Tigers and Devils

by Sean Kennedy

  “Come on, what’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. Seriously. Nothing.”

  He chose to accept that obvious lie for the time being, and I didn’t want to be the one getting all deep and meaningful before caffeine had even been served.

  I could see the ocean come into view before us; we weren’t far from the pier where the Spirit of Tasmania berthed. It seemed odd, especially as I didn’t think Declan would use the ferry that much, if at all, because he would have flights for all away games paid for him by the club. Better to only spend an hour on the plane than a full night by ferry.

  The ferry terminal wasn’t such a rocking place at night. I wondered where the hell he was taking me.

  He pulled into a car space in front of the pier.

  “This is it?” I asked.

  Declan unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yep.”

  Puzzled, I jumped down from the cab and waited for him to come around from his side. He pointed out a coffee cart on the foreshore, which looked lonely and abandoned at this time of night, seeing most of the business people and tourists who would be the main source of custom during the day were long gone by now.

  Wryly, I said, “Wow. It’s a good thing you’re not going out of your way to impress me, on a first date and all.”

  “A date?” he asked maddeningly. “Is that what this is?”

  I should bloody hope so, seeing I’ve now made out with you three times, I thought to myself, but to keep up the nonchalance, I said, “Well, then, I’m definitely not putting out.”

  He flushed again. For a footballer, who was probably used to the bawdiness of the locker room, he seemed way too easy to embarrass.

  But I wished I hadn’t said it. My mouth and my propensity to put my foot in it was one of my less endearing traits. I don’t know why I had this need to prove I was tougher than I actually was. It probably made me look just as dumb as the guys he had to work with, all that posturing. But I guess we all do it day to day, to some extent.

  “We could go somewhere else,” he suggested amiably.

  “No,” I said quickly. “This is cool.”

  And it was. I had to admit that I felt more comfortable in the darkness by the water than I would have been in a crowded café on Brunswick or Lygon Street.

  As we reached the cart, the owner came out from behind it and treated Declan like an old friend. “Mr. Tyler, you’re back!”

  “Two away games in a row,” Declan said.

  “Must get to be a hassle!”

  Declan shrugged. “It means I get to come home more often.”

  “Who’d want to leave this city?” the man asked, looking at me, maybe wanting my input?

  I was still wondering if it was a rhetorical question when Declan gestured to me. “Arnie, this is my friend Simon.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Arnie pumped my hand enthusiastically, like he was about to be my new best friend. “So what do you guys want? Your usual?”

  “I’ll have my usual. Simon here will have a latte.”

  I frowned at his take-charge attitude. As Arnie moved back behind his cart, I muttered to Declan, “How did you know I would take a latte?”

  Declan shot me that million-dollar smile again. “You look like a latte drinker. Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but….” I shrugged it off.

  He stared at me for a moment and then moved closer to the cart to pay for the coffee. Arnie tried to give it to him gratis, but Declan wouldn’t hear of it, and I could see he left Arnie a sizable tip.

  Not only had the smug bastard picked my drink, he had rightly guessed I would want the largest size available. He handed me the container, which was roughly the size of a laundry bucket. I was grateful, because I take as much coffee as I can, and it would also serve as a convenient hand-warmer against the cold wind coming off from the ocean.

  We exchanged good-byes with Arnie. I saw Declan’s public face drop for a brief second when he was wished luck for the weekend’s game, but he covered it up pretty quickly. Arnie began packing the cart up, and we walked onto the pier, moving out into the darkness.

  “You’re not playing again this weekend, are you?” I asked to break the silence.

  He looked stonily ahead. Maybe he wished I had kept quiet. “Nope.”

  “They were saying on the news there was a possibility you would.”

  “You keeping track of me?”

  I couldn’t tell whether it was an accusation or a tease. His tone was neutral. “It’s hard not to,” I said evenly. “You watch the news, you get a commentary on all the big player injuries.”

  He stopped walking and leant against the wooden railing, cupping his coffee in both of his hands. “Well, the media doesn’t know everything.”

  I sipped at my latte. “Okay, so you don’t want to talk about it.”

  He looked at me. “It’s not that.”

  “You don’t trust me? You think I’m going to run and tell your story to the New Idea?”

  There was a faint indication of his smile returning. “Nah, I don’t think you’d do that. Besides, the New Idea wouldn’t care. You’d be better off going to the Footy Record.”

  “How do you know?” I was definitely pushing it, but I was intrigued. “Not the New Idea I mean, but you don’t know me at all. It’s a big risk, it’s hard enough dating a guy, but when you take into account how much harder it must be for you—”

  “Like I said, I didn’t think you’d be like that.”

  “But—”

  “It was just a feeling, okay? No, I don’t normally do this, but I just….” He trailed off. “Just… you’re one of the few people I’ve met lately who didn’t fall at my feet. Sometimes it’s hard to know a person’s intentions.”

  I was gobsmacked. “So it was my natural surliness that won you over?”

