Jeese, cold aye? Hope the rain holds off for the game.
Yeah.
Our exchange of half hearted pleasantries is interrupted
by shushing. Crowded into a cramped dressing room, we quiet down to
listen to Tony gee-up the kids. South Sydney Juniors under 10s
division 2 grand final.
OK you blokes, this is it, the big time. I wannna see
every single one of youse concentratin' an' lookin' for your mates. I
know they look like big bastards, but if you don't get tackled you
won't get hurt. Go in on their legs they'll hit the ground harder,
and they'll get hurt. We got no reserves, so Jonesy, don't go falling
over on me, OK? I cringe at hearing Kevin singled out again.
We are all focused on our kids, trying to telepathically
transmit confidence into their souls before they run on. I swallow
down a lump of fear just before the cheer goes up, and a dozen
calloused, nicotine stained hands slap shoulders as the boys clatter
past us into the tunnel to be consumed by watery winter white light
at the end of it.
There is a report of applause from outside as they take
the field and we file out to take up position on the sideline.
That's your third smoke Jen and they haven't even blown
the whistle.
It's either that or three hot dogs. I'm on a diet.
I'm
as polite as I can be with the pious know-all cow. Oh shit, the
whistle! Why did he have to choose league?
I've done this every Sunday since nappy grade. In the
beginning they looked so cute all decked out in gleaming white
jerseys with the slash of red V in front. Kenso United. Knights of St
George. My very own little knight in shining armour on the field of
valour, bearing my favour. They looked like a bobbing red jelly and
ice cream coloured centipede. The coach, Len, like an attendant
buzzing insect, hovered around to make sure that if one of them did
accidentally pick up the ball he would run in the right direction.
But the novelty wore off, and blissful
sleep-in-and-read-the-newspapers Sunday mornings became only a fond
memory. As the season progressed I came to realise just how vast the
district was, and each successive fixture drew us deeper into the
depths of southern suburbs I'd never heard of, requiring road map and
compass to find hidden grounds on the blustery banks of Botany Bay,
Yarra Bay, Long Bay. There were days I felt more intrepid than La
Perouse.
Eight am. Sleet. Morning chaps. A few would nod in reply, but mostly
there was little socialising. The only thing we had in common was the
kids, and the shared misery of an arctic wind howling across the
headland at Clovelly. I huddled against the cold in the cobweb-hung,
cats-piss-reeking dressing shed to listen to Len read out the team,
while milk teeth chattered in little skulls and plastic studs rippled
on concrete.
Now, when you get the ball, remember, run towards me.
Jonesy, you go reserve.
Shit reserve again. I fantasised about how Len would
coach without kneecaps, but I never interfered or complained about it
- not like some. Like bloody Barbara, manicured, hair sprayed,
ironed-tracksuited Barbara. She who knew more than anybody else about
everything to do with club politics. Her husband had played A grade
for Souths a hundred years ago and his butcher shop sponsored Kevin's
team, so she was the manager. I know she had it in for me, and her
boy wonder, Jacko, had it in for Kevin. Jacko was head bully and the
most gifted player on the side, because, I suspect, since the day he
was born, Jack had a football kicked to him.
Jacko never did it in front of his mum, but at every
opportunity he'd taunt Kevin. A push here, a shove into the mud, a
trip there, and he never passed the ball. On the rare occasion that
Kevin took the field and did find himself with the ball, he'd
inevitably drop it, or hand it to the wrong side, or loose it in a
tackle, and then be mercilessly abused by Jack.
You can't win if you're all backs. Somebody has to make
the tackles. Turn the other cheek mate.
But it was really hard to be
philosophical with those eyes brim full of tears; all I really
wanted to do was rip out Jack's cruel little throat.
In the end I found an excuse to change clubs.
Well Barb, there's a new club started up at Moore Park.
Its much closer for us for training, and they play in Bronco colours.
They're his favourite team.
Oh, that is a shame. She found it difficult to conceal
her glee. We'll really miss Kevin. Insincere cow.
But there's a Barbara in every club, and Karen, her
latest incarnation, is right beside me, sneering at me through her
benign smile, and its too late to find another seat. She's married to
Tony, the trainer. He prowls the sideline shouting, Good tackle
Marty! Take 'em round the legs! She chimes in with, You're useless
Simpson. You're not out there for decoration Jones. She only sees
missed tackles and fumbled passes and seems obsessed with Kevin's
obvious lack of natural talent.
