by Simon French
“Your family. Must be strange, my dad says.”
“Your dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Living in a caravan,” Martin retorted triumphantly, “wearing funny clothes. Moving all over the place.”
“So?” At that moment, Trevor felt a large hand crash down on to his shoulder.
“Where is your social studies book, Trevor Huon?” Mr Fuller boomed.
“Right here. Sir.”
“Well, open it then. Why were you talking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.” The teacher picked up the open exercise book and promptly dropped it back on to the desk. “Your writing still hasn’t improved.”
The complaint infuriated Trevor. “I’m left-handed, and that’s my best writing.”
“It needs improvement. Do something about it.”
The teacher strode away, leaving Trevor staring angrily at his exercise book. I hate this place, he thought in exasperation, because it’s July and why aren’t Buckley and Kath fruit picking in … where? he couldn’t remember. All he could see was the sanitary classroom, Mr Fuller and, beside him, Martin Grace’s mocking grin.
When he came home she was in the caravan, sitting at the table with the sewing machine set up. She smiled at him and said hello as usual, but he looked at her curiously.
“Have you been sewing all day?”
“Good grief, no,” she said, grimacing. “Just this afternoon. I spent all morning cleaning up around the place. Gave the kombi a wash too; did you notice?”
“Yeah, I thought it looked different. How come Dad doesn’t take it to work?”
“Well, it’s only five or ten minutes walk to where they’re building at the club. He thinks the walk can’t do him any harm.” She paused, and then changed the subject. “And what did you do all day?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You mean to tell me that that teacher of yours with his loud voice is teaching you nothing?”
“Not anything I’d like to learn.”
“Oh,” she replied, and waited for him to elaborate.
“Well, he’s too bossy,” Trevor continued. “Mean, even. I don’t like him much.”
“Oh,” she said again. “What about the other kids?”
“I dunno. The girls think he’s a creep. I don’t know about the boys.”
“Well,” Kath sighed, “some people you just have to make allowances for. Teachers included. And we’ll be here for at least another two months. Think you’ll survive that long?”
“I guess so. I have before.” He stopped to think for a moment. “It’s just,” he said, “it’s just that we’ve never been here before and I don’t know anyone.”
Kath looked at him seriously and sympathetically. “I know, Trev–”
“Is there anything to eat?” he interrupted. “I’m kind of starving.”
“Orange juice in the fridge. And you can make yourself a sandwich.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
He went outside afterwards and sat down, his eyes scanning the surrounding caravan park, the town and the late afternoon haze that had settled over the distant slopes. Earnestly he wished he could be elsewhere, not here in this place. But already he could feel himself and his parents locked into a daily routine and he grudgingly accepted the inevitable. They were going to be here for a while.
The boys think they’re smart. They’re all in Mr Fuller’s football team.
Fragments of playground conversation came to mind, and he tried to piece the fragments into a meaningful sort of picture. All the boys in that class in one team. In what team?
Finally he stood up and went back into the caravan. Kath had started sewing again, but stopped when he reappeared beside her at the table.
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“What would you and Dad reckon about me playing football?”
“Don’t think we’d mind.”
“I mean, playing in a team.”
She thought for a moment. “Since when were you interested in football? Is it union or league?”
“League.”
“I thought soccer was your only sporting pastime?”
“Yes. No, not really. But if I played in a proper team, what would you and Dad think?”
“We’d think you were nuts. But it’s your decision. Why are you asking this all of a sudden?”
“Oh … nothing really. I just wondered.”
An impossible scheme had come into his head.
“Where’s your soccerball, Huon?”
“He threw it in the garbage!”
They all laughed then and watched him jokingly, enjoying his normal silence. He looked up at them though, expressionless, but framing sentences to himself, devising responses to what they might say in a moment’s time. It had taken several days for him to decide whether to carry out what he had planned. There were rights and wrongs to it, and there was a lot of risk as well.
But I’m sick of them rubbishing me, he thought then, and said, “I just didn’t want to bring the soccer ball to school, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Isn’t soccer the only game you know how to play?”
“No.”
“You couldn’t kick a football as far as you could blow your nose.”
“Yes, I could.”
“Bet you can’t.”
“I can.”
“When have you ever played football?”
The story he’d planned came out smoothly. “Where I used to live,” Trevor said.
“Where was that?”
“In the city.”
“Bet it wasn’t proper footy.”
“I played on a school team.”
The group watched him, unbelieving. The questions continued.
“Yeah? What position did y’ play?”
“Um, back.”
“Then how come you’ve only got a soccer ball?”
“I got sick of playing football.”
The kids retained their element of suspicion.
“I reckon you’re telling us a lot of crap, Huon.”
“Yeah, you couldn’t play football anyway. You’re too little.”
The last comment sent the group into fits of giggles. Trevor watched them, debating whether to forget the whole thing or whether to keep going. He flushed angrily. “Well, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you let me play?”