  He chuckled. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Wow. Normally it drives people away, not the other way round.” I took a huge gulp of coffee to reward myself.

  “Maybe you want it to.” His tone remained neutral, and he continued to stare out at the waves whipped up by the constant wind.

  It was a little too early for him to start psychoanalysing me. “Really.”

  “Uh oh. You sound pissed.”

  “Slightly.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions about me.”

  “Like what?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.

  “That I look like a Greens supporter. That I’ll drink a latte.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  Bugger. “No.”

  “You’re a bit of a type, that’s all.”

  I was starting to get really pissed now. Why the hell was I here when I could be home waiting for the late night repeat of Forensic Investigators to come on? “And what type is that?”

  “You know. The arty wanker type.”

  “Are you trying to be insulting?”

  He straightened up. “No!”

  “You want to analyse types?”

  Declan grinned, a surprising move. “You’re going to say I’m a typical meathead jock?”

  He wasn’t, and I had to admit that. “Not really. But you do have the natural arrogance.”

  “That was the first thing I ever heard you say about me.” It sounded oddly nostalgic, coming from him.

  “You’re fucking weird.”

  “So are you. That’s why I like you.”

  I was glad it was dark, so he couldn’t see me flush. “So, you like arty wankers then?”

  “I’m not sure as a whole, but I like you.”

  Definitely flushing now. I took refuge in my bucket-o-coffee again.

  “Doesn’t take compliments well,” Declan remarked. “Noted.”

  I sighed. “Look, it’s just… oh, forget it.”

  “Yeah, that always works when somebody says that. Spit it out.”

  I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to show it. “Why me? My friend Roger said you could date anybody you wanted�
�”

  “And he’s your friend, saying things like that?”

  “He was being honest. It’s true, you could date a gay supermodel—”

  Declan had to lean against the railing to support himself as he burst out laughing. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “You go date a gay supermodel if you think they’re so great!”

  “I couldn’t get near a gay supermodel!”

  “Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

  Okay, he got me. We both roared with laughter, and I felt the return of that good feeling I had lost once we hit the city. His pinky finger stretched out and stroked the back of my hand. I stood there and let him do it. I wondered briefly if it made me slightly pathetic to find it extremely sexy, but I decided to go with it. I let my other hand wander over, and I linked my pinky with his. We stood there in silence, but both grinning, watching the fishing boats take out to the sea for the night run. I could see why this was one of his favourite places, and I figured he probably came here a lot by himself. And it would have only been at night, when he felt it was his and his alone. So I was touched, rather than offended, that he’d brought me here.

  Someone had to say something sometime. “So you really think I’m an arty wanker?”

  He shook his head and laughed softly. “Simon, I’m surprised you’re not wearing a beret.”

  “That’s what I wear on second dates.”

  “I thought you said berets were for Sundays?”

  I couldn’t believe he remembered that. “Sundays and second dates.”

  I felt his pinky leave mine, and I was shocked at how empty mine felt without his curled around it. This was getting too fast, too quick.

  “I look forward to seeing it, then.”

  Confirmation. But it was a confirmation I wanted to hear.

  Although I couldn’t resist a little dig. “Who said there would be a second date?”

  He was mocking himself as much as me. “What, you could resist this?”

  I was slightly worried that I couldn’t. But my brain didn’t want me to think about it too much at the moment. “When would you next be back in town?”

  “Not for another fortnight.”

  That was too far away. I was already feeling that flush of a new relationship, where you want to hole yourself up with that person, discovering everything about them both emotionally and physically, leaving your friends to send out search parties while you were revelling in your newfound bliss. “I guess there’s no possibility of you transferring to another team before then?”

  “I wish.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. I remembered vaguely how he had been drafted out to the Devils as part of their first-year sweetener deal. He had done all the requisite PR, but everybody who followed footy on any level could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

  “What, you don’t like Tassie?”

  “I love Tassie. It’s a beautiful state. But it’s not my home.”

  I tried to imagine leaving Melbourne, but I couldn’t. As Arnie had said before, who would want to? There were a multitude of reasons why it was the city with the largest pattern of migration in Australia, not the other way round. Sometimes you had to really search to find a person born and bred in Melbourne, because it seemed like every new person you met was a refugee from another state.

  “You miss your family?”

  “Yeah. Of course I do.”

  “Do they know—” Coded speak once again.

  “About me?” He paused, to toss his coffee cup into a nearby bin. It seemed he could have been a basket baller had his football career not taken off. He indicated my cup, silently asking me if I had finished with mine. I shook my head. “I think my mum does, but I’m not sure. Nothing’s ever been said, anyway. But that’s it. What about you?”

  I thought of my family. And how they didn’t really talk about it, but seemed to accept it as best they could. “They know.”

  “They okay about it?”

  “In their own way. We’ll see what happens if I ever bring a guy over to meet them.”

  “You haven’t ever done that?” He sounded surprised.

  “Fuck, no! I don’t know who would be more freaked — them or me.”

  “Why would you be freaked?”