There are some gifted kids out there who know what
they're doing, there are some who are quick and if fed the ball can
dash down the wing to score. But mostly they are just like Kevin,
uncoordinated, awkward boys who's best football is played in their
imaginations, inspired by the match of the day the week before. They
dream of making a sliding dive for the line, dragging a wake of
opposition players along and then popping up a pass at the last
minute, or kicking the match winning field goal.
Three weeks ago they thought they'd played their last
game for the season and were out of the comp. They'd done OK but were
knocked out in the prelims. Now, following some complex ring in
scandal which even Karen, with her exhaustive knowledge of club
intrigue has failed to make entirely clear to me, they are playing in
the grand final by default, facing the top team in the division. No
one was more surprised than Tony. He rang us all up to scrounge a
team together from the players not on holidays. He's nervous. They
haven't trained and seem to have already lost hope. The opposition is
huge.
I reckon some of those kids are thirteen.
Wouldn't be game Jen, not after the Wombat fiasco.
S'pose. I'm not convinced. Kevin is big for ten, but
some of these kids are enormous.
What do you reckon Mary?
Nah, they're only little fellas. She would know. Her boy
Sani is our best forward and no runt either. Mary's the coach. She
doesn't say much, just keeps her eye on the game. I've never heard
her shout - she leaves that to Tony, but in the dressing room she
deals out calm, clear and considered strategy.
A girl coach? When he first joined, Kevin was appalled.
So what, I'm a girl, I told him.
Girl's don't know anything about football. But it's a
different story now. She's not only infallible when it comes to the
game, but is a world expert on everything from diet to bed times.
Mary says this, Mary says that. I remember the moment a couple of
years back, when Kevin became her devoted servant. He limped off at
half time sucking in wind and clutching at a red hot poker of a
stitch in his side. After a series of hard tackles his legs had
turned to jelly under him. Tony helped him into the dressing room.
You'll be right mate. Come on, breathe in... out...
in...
Mary looked like an Easter Island statue, but with one
of those cartoon black thunderclouds above her head. The dressing
room was in the eye of a cyclone. And then it hit.
Worst bloody performance I've ever seen. Youse are all
gutless. Only kid out there with any heart is Kev. Sani, you're
dropped as captain. Kev, you take over. He looked up at me in
questioning surprise and then down at his feet to cover his
embarrassment. I didn't know whether to burst with pride or be pissed
off that she'd shamed the rest of the team into action by making an
example of the most hopeless player. Whatever, it worked for Kevin.
He transformed from exhausted also-ran into a pointing shouting
bustle of confidence, marshalling troops and calling the play.
I still thought maybe this would be a good time to try
hockey, but suddenly Kevin, inspired by Mary's confidence made a try
saving tackle right on the line. There was cheering, and he felt his
team surge around him. They slapped his back, and he heard Tony yell
at him to get up and do it again. For the rest of the game he was
possessed. He was a brick wall, impenetrable.
At full time he could hardly move, he was so buggered.
They all sat cross legged on the grass spurting Fanta and Coke at
each other and Mary awarded him the most improved player. He beamed
at me but I kept my cool, and just ruffled his hair and said, good on
you, but all the way home in the car I had to do a commentary of the
play, over and over till the tackle took on Herculean proportions in
his mind.
And here he is now, in the same situation, outclassed
and demoralised, but giving it everything he's got. They all are, but
its not enough. The first half is a nightmare - they're not being
thrashed, but they are losing heart. The show ponies are frustrated,
can't get a touch and the forward line is starting to come apart like
a wet paperbag. The whitewashed grandstand, claimed by the opposition
crowd crouches at our backs and the scoreboard across the field
screams that we are 10 points down with half time only a minute
away.
I want to run on, intercept and pass to him. I want to
throttle the umpire and take the opposition star player out of the
game. I'm jealous. I find myself wishing for the physicality of it -
the sort of push and shove you only ever get with sex. The closest I
came to contact sport was association netball, and then the only real
physical contact was the inevitable chick fight in the beer garden
car park afterwards. I wish I could feel what its like to plant a
screaming tackle, but its too late for me. I do it by proxy. Most of
the time his defeats and failures tear me to pieces, but when the
magic happens and your side is on top, the elation makes your hair
prickle and your cheeks flush.
His first ever try! I'll never forget it. The day I
watched him take a pass only five metres out from the line, and drag
four defenders over with him was better than sex. I shouted and
whistled and danced around like a headless chook. The other parents
smiled and clapped and I became one of them.
