by K J
“Well, thanks Eddie. I’ll get right on it.”
He grunted in response and angled his chair towards the monitor at the side of the desk. With a final look, Cam turned on her heel and strode out of the office, the backpack swinging from her hand. She dumped it onto the surface of her work station, scattering the pens about, threw the folded sheet of paper on top, and sat heavily on the chair, where her slouched position sent it spinning softly to the left.
“Let me guess. Eddie’s got you covering this year’s Grass-Growing Contest in Upper Nowhere, and you have to write an exposé on fertiliser.” A voice, devoid of any inflection, spoke next to her rotating chair.
Cam rolled her head along the top of the backrest to look resignedly at Bianca’s taciturn face. Bianca was her bottom rung buddy, and had started at The Post around the same time as her. Cam took in the lime green lipstick, the purple overalls covering Bianca’s slim frame, and the red Doc Marten boots, which were currently resting on the edge of the desk. While Cam was desperate to contribute meaningfully to the world of journalism, Bianca seemed perfectly happy to summarise content, write copy for tweets, and decorate the office with her presence. She was quite mysterious, and the guys in the news teams hadn’t been able to dig up her backstory, even when money had been placed in response to a dare. Bianca was Teflon. Cam hauled her body upright, leaned back in the chair, and fixed her gaze on Bianca’s blue eyes.
“Tell me. If you were in charge of a major sport, oh, like women’s AFL, for example, and you wanted to make sure the players were viewed as professional athletes by the public and sponsors and whoever, would you publish a stack of stories about their daily shampoo technique or whether they could use a fork properly?” She folded her arms. Bianca held her gaze, recrossed her feet on the desk, then blinked, which Cam knew, from prior experience with the Bianca Artino Catalogue of Gestures, meant ‘I’m thinking and will give you an answer in 2.6 seconds’.
“No.”
Cam tossed her hands up. “Exactly. This is—”
“But only if it was a guy’s sport.”
“What?”
“A guy’s sport,” she repeated, in her oddly flat voice. “Shampoo pieces are for the chick sports.” Cam winced, then clenched her fists.
“Bianca, that’s ridiculous. I mean, I don’t know a thing about bloody cross-country basketball—”
“Australian Rules Football.”
“Yeah, okay. But I do know that those players, those women, are athletes. They should be celebrated for their tenacity in breaking down the barriers in a sport with such a boy’s club mentality that the door is literally smeared with testosterone.”
Bianca’s top lip curled. “That’s really gross, Cam.”
Cam dropped her head forward. “I just don’t see why I can’t write this series from the point of view of their motivation, their skill, their—”
“Shampoo technique.” Bianca lifted her feet off the desk and spun her chair to face Cam. She pointed a finger, the black nail polish reflecting the fluorescent lighting. “You’re smart. Write about a chick and her hair routine and how it’s hard to get it right ‘cause she has to get up at stupid o’clock to get to training, or whatever, before she goes to her boring-as-fuck day job so she can earn money ‘cause the AFL don’t pay the women players anything ‘cause they’re sexist fuckheads.” Cam stared. Bianca nodded slowly. “I may have some opinions.” Her face was as impassive as her delivery. Cam’s fingers tapped together as she watched Bianca run her hands through her choppy brown hair, which always looked artistically dishevelled, like a haute couture mop, then swivel back to her laptop.
“Okay. Yes. That’s a good idea. Hide the good stuff in the fluff.”
Bianca shot a finger gun at her without looking up. “There you go.”
Cam tipped her head. “I know I’ve asked this, but you’re about the same age as me, I think. Don’t you ever want to write your own stories?” Bianca became very still, which wasn’t difficult as she hardly ever made elaborate body movements anyway.
“Asked previously. Answered previously.” Bianca’s response was so flat that a silicone wafer would have looked like a veritable mountain range.
“Right.” Cam popped her index finger out, pointed it in Bianca’s direction, then pulled it back to her palm. “Right.” She unzipped her backpack, plucked out her laptop, opened it like the treasure chest that it was, and began researching the mysteries of Australian Rules Football.