The kids looked at each other.
“You’re too little,” one of them said. “The ball’s bigger than you are.”
“No, let’s see him play.”
“Yeah, come on.”
“See if he’s lying or not–”
“But fairies can’t play footy.”
“Shut up, Jason. Let him play.”
Confident and grinning, they split into two teams of seven and found themselves appropriate positions on the dusty paddock of the lower playground. In his solitary position as left winger, Trevor almost smiled to himself, but it was a mixture of confidence and doubt that rested heavily on him at that instant. He’d lied his way into a game with the kids successfully, but it was now a tough matter of saving face.
After all, league football was a largely unknown quantity. Then his smile dimmed into apprehension as the ball was kicked off and play began.
Because the teams were small the game could have been a highly informal one, but it was played in a professional and cunning manner. Trevor found that the ball was passed to him a great deal. He made a stubborn effort to look experienced, but played nervously.
“You don’t know how to play,” Martin Grace said to him.
“I’m just out of practice, aren’t I?” Trevor hissed back, and kept running.
At first he really had little idea of the mechanics of the game, but with a bit of careful observation was able to bluff his way through. But the going was hard. Towards the end, the game seemed to comprise not two, but three teams – the third team being Trevor, with the other two teams united against him. Whene
ver he got the ball, they came at him from all directions, blocking his path, trying to trip him up, attempting to wrestle the ball from his grasp.
Finally, the end-of-lunchtime bell rang in the playground. Slowly and mercifully, the game came to a standstill.
“Now d’you believe me?”
The other kids looked at him. “You’re not a very good player,” someone sneered, but no one else took up the argument at that moment.
“Are you playing again tomorrow?” Trevor asked as they walked back to the classroom.
They exchanged unwilling looks.
“What if we are, Huon?”
“Yeah, what if we are?”
He tried to sound assertive. “Well, can I play then?”
Again, they all seemed to exchange expressions. It was like a secret code between them, and it took until they were stepping into the classroom for a reply to be made. Or rather, a challenge.
“On one condition, Huon.”
“What’s that?” Trevor asked cautiously.
“That you join the team we’re in.”
“What team?” Trevor started to ask, but the other kids had broken into derisive laughter.
“Get out of it, Brad! He couldn’t make the team.”
“No way!”
“He’s too little–”
“He can hardly play–”
Trevor raised his voice defiantly. “All right. I’ll join.”
They regarded him with cynical interest.
“You’re gutless, Huon. You won’t join.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Bet you won’t,” said Martin Grace.
“Bet I will.”
“Any money you won’t.”
“Any money I will.”
By now, the others had caught the new drift of the conversation, and clustered around Trevor, offering challenges again, but explanations as well.
“Our team’s the best in the district …”
“Rack off! Best in the state …”
“You’re not good enough, Huon. Admit it.”
“We’re a hard team to beat.”
“Won the comp two years running!”
“Mr Fuller’s the coach. He’s pretty tough.”
“Too tough for you, Huon.”
Through all this Trevor sat at his desk, patiently and silently listening to what they were saying. The apparent success of his lying washed over him, but it wasn’t a happy feeling, at least, not yet. The kids were binding him with conditions, blocking the way out of his isolation and maybe even suspecting his real lack of experience.
What happens next? he thought. There were doubts that persisted, and he felt totally out of his depth.
At that moment Mr Fuller strode into the room, and the kids turned their attention from Trevor to the teacher.
“Hey, sir, Trevor Huon wants to join the football team.”
Mr Fuller looked at Trevor with brief interest. “You’ve played before?”
“Yes,” Trevor gulped.
“Well, our next training session’s tomorrow afternoon, after school. I’m sure Martin Grace will fill you in on the details.”
“Sure, sir,” Martin answered, grinning sarcastically.
Trevor felt trapped.
FIVE
They were waiting for him the next day after school, grouped in a derisive huddle on the stretch of playing field behind the weatherboard classrooms.
His arrival was cheered mockingly.
“Hey, he’s here …”
“Where’s your soccer ball, Huon?”
“You gonna train with us or just watch?”
“Watch him drop from exhaustion after five minutes!”
By now, he knew most of them by name. Martin Grace aside, there were Bradley, Michael, David, Rob, Peter, Scott, Jason, another Peter, Andrew, Damian and a few others he couldn’t quite remember. The one who seemed to do much of the talking was Bradley Clark, who prided himself as the team’s star player, and occasionally liked reminding the other kids of this fact. He had scored the most points that season, had kicked the most impressive field goals and made marathon dashes towards trylines.
And then there was Mr Fuller.
Local powers that be had awarded him the authority of manager and coach of the town’s starring junior football team, and it was a dual responsibility he did not appear to take lightly. When he arrived on the playing field to take command of the hour’s training session, he struck Trevor as looking strangely incongruous. The man who dressed so soberly for the classroom now wore a T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. His personality, however, remained unchanged.
