Ishmael and the Hoops of Steel

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  ‘Well, boys,’ he said, ‘you’re probably wondering why I called you all here.’

  A circle of grim faces relaxed into smiles.

  ‘Has it got anything to do with the possibility of all of us being exiled to Siberia if we lose this next point, sir?’ Scobie asked.

  ‘Yes, James, I was going to touch on that very possibility,’ Mr Guthrie said. ‘OK, look, boys, I’ve got no magic words. But I want you to know this: whatever happens, win or lose, being your pretend volleyball coach has been great fun … and an honour. And if things don’t go our way, then I couldn’t think of a better bunch of fellas to be exiled to Siberia with. So just go out there and do your best.’

  Mr Guthrie was wrong when he said he didn’t have any magic words.

  ‘And now,’ he continued, ‘I think I should pass you over to someone who actually knows more about the game than me. Razz, anything you want to say to the team?’

  ‘Well, we gotta give ourselves a chance. We have to at least make these dudes fight for this point and earn it. So the first thing is, we gotta dig this next serve and get it back in play.’

  We all knew whose name would be on that serve and we didn’t like our chances.

  ‘They’ll serve to me, won’t they?’ Scobie said.

  Razz nodded. ‘Yeah, they will. Mad if they didn’t – no offence, man. But don’t worry, I’ll take it for you, Scobes. As soon as he serves, you back off and I’ll get across in front of you.’

  This seemed like an excellent plan and probably our only chance of staying in the game. Razz’s suggestion was met by a circle of nodding heads. All except Scobie’s.

  ‘No. I’ll take the serve.’

  We all looked at the pale, chubby figure before us blinking the sweat away from his short-sighted eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to, man. I’m pretty sure I can …’

  ‘I’m taking the serve, Razz.’

  Something in James Scobie’s voice told us that was the end of the discussion.

  ‘I know you’re captain, but I’m the reason we’re here. I wanted to play a sport and you all helped me out. So if anyone’s going to mess up and be held responsible, it’s going to be me. I’m taking the serve.’

  Scobie twisted his mouth defiantly to one side and held it there.

  ‘OK, I’m glad I sorted all that out then,’ Razz said brightly. ‘Now here’s what I think should happen and I don’t want any arguments, OK? Scobie here will take the serve and the rest of us will be ready to chase down anything and everything after that. It doesn’t really matter how we do it, we just need to get the ball over their side as soon as possible, then we defend like crazy and hope they make a mistake.’

  Razz thrust his hand into the middle of the circle. We all piled ours on top.

  ‘The quest for the volleyball championship stands upon a knife edge, dudes,’ he said. ‘Let’s show ’em what the mighty Fighting Fifths are made of.’

  17.

  A HEAVILY DRUGGED GIRAFFE

  We all pushed our hands down hard together and gave a rousing St Daniel’s shout. Above us our supporters clapped, cheered, stamped and whistled as we took our places for the final time on the court.

  Ignatius, Melvin and Theodore had the net positions. Razz and I were back on the baseline with Scobie in between us. Bill had twisted his ankle in the last set and was on the reserve bench beside Mr Guthrie. The umpire blew his whistle. My heart rate went off the scale.

  The Windermere boys broke from their huddle and took up their spots. I looked across at Scobie. He was crouched over with his arms stretched out and his hands cupped in front of him waiting for the serve. He was wearing his glasses for the first time all season. They kept slipping off his sweaty button nose and he had to constantly push them back.

  On the other side of the net Windermere’s best player was waiting for the umpire’s signal to serve. His hair was shaved short around the sides but hung in a long fringe to his eyes. He was tall. The ball was going to spear down into our court from a great height.

  I wondered what was going through his mind. He’d have to be thinking about the serve, trying to make up his mind what he’d do. Would he play safe or would he give it everything he had and go for the big hero-serve to win the match?

  The umpire called play. Fringe guy flicked his head back to get the hair from his eyes. He scratched his groin for a bit, then twirled the volleyball on the tip of his finger. Definitely a big hero-serve man. We waited. Forget the knife to cut the tension. You’d need a chainsaw.