Chapter Three
Sophia carefully aligned the last bottle of extra virgin olive oil on the shelf. At $80 each, the last thing she needed was a slippery mess all over the grey slate floor tiles. Provender was a boutique outlet, so the slate, accompanied by the polished timber shelving supporting the beautiful produce, huge street-frontage plate glass window, matte black iron fixtures, and brass overhead lighting worked together to create a shopping experience that was more than a simple trip to buy some groceries. Stretching her back, and hearing a satisfying clunk, Sophia tore the tape off the bottom of the box and flattened it sideways. She dropped it onto the pile of cardboard that Ben would take to the recycler, and leaned on the sumptuous Tasmanian oak bench that stretched down the side of the long room.
Ben had expanded Provender by installing the counter, adding twelve metal and wood stools so that it resembled a bar, then offered tasting nights, and preview sales events for frequent customers. It was clever marketing. Sophia shook her head in annoyance at herself. Ben, with his business degree, was amazing, thinking up all sorts of ideas for the store, and yet here she was with an actual marketing degree that she never used. Sophia sighed. She had no problem thinking of ideas, but when it came to implementing them, nine times out of ten she hit an invisible wall, afraid to step forwards or even sideways to make change. It’s like being in an uncomfortable comfort zone. She smiled wryly. Her dad had completely seen through her bluff during her teens and twenties, recognising the acting out, the reluctance to engage in anything meaningful, including relationships, as the self-protective walls that they were. His last advice to her was her sword to wave as she made more and more advancements over those walls. Sophia gave a small easy hum. Like the leap she’d made about three months after his funeral.
It had been a Friday morning. Early. She’d completed her twenty hot laps of the local football oval, and wandered past the homeless shelter two blocks away from her flat. Two girls, perhaps seventeen, but probably not, had been sharing a cigarette on the steps outside. They’d made eye contact with Sophia, their gaze flat and she’d immediately recognised the protective barriers.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” The voice had been grainy. Dipped in bravado. The owner of the voice had narrowed her blue eyes, and tossed the long straggly blonde hair away from her face with thin impatient fingers.
Sophia had shrugged, her face and body relaxed, and wondered why it was that she’d stopped in the first place. “Dunno. You waiting to get in?” She’d lifted her chin at the two-storey nondescript building leaning over them, the rather shabby sign over the door announcing Hart Street Women and Girls’ Shelter.
The other girl, blonde as well, but shorter in height and hair length, had slid infinitesimally closer to her friend, skittered her gaze at Sophia, then held her hands at chest height. Her fingers worked feverishly, efficiently, tapping and sliding and turning, and Sophia had stared in fascination as the gestures delivered their message.
“Pina wants t’ know if you’re here t’ volunteer for somethin’. We don’t get a lotta…” The taller girl had paused. “There’re a lotta blokes an’ old biddies here.” She had worn an expression of combative hope. Two pairs of blue eyes had held Sophia in place, with her empty drink bottle held loosely in her hand, her body draped in exercise gear dotted with logos and labels, and suddenly she’d heard her own voice.
“Yeah, I am. My name’s Sophia, by the way.” She’d pointed to Pina, and smiled. “You’re Pina.” She’d swivelled her gaze. “What’s yours?”
Like a really slow sunrise, the girl’s smile had bloomed. “Magic.” She’d touched her cheek, and sort of shimmered her hand down away from her face. Pina’s face had lit up in a grin, her eyes full of love. “Pina calls me that, an’ the sign for it is cool, so, yeah, I’m Magic.” Her hands had translated the sentence as she spoke.
Sophia had grinned. “What’s the sign for ‘awesome'?”
Magic had tipped her head in thought.
“Isn’t one. You’d have t’ finger sign the letters. But y’could use ‘terrific’.” She’d placed her hand to her cheek again and flicked it away, palm out. Sophia’s attempt had produced another set of blazing smiles. So, Sophia became a permanent volunteer at the homeless shelter, serving meals, listening to teenagers who just needed to talk, learning Auslan from Magic and Pina who’d advised her very quickly of their queer identity, and had nodded in appreciation at her own lesbian label, and very subtly Sophia had stoked her deep, almost unconscious, need to protect the most vulnerable and find her place.
