.