  Fringe guy grabbed the spinning ball in both hands, bounced it three times then tossed it high into the air. As it came back down he bent his knees, arched backwards and with his hand cocked behind his head, launched himself up to meet it. A sound like a gunshot echoed around the gym as his open palm met the full face of the ball at maximum velocity right in the sweet spot. The serve that resulted really was a thing of beauty. Unless of course you happened to be James Scobie and you were watching an angry white sphere hurtling towards you like a runaway comet. Then it was your worst nightmare.

  The ball sizzled over the middle of the net with just a few centimetres to spare then it dipped wickedly and speared towards Scobie’s chest. It was on him so quickly he hardly had time to react, but he held his ground and somehow managed to get his arms up. The ball thudded into his wrists. James’ head reeled backwards and his glasses flew from his face as he was sent tumbling to the floor.

  All the St Daniel’s supporters’ hearts sank as they watched the ball fly high over Scobie’s head and sail towards the back wall. All the Windermere supporters cheered. Everyone on our team took a few frantic steps after the ball and then stood mesmerised by the inevitability of our impending defeat.

  Everyone except Razz.

  He was now charging at full pace beneath the flight line of the ball, peering back over his shoulder as it peaked high above him and started its rapid descent. It was a race to see who would reach the back wall first. The best bet looked like a tie but then about a metre out Razz leapt up and belted the ball as hard as he could with the back of his fist. It sailed into the air at the same time as Razz sailed into the wall. There was a sickening crunch as shoulder met solid masonry. And for the second time in two years, the masonry won. Razz bounced off the wall and landed with a thump. A sympathetic ‘Ooooooooo’ filled the air.

  Razz seemed OK but there was no time to check. Everyone’s eyes, including Razz’s, were back on the little, white, synthetic globe that was soaring its way in an arc towards the ceiling. If it touched any part of it, St Daniel’s could kiss the championship goodbye. The ball edged its way closer to one of the exposed girders and began to slow. Closer. Slower. Closer. Slower. Clossssser. Slowwwwwwwer. Closssssssssssssssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer. Stop!

  A mass moan rose from the Windermere supporters. A roar burst from St Daniel’s. Miss Tarango squealed. We were still in it. But the ball was dropping and it was impossible to tell which side of the net it would fall on.

  Everything I’m about to describe now happened within the space of five seconds. Firstly, just before the ball propped and dropped from the ceiling, I began running back into the court in case I was needed. What I didn’t notice, because I was watching the ball, was Scobie on his hands and knees looking for his glasses. The first sign of trouble was when I felt a crunch under one of my sandshoes. That was just before I somersaulted over the top of James and skidded on my sweaty back across the polished timber floor.

  I probably would have slid right under the net and on to the opposition’s side if I hadn’t collided with what felt like two cement pylons. They were in fact Theodore Bungalari’s legs. Now normally, me smashing into the back of Theodore’s legs would have had about the same effect as a pillow smashing into a couple of giant redwoods. But not this time. This was because the Mudman’s feet weren’t in contact with the ground. You see, Theodore at that moment was in the process of leaping up to spike the ball (remember the ball?) to win us the match.
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  Well, that didn’t happen.

  Perhaps Theodore would have been able to complete the almost certain winning spike, even while I was smashing into his legs, but something else was occurring at exactly the same second. That something else came in the flying form of Melvin Yip. Yippy, who up to this point in the match had somehow been able to contain his enthusiasm to just within the bounds of sanity, suddenly snapped under the tension. When he saw the ball falling and the game hanging in the balance, he decided this was the perfect time to unleash the full fury of his inner ninja.

  From a running start Melvin Yip leapt like a flying assassin at the ball. I have to admit that as leaps go, Melvin’s wasn’t all that bad. Sadly though, his timing, as always, was. Whereas Theodore had only just left the floor, Melvin had already flown over a metre into the air and was already on his way down when they met. So you see, while I was busily taking the Mudman’s legs out from under him, Melvin Yip was landing on his chest and back-flipping him right over the top of me and on to the floor.