She stared vacantly, with a soft smile, at the centre row of wooden mini crates, each showcasing a wine bottle nestled in straw, lifting her head when the little bell tinkled above the door. Ben wandered in and looked around. “No customers?” He slid onto a stool opposite Sophia, and she leaned forward on the counter.
“We had heaps this morning. It’s a Saturday thing, you know that. We’ll get the customers this afternoon who realise they’ve got a dinner to go to and need something fancy to impress the hosts.” She shrugged and smiled. “Like clockwork.” Ben chuckled.
“Yep.” He huffed out a breath. “So? You’re leaving now, right?” He tilted his head. “The first meeting of the season?”
“Mm.” Sophia nodded thoughtfully, then cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should stay in case you need help this afternoon.” Here we go.
Ben reached across and covered her hand. “You can do this, Soph. Think about it. You aced the try-outs last year, then you had a fantastic season.” Their eyes connected, and Ben grinned. “I know. Eight weeks is not a season. But you did it. And you loved it. And it was life-changing.” He poked the top of her hand. “And this season will be awesome.” He folded his arms on the counter. “You’re expanding your comfort circle, whatever you call it, all the time. In heaps of things. Come on. You’ll be fine.”
Sophia inhaled deeply. “Okay. It’s always so…big. I like things staying the same, because then nothing bad happens. But I hate things staying the same because then nothing happens at all.” She flipped a hand in frustration. “But once I’m outside the imaginary circle thing, and doing the whatever, then I’m fine. Look at this morning. I did the breakfast at Hart Street. I’m with the kids all the time, and I’m fine. It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not, actually.” Ben sent a long look at Sophia. “Lin and I are always around, if you need to tell us all about the stupid.” He quirked one side of his mouth, the movement shifting the hairs of his beard, and the action forced a quick chuckle from Sophia.
“Okay. Okay, I’m off, then.” She grinned and pointed at her brother. “Put that business degree to good use for once.” Ben bared his teeth, and Sophia laughed. “See you later, little bro.”
“By two minutes! Seriously!” His yell followed her out the back door.
***
The players’ auditorium at the Melbourne Football Ground was filled to capacity, with the space savouring the lava-lamp effect of conversational volume. Sophia’s eyes scanned the tiered seating and she estimated that at least three-hundred women were in attendance. It was a wonderful sight. She spun back around, her jeans sliding on the plastic chair, and grinned at Nadine, bumping her shoulder in shared delight. “This is awesome. Twelve teams!”
Nadine’s green eyes sparkled. “Yep. Look at all the young ones. We never got the chance to be such young rookies, but I can live vicariously.” Sophia huffed a laugh. Nadine was also thirty-four and they both knew that this season could be their last.
“At least we get fourteen weeks this year. Better than the eight last year. I guess they realised it was worth it?” She lifted the end of the sentence into a question.
Nadine snorted in derision. “I’m a cynic, Soph, like you. I’m not sure why they’ve made it a twelve-team comp, but I don’t think it was because the AFL executive suddenly found the feminist gene they’d been looking for.” Sophia hummed in acknowledgement.
“Well, I hope the season silences a few of the internet trolls.” She turned to face Nadine more squarely. “Did you see some of that shit last year? It was like a woman kicking a footy was so unbelievably awful that the brains of all the jerks hiding in their bedrooms exploded simultaneously.” Nadine couldn’t even smile at the exaggeration.
“Yep. I saw it. Heard it too. Some of the guys at work had a few opinions about it all.” She rolled her eyes, then lightly tapped Sophia’s thigh with her fist. “Never mind. Roll on brand new season.” The tap-tap-tap into a microphone reduced the conversation to murmurs, then to silence, as the chairman of the Australian Rules Football League cast his eyes across and up to the audience. Barry Gillespie, an ex-player gone to seed, grasped the sides of the lectern, which stretched the fabric of his blue business shirt across his chest and stomach, and nodded to nobody in particular.