  I sipped at the dregs of my coffee. “Maybe I’m not as out and proud as I like to think I am.”

  Declan stared down at his feet. “At least you’re out.”

  I felt sorry for him. I wasn’t comfortable with the feeling. But the thing was, I could understand him. “Hey, I’m an arty wanker in an arty wanker industry. I think the only thing gayer would be working at a fashion magazine. It’s harder doing what you do.”

  “I’m not looking for justification,” he mumbled.

  “I know you’re not.” I shrugged, turned, and aimed for the bin. A gust of wind caught the coffee cup and it rattled onto the wooden slats of the jetty. Declan dived after it like he was on the field, scooping it up deftly and handballing it into the bin.

  “Show off!” I laughed.

  But he looked happier again.

  “Let’s go for a drive,” he suggested.

  “SO WHAT do you do when you can’t play?” I asked as we drove through the back streets of the city.

  Declan kept his eyes on the road ahead, trying to avoid a near-collision with the 86 tram. “What do you mean, what do I do?”

  “Well, they always make you fly over even though you can’t play. Why?”

  “For one thing, I like it, because I come back here. Secondly, it’s meant to be for team morale. You know, to keep the whole team together. So that I can help the assistant coach.”

  “Sounds like they’re training you up to become Captain.”

  He sounded distant. “Nah, I don’t want to be Captain.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too much attention.”

  And that was the crux of it, I guess. What he wasn’t saying was that it would bring him even more public scrutiny. At the moment everyone thought of him as a great footballer who happened to be shy. If he were Captain, he would be interviewed almost every day; the media would probe more into his life. I wondered, not for the umpteenth time, where this was going and how we could manage to keep seeing each other, if indeed it was what we both wanted. Which it looked like we did.

  “You’re being quiet again,” Declan said.

  “You’re not exactly talking my ear off yourself.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Coffee,” I lied.

  “Shit, you must have an addiction.”

  “Better that it’s caffeine than crack.” Once the words were out of my mouth I realised that joking about drugs in sport probably wasn’t the best thing. Change the subject, quick. “So, what suburb did you grow up in?”

  “Glenroy.”

  “Are your parents still there?”

  “Yeah, they like it there.”

  “I bet you they’ve kept your room like a shrine.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his eye twitched.

  “They have!”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m ever going to go back to it.”

  “My mum has a shrine dedicated to Essendon,” I said. “It’s very sad.”

  “So says the Richmond supporter!”

  “Hey!”

  He laughed, pleased with himself. “Come on! Richmond?”

  “We have history behind us, matey. Unlike your team, which was only created through the dregs and pity of another.”

  “Ouch.” He whistled cheerfully. “Got me there.”

  I began to sing the Richmond theme song softly to myself. “Oh we’re from Tigerland… BOM BOM BOM BOM!”

  “Stop it,” Declan growled.

  “A fighting fury, we’re from Tigerland—”

  “I’m warning you!”

  What was he going to do? “If we’re behind, then never mind, we’ll fight and fight and win—”

&nb
sp; “Keep dreaming, and maybe it will happen one day.” He laughed, looking back in the rear view mirror.

  “We never weaken till the final siren scores! Like the tigers of old, we’re strong and we’re bold—”

  “Don’t do it,” he pleaded.

  That was just like waving a red flag at a bull. “Yes we’re from Tiger—”

  If he hadn’t been driving, he would have blocked his ears at the anticipated bellow that always came at this point of the song.

  “YELLOW AND BLACK!”

  “That’s it!”

  “Yes we’re from Tigerlaaaaa—”

  My final word become a strangled yelp as he swerved to the side and deftly swooped into a parallel parking spot.

  “This’ll shut you up,” he said menacingly. In one fluid motion so quick I could barely even make it out, his seatbelt was unbuckled and flung over his shoulder, where the metal lock almost smashed the driver’s window. He was half on top of me, pinning me uncomfortably against the door, the armrest digging into my back. I laughed, and he did shut me up by plastering his mouth hungrily against mine. I managed to pull my right arm out from where it was wedged between the seats and ran it up his back, bringing him in closer to me. My other arm was stuck between the dashboard and his neck, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. He was pretty bloody strong.

  But you should never underestimate someone who has the adrenaline of passion inside them. I surprised him by pushing against him, and this time he was pressed against his door, with me squirming around on top of him. His arm was now in the position mine had been in before, but the other one was free enough to travel down and cup one of the cheeks of my arse.

  Roger was right. I was a first date slut. And I proved it by pulling away from him and grinning lasciviously. While he was trapped under me, I ran a finger along his side and then across to the front of his jeans, scraping beneath the fold and connecting with the zipper. Declan stared up at me, looking slightly dumbfounded, but he sprang into action when I started pulling his zipper down.

  “Wait a minute!”

  Dishevelled, he pulled away from me, retreating as far into his corner as he could go.

  I slumped back into my own. “What?”

  “We’re just… going a bit too fast!”

  Wow. I had never heard that from another guy before.