  Afterwards Miss Tarango said the gym looked like the last scene in Hamlet where the stage is strewn with the dead and dying. Razz was watching everything from down by the back wall lying on his stomach and clutching his shoulder. Scobie was still scrambling around on his hands and knees trying to reassemble the various pieces of his glasses. And I was in a tangle of arms and legs with the Mudman and Nutcase Ninja.

  Only one St Daniel’s man was left standing.

  Ignatius Albert Prindabel.

  Somehow Ignatius had managed to stay out of the way as the chaos erupted around him. He was the only one who could save us and he knew it. With all the grace of a heavily drugged giraffe, he started loping in the direction of the ball. But there was no way he was going to make it in time. The ball was always going to beat him.

  And it did … kind of.

  But instead of coming down on one side of the net or the other, the ball took everyone by surprise and hit the edge of the tape almost dead centre. The net shook and dipped, absorbing most of the impact. The volleyball rebounded about 10 centimetres in the air. As it rose, it tilted and rotated and began to drop towards our court. At the same time Prindabel lost his footing and stumbled. The Windermere players started to raise their arms and turn to each other in triumph.

  But the P-man wasn’t done yet. From on his knees he made one last lunge, stretching out his thin right arm like an extendo-pole. And then, at the last moment, when it looked like he would have to fall just short, a familiar long, bony finger uncoiled itself. It was the Prindabel Power Pointer! It straightened and locked firmly before jabbing into the side of the volleyball. The ball bobbed upwards, landed for a second time on the tape, balanced there for a moment, then slid off down the opposite face of the net. By the time Windermere realised what was happening it was too late. Despite desperate, sprawling dives by two of their players, the ball bounced off their fingers and landed on the court.

  The St Daniel’s crowd went off. In amongst it all I caught glimpses of Mr Hardcastle pumping his fists like a madman, Mr Barker and Brother Jerome applauding madly and Miss Tarango doing her justifiably famous war dance. Back on the court Mr Guthrie calmed us all down and told us not to go completely crazy until we shook hands and congratulated the other team, which we did.

  Then we went completely crazy.

  After a lot of high five-ing, back-slapping, bear-hugging and whooping, Theodore and Razz (with a bit of a wince) hoisted Prindabel on to their shoulders and paraded him around the gym while the cheer squad up above performed a raucous version of the school song. Ignatius waved at the crowd and held high the long, bony digit that had delivered the college its first ever volleyball championship – a digit referred to by an emotional Mr Hardcastle at that week’s school assembly as the ‘Finger of God’.

  For the next few days at school, boys would run up to Prindabel offering their open palms for a high five. And as befitting his new standing as a St Daniel’s College Volleyball Legend, Ignatius even managed to make contact with some of them.

  18.

  OMG! OMG! OMG!

  It ended up being one of the best semesters ever. Along with our victories in the Cross-country and the volleyball, we also won our last two debates and qualified unbeaten for the finals. They were the big highlights. But there were two other things I don’t think I’ll ever forget from the first half of Year Twelve.

  One was the look on Razz’s face when he saw his Semester One report card. I’d be guessing it matched the look on Mr Farmer’s face when Razz gave him the sad news that he wouldn’t be in his Economics class any more.

  The second one was this phone call.

  (Theme to Mission Impossible ring tone.)

  Me: Hello. Leseur residence. Ishmael speaking. (Yes, I know. But it’s what I was taught to say as a kid.)

  Voice on the line: Hi, Ishmael. It’s Kelly. Kelly Faulkner.

  Me: Hi, Kelly. How’re you? (But really – Oh my god! It’s Kelly! OMG! OMG! OMG!)

  Kelly: I’m fine. How’re you?

  Me: Good. Fine. Great. Yeah good. (Had she got the message that I was OK?)