He quickly sighted Trevor amongst the other familiar team faces.
“So you decided to come along,” Fuller said grimly, and then addressed the kids collectively. “It appears that we have a new team member. Trevor Huon has decided to grace us with his diminutive presence. How old are you, Huon?”
“Eleven.”
“I don’t believe you.” The other kids caught the dig at Trevor’s lack of height, and laughed accordingly.
“Almost twelve,” Trevor added for safety. He was coming to dislike Fuller more and more: the face, the bulging stomach, the sweaty shirt, the impatient critical eyes and the voice most of all.
Fuller was talking again. “I’m going to lay this on the line, young Huon – you’re a risk, I hope you realise that. We’re most of the way through the season competition, and haven’t lost a game yet. Taking on a new player at this stage isn’t on, and we’ve already got two reserves. So we don’t really need you. But believe me, you’ll have to train as hard as the rest of us. This team’s won the district competition two years running and we’re working hard to make this our third. Get that, Huon?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not having a newcomer mucking things up. Previous experience you’ve had of course. What team was that?”
Trevor’s mind raced for an answer, and he eventually provided a suitable reply. “Penrith Under Elevens,” he said.
“Position?” Fuller snapped.
“Five-eighth,” Trevor answered mechanically. This much he’d managed to find out from Buckley.
“And what does a five-eighth do, Huon?”
“Um, he takes the first pass off the half-back …”
Fuller sighed audibly and interrupted, “When he gets the ball from the half, he has to decide whether to initiate some back movement through the centres, or turn and play back inside to the forwards. He must always back up the running forwards who make a break. Get it?”
“Yes. Sir,” mumbled Trevor, frantically trying to assimilate all the technical information.
“We could use a tactical kicker,” Fuller continued, “but time will tell, won’t it, Huon?” He paused and looked hard at Trevor, then turned his attention to the rest of the team. “And this week, I want some sweat! Last week was such a bludge that the Colts got within three points. Disgusting! This week, we’re going to have some real training. Twice around the oval for starters. Get moving!”
Running forwards, running backwards, flexing arms, legs, feet, doing push-ups and sit-ups in an icy sweat, exercise Trevor wasn’t quite used to. Running again, more push-ups, and lots of shouting to accompany the team’s efforts.
“Get those feet up. Legs straight! Come on, Under Twelve Blobs! Do we want to be beaten next week?”
It was a mechanical sort of question, which received a mechanical sort of reply. “NO!” the team chorused, in between touching toes without bending knees.
They played touch football then, running headlong in a frenetic parody of the real thing. Trevor found himself in the midst of the shouting mob, all of them passing the leather football amongst themselves. In an instant, he found the ball in his own hands and frantically searched around for someone to pass it on to.
“Get that ball out, Huon!” came the shout from the edge of the field.
Gingerly, Trevor passed it
out.
Fuller was shouting again. “Stop! Everybody stop!”
They came to a heaving standstill.
“Huon,” Fuller said in a loud, exasperated voice, “this is a football team I am in charge of here. Not a bunch of fairies. You are not handing out boiled lollies to the team, you are passing a football. Now do it quickly, do it well, or go home.”
They started running again. Somewhere beside him, he could hear the thump of the ball being passed out once more.
“Huon!” This time it was Martin who called. He had the ball, and promptly slung it towards Trevor’s outstretched hands. This time Trevor passed the ball swiftly on to the kid who was running next to him. There was no reaction from Fuller.
The practice continued, with a few variations. Fuller threw an extra ball on to the field and the team dispersed in two groups towards two sets of goalposts to practise set moves.
Trevor’s confidence ebbed as Fuller strode up to watch. When it was his turn he kicked badly, and the football spun off at a tangent, missing the goalposts by a mile.
“Huon,” Fuller said edgily, “did I hear you say you’d played football before?”
“Yes,” Trevor answered, gritting his teeth and almost feeling like giving in. “I’m just out of practice.”
“Well, get into practice quick smart. I want a big improvement from you before you associate further with my team. You can come to training tomorrow and all next week, and start as third reserve at next week’s game. But improve, boy.”
Fuller turned to go, but then remembered something else. Sternly, he pointed at what Trevor was wearing. “That isn’t proper training gear. You’re not fronting up for sessions dressed like you’re going to the beach. Or to school, in your case. I want to see a proper T-shirt and sandshoes or football boots, not bare feet. And do something with your hair. Tie it back or better still, get it cut. How do you expect to see what you’re doing with it all over your face?”
And so it went on. The criticism was inevitable and wearing. The training session dragged on.
When at last it was over Martin Grace said, “Boy, Fuller doesn’t like you much.”
There was an odd sympathy to his voice, which intrigued Trevor. In fact, he found Martin generally intriguing, because there were times when he seemed to act and think differently from the other kids. Trevor couldn’t pinpoint exactly why or how this was so.