“Welcome to the first players, coaches and managers meeting for this year’s Women’s AFL season. My name’s Barry Gillespie, which you probably already know. I’m the chairman of the AFL and therefore the chairman of the women’s AFL, which you girls probably already know as well.” He smiled at his own comment.
“Women,” Sophia muttered, and was heartened to hear the word murmured from pockets around the room. Barry tipped his head quickly, dismissing the muttering. Patronising git. Sophia pressed her lips together.
“We have added six more teams this year, with two of them based in Sydney.” He beamed. “And because of the increase in players, teams, and season length, the board and I have decided to appoint a three-person executive to oversee the entire women’s competition.” He gestured to the three men sitting on the chairs to his left, who were framed by some of the innumerable rollaway whiteboards that permanently exist in sport coaching rooms. Sophia squinted. She didn’t recognise any of the men. They seemed to be replicas of each other; white, middle-aged, average-looking men with brown hair. Did they not even attempt to find a woman? She dropped her ankle across her knee. “So, we have Carmichael Forrest”—the closest man to Barry flipped his hand in a sort of wave—“Lawrence Parker”—a quick nod from the next man—“and Dennis Harrington”—who smiled thinly, his moustache bouncing above his mouth. Sophia looked sideways and made eye contact with Nadine, who raised her eyebrows.
“I guess it’s good that we get a dedicated exec to run the women’s league,” she whispered.
“It’s like a buy-one-get-two-free deal,” Sophia whispered. Nadine gave a quick grin. A throat being cleared brought their attention back to the front. Moustache man—Dennis—had replaced Barry at the lectern.
“Thank you, Barry. I’d like to thank Barry for this opportunity to develop the position of women’s football within the sport itself, and to make sure the public and paying spectators can see that it could be a competition worthy of the men’s.” Sophia cocked her head, her eyebrows drawn down. There was a compliment there? She cast a surreptitious glance about the room. Just about every young player was hanging on Dennis’ words. Sophia hummed skeptically. “As this is still a competition in development”—Sophia blinked at that—“remuneration for games played will not occur this season.” A very low murmur rippled across the seating, but Dennis either didn’t hear it or chose not to acknowledge it. “Despite that situation, we know, as an executive team, that when athletic contests become about making money, the true nature of sport dies, and with it the joy that naturally results from using a body and a mind to their full potential.” Nadine nudged Sophia’s elbow.
“What the…?” she whispered.
; Sophia leaned sideways. “We play because we love our bodies and honour the sport. Men play because they get paid shitloads, and no-one gives a shit.” They shared a mutual eye-roll.
“However, we are absolutely on board with having the best publicity for you girls—women this year—”
Better than the great big bucket of nothing we had last year.
“So we have a reporter from The Post writing a series of articles during the season that will let the public see you all as female players who are giving it a go.” He straightened his shoulders and nodded proudly. A smattering of applause ricocheted about the room, mainly from the younger players again. Sophia smiled at the unadulterated enthusiasm of the eighteen-year-old rookies. “Many of you will have the opportunity to become the face of the women’s competition, through promotions, and attendance at various events.” This time the murmuring was more upbeat. “Carmichael, Lawrence, and I, along with the managers of each of the twelve teams will guide the league this year and turn it into the competition that the public deserves.” The smile plastered on his face failed to reach his ice-blue eyes, and Sophia felt unpleasant goosebumps tingling on her skin. Come on. You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Soph. She shook off the feeling, planted a modicum of optimism into her head, and headed off with Nadine and the rest of the players to their team meetings.
Dominic Garrison was round all over. Round face. Round body. He looked nothing like the managers of the other teams, who all seemed to be ex-cricketers, ex-footballers, ex-insert-sport-here. The only common denominator between them was that they were male. The players weren’t overly thrilled with Dominic as a manager, mainly because he was quite objectionable as a person. But he’d done an okay job last year, and obviously the AFL executive thought so too because here he was again. Sophia grimaced as he flipped a chair around and straddled it like he was giving it a lap dance. The conference space where the team was meeting was too small for that type of carry-on.