  Kelly: That’s good. Well, why I’m ringing is … I guess you know about our Formal in a couple of weeks. (Yes, I know and I’ll come!) Look, I realise this is really late to be asking (Who cares? Ask away! I’ll come!) … and I feel really bad (I feel great! I’ll come!) … but I wasn’t sure if I was even going to go or not and then I thought you only get one Year Twelve Formal (Absolutely! And by the way, yes, I’ll come!) … so I was hoping, you know, if you were free (Are you kidding? I was born free! I’ll come!) … and you wanted to (I do! I really do! I’ll come!) … that maybe you’d be my partner for the night. (Hmmmmmmmmm. I might have to think about it. I don’t want to rush into anything.)

  Me: That’d be great. I’d love to. Yeah, sure. Thanks. Great. I’d love to. Great. Great.

  Kelly: (with a giggle) I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.

  And that’s how Razz, Sal, Kelly and I ended up going to the Lourdes Formal together. Razz’s Uncle Georgiou chauffeured us all to the venue in a 1956 red Cadillac convertible. As well as Show Tunes, Uncle Georgiou also loved showy cars.

  It turned out to be a good night with plenty of laughs. How could it not be with the Razzman there in fine form? And even if Kelly was quiet and seemed afraid to let herself be truly happy, being near her was still the best place in the world to be.

  After it was all over, Razz and Sally headed off to a post-Formal party but all the Lourdes boarders had a bus waiting to take them back to the school. Kelly didn’t seem to mind that much.

  Outside the venue she thanked me for the ‘lovely night’ and for being her partner on such ‘pathetically short notice’. She also said she was lucky to have a ‘friend’ like me who would ‘put up with her’. Then she kissed my cheek and thanked me again for everything. She was about to board the bus and take a big chunk of my heart with her, when I managed to squeeze out the one question I’d been wanting to ask all night.

  ‘Kelly. It’s ages away yet I know, and you don’t have to decide right now of course. But I was wondering … Do you want to come to our formal … you know, with me … as my partner?’

  The tiniest of smiles crept on to Kelly’s face and stayed.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said.

  Year Twelve

  Semester Two

  Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 1 scene 3, lines 62–63

  19.

  MALE CHAUFFEURING PIGS

  A few weeks into the new semester we were back in one of the library discussion rooms. Scobie was sitting at the end of the table with a laptop opened in front of him. I was sitting beside Razz, and across the table from us were Bill and Ignatius. Scobie was hunched forward and we could only see half of his head sticking up above the back of the computer screen.

  ‘Anything?’
I asked.

  Scobie tapped on one of the keys and waited. His round pale face appeared above the screen. He adjusted his glasses.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he said.

  We were waiting for the school Debating Society to post the grand final topic on their web page. That’s right, we’d made it all the way! Scobie, Bill and Ignatius had won the That We Should Re-introduce the Death Penalty quarter-final and Scobie, Razz and I won the Climate Change is the Only Issue secret subject semifinal. Now the grand final was only one week away.

  The topic was scheduled to go up at noon. Mr Slattery had given us special permission to miss English so we could start our preparation as soon as it arrived. It was five past twelve already.

  ‘Man, I can’t believe we’re in the final. Our last debate ever and it’s the Big Kahuna! But boy, Wesley are gunna be tough. They beat Sal’s team in the quarters. They were pretty deadly.’

  Wesley Senior College was an exclusive girls’ school with a reputation for academic excellence. Razz reckoned their uniforms had higher IQs than a lot of the guys at St Daniel’s. I was there when they took on Lourdes. It was the only time I’d seen Kelly since the formal. We didn’t get to talk much.

  Scobie pushed the Refresh button again. We waited. He shook his head.

  ‘Man, the suspense is killing me!’ Razz said with a slap of the table. ‘Gee, I hope we get something good. Remember that secret topic debate in Year Nine, Bilbo? No Scobes that night and we thought we’d get killed and then we scored that topic about the sci-fi fantasy stuff and you blew ’em away! Hey, maybe you’ll get lucky again, Billy, and we’ll be Affirmative for That Hooping Should Be Made Compulsory in Schools. Or maybe we’ll get a Prindabuddy special like That the Geek Will Inherit the Earth.’