Thank god, half time siren.
We clap them off the field as they straggle into the
tunnel, Mary and Tony following and the rest of us scooting round to
the other entrance to hear her second-half instructions. Terry's
father gets stuck into him for a dropped pass early in the game.
Karen voices her general displeasure at their performance and bitches
to her long suffering son, Marty, about his head high that cost us a
penalty. He sheepishly plucks grass from his mouth guard, ducking her
disapproval. I just feel terribly sorry for them. They desperately
suck oranges and pour water over hot, red foreheads, anything so as
not to burst into tears.
Mary enters the circle and silences us with a stony
glare.
Youse are doin' good, real good. You keep playin' this
hard and yous'll wear 'em out. Keep helpin' each other. She turns to
us.
An' one more negative word out of any of you lot, I'll
have you chucked out of the ground. Understood? She's staring strait
at Karen.
Just stay cool and concentrate. Matty, you watch the
line and make sure everybody gets back the five. Sani, keep the
pressure on 'em. Everybody, watch the ball and good safe hands. No
room for mistakes now. Go out there and play football. You can win
this.
Kevin's aches and pains have disappeared. He trots into
position, tense, anticipating the whistle. Marty kicks to start play.
Kevin moves up with the forwards and I hardly recognise him. He's
ploughing in for the tackle and pushing himself to the limit, testing
the edges of his strength, being knocked down and getting up again -
undeterred. I can't believe it's only yesterday he was a baby. How
could ten years go by so fast?
In the labour ward, with nurses urging me on and slips
fielding midwives between my knees, crouched, anticipating the
delivery, I knew I was going to die. After eight hours I felt like a
tackle bag. I felt the final slither between my thighs, and thought I
was over the line, but then I heard his voice and a surge of
adrenaline sat me up and turned me into a tiger. Hand over that baby
or you're dead meat. They gave the purple, bloodied betesticled
creature to me and I knew I could find the strength to kill anyone
who tried to hurt him.
From the sideline I watch as my precious bundle is
pummelled and pushed and shoved, and all I can do is shout till my
lungs split, to squeeze the fear back down. It can't be my gentle
natured child out there, frowning, then powering into the bulk of
another player. I know its inevitable, he won't be my creature
forever, and with each lunging step he gets further and further away
from me.
Mary's theory is paying off. The opposition are making
mistakes, and our boys are tapping reserves of tenacity none of us
thought they possessed. In the lead by a point; all they have to do
is hold on. Five minutes till the siren. I reel at every hit, cringe
at every lunge.
Clash centre field, player down. Stand for a better
view.
What's happening? Tony sprinting across. Ref leaning
into the huddle of boys, clearing space.
Fuck, it's Kevin! Not moving. Mary is there. Start
counting. Three minutes, three minutes repeating in my head like a
mantra. Slow motion walk to the sideline. Every molecule of my being
wants to be out there with Kevin, but I'm almost rigid with horror. I
feel like the dog I had when I was a girl. It was never allowed in
the house but could get its whole body inside while still keeping its
four paws behind the threshold.
What have I done? How could I have put him at such risk.
I hear all the justifications I made to judgmental girlfriends who
couldn't understand why I let Kevin play league. Thugby, brutal,
violent, they said. No, no, boys are like puppies, they need the
rough and tumble and biting and kicking to measure their growing
strength against each other; they need an outlet for all that
aggression and exuberant energy, I reasoned.
Oh God, be OK. Please, please be OK.
Mentally picking out wheelchairs and special schools for
the disabled. Wish I'd gone to Sunday school so I can feel less
guilty about praying.
One hundred and twenty-one, one hundred and
twenty-two....
Ears ringing. Sweating, burning. Still down. I think I'm
going to feint from the pain in my chest, and realise I have to
breathe. The ringing rises to a roar, but its not me. He's up! It's
the sound of the ground applauding. He's playing on, and I want to
throw up.
They won. There was air punching, high fives and jumping
onto each others shoulders, and singing in the dressing room and
tears of joy and beaming faces. Fear and loathing melted into sheer
delight. My brilliant, heroic, knee-grazed, tag-marked angel-faced
child lined up with the others to receive his medal. We'll be there next season.
Shortlisted for and publsihed in the 1988 CUB Best Australian Sports Writing. Random House.
The story disappointed me. I was hoping that, in the end, the rain did not hold out for the game.
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