by Simon French
For a while he sat with Kath and Buckley, checking at intervals that the football boots were laced and tied up properly, and that the woollen socks hadn’t slithered down to his ankles.
“What do reserves do?” Kath asked.
“They sit on the sidelines and wait,” Trevor answered flatly.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re supposed to scream, yell, cheer and carry on like all these other parents?”
“If you want to. But you can go home though, if you like,” Trevor continued with a note of resignation. “It’s not as if I’ll be doing anything exciting.”
Eventually he stood up and walked over to where the team had begun to assemble nearby. With rehearsed professionalism, they discussed tactics and evaluated the team they were to play against. This opposition was assembled on the other side of the field and appeared to be going through the same process.
“They look easy to beat,” said Michael O’Leary.
“Yeah, we’ll walk all over them.”
“That big guy with the black hair looks mean.”
“Which one?”
“Um, number eight.”
“Reckon. Might be hard to tackle.”
“Aw rubbish. Just hammer him in the guts and he’ll go down like a ton of bricks.”
Trevor maintained an uncomfortable distance from the team, but their scanning gazes soon found him.
“Hey, the star reserve’s here!”
“What’s that you’ve got around your head, Huon?”
“You look like a red indian!”
“It’s a headband,” Trevor said, trying to sound coolly indifferent.
“Aw yeah. To keep the hair outta your face when you’re scoring us tries.”
“Maybe you should’ve plaited your hair instead,” said Bradley Clark.
“Maybe you should plait your tongue, Clark,” said Martin Grace, and everybody laughed.
Fuller arrived, cast a swift inspecting look over the team, and began checking off names.
“Anderson?”
“Here.”
“Barnes?”
“Here.”
“Briggs?”
“Here.”
“Clark?”
“Here.”
“Davies …?”
Surrounding parents offered a backdrop of advice.
“Don’t you forget our agreement, Michael …”
“One dollar for every try, Bradley!”
“Run them into the ground, Damian. Tackle them hard.”
“Just show them who the winners are. No TV for a week if you don’t.”
“And fifty cents for each field goal, Brad.”
Within earshot, Kath and Buckley exchanged horrified, sympathetically amused looks.
Fuller, meanwhile, launched into what he considered the most important of preambles to any football game: the pep talk to the team. He loaded his speech with emotion and aggression. He was masterly at talking the kids into a winning state of mind, and played on the shame associated with defeat.
“… just remember to get that ball passed out. You second rowers were just too slow last week. It’s up to us to have that ball in our possession as often as possible. Remember, the eyes of the town are here watching you. You’re a winning team out there, so let’s see some action today.” His voice became a calculating half-shout. “See those guys over there?” he asked, indicating the opposing team who on their side of the field appeared to be receiving much the same sort of rave from their coach. “See that team over there? They just haven’t a chance, as far as I’m concerned. Are we going to win or lose?”
“WIN!” came the team’s chorused reply.
“And we’re going to remain undefeated. Right?”
“RIGHT!”
“You’re going to tackle those guys hard and you’re going to move fast and score points. And we’ll go on to win the football competition for the third year in a row. Who’s the best team in the district?”
“CLUB UNDER TWELVES!” the team shouted back, and sprinted across the sidelines on to the field.
With a substantially smaller allocation of the glory for the three reserves – Jason Evans, Andrew Willis, and Trevor – retired to sit on the reserve bench, which was behind the halfway line and beside the bucket of half-time oranges.
In silence they watched as the two uniformed teams positioned themselves across the field. The spectators assumed an expectant silence, then came to life when the ball was kicked into play.
“Come on, Club!”
“Rub their noses in it!”
“Get him, Scott!”
Nearby, Kath and Buckley remained seated on the grass, surrounded by the raucous enthusiasm of the other parents. They watched the proceedings with the detached interest of people who didn’t quite know what was going on. Buckley was occupying himself pulling grotesque faces for the amusement of a couple of younger children who belonged to one set of particularly vocal parents.
“Hey,” said Jason Evans, “I heard your dad’s got a weird first name. What is it?”
“Buckley, you mean?” Trevor asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s his middle name, but he uses it as his first.”
“How come? That’s bloody weird, if you ask me.”
Trevor shrugged. “His first name’s really Craig. He just figured Buckley sounded a bit more suave.”
“Sounds weird to me. Hey, look. Brad’s going for the tryline! Come on, Brad!”
Trevor watched with slight interest. He was being careful to watch the game as it progressed in the hope of picking up a few playing hints to apply himself in the future, but his thoughts wandered. What caught his attention the most was the amusing sight of Fuller striding up and down the sideline, shouting advice to the team, and occasionally, abuse.
“You’re leading!” he yelled. “No excuse for dropping that ball, Anderson!”
“Fuller really goes mental, doesn’t he?” Trevor said.
“Yeah, does he what,” Jason answered, and grinned.
It was consistently intriguing to compare this Fuller with the person who occupied the stark classroom at school. Suddenly Trevor remembered the writing assignment, and thought over ideas that could suitably fill enough exercise book pages. With the audience noise behind him and the action of the football game in front, he temporarily removed himself to an imaginary level, until ideas began to fall into place. He resolved to write them down when he got home.
Kath and Buckley meanwhile, had been reluctantly drawn into conversation with somebody’s mother.
“And who’s your son?” the woman asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Oh, we’re new here,” Kath answered politely. “Our son’s Trevor. He’s just joined the team.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman nodded. “I believe he’s had some experience with other teams.”
Kath and Buckley looked perplexed. “No, he’s never played in an organised team before,” Buckley answered. “This is his first time.”
“Oh,” said the woman, with controlled surprise.
Trevor was out of earshot.
At half-time, the team left the field to regain their energy over mouthfuls of orange. They had gained a comfortable lead over the opposition, and Fuller and a few of the parents mingled with the kids and renewed their varying advice in loud tones.
Martin and Trevor stood a short distance from the group.
“The kids still think you’re a sissy,” said Martin.
“Stuff them,” Trevor said, shrugging, because the comments were starting to neither worry nor upset him.
“They think you’re a bit of a nut,” Martin added.
Trevor took a large bite out of his orange, and chewing it slowly stared thoughtfully at Martin. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
It was Martin’s turn to be thoughtful. “No, I guess not really,” he said finally, “but that’s only because I think I know something else.”
“Like what?” Trevor asked.
“Like …” Martin turned around to see if anyone was listening, “you’ve never played football before, have you? In a proper team, like you said?”
Halfway through another mouthful, Trevor stopped chewing and started feeling a bit sick.
“Have you?” Martin asked again.
“No,” Trevor finally answered.
“I didn’t think so,” Martin said.
“But how did you know?”
Martin wrinkled his nose. “I just guessed. I’m not stupid, y’ know.”
“Will you tell anyone?”
Martin thought for a moment. “No,” he answered.
EIGHT
“Winter’s well and truly with us,” Kath said, giving Trevor his thickest jumper to wear to school.
But the day was to become more than cold, because as the Friday afternoon wore on the wind began to lash at the town and the sky filled with heavy black cloud.
It was an ominous prelude to the last training session before the weekend match. With the chill sweeping across the expanse of the oval, the team huddled together on the sideline, and everyone seemed to be wearing tracksuits over the usual shorts and jerseys in an effort to keep warm.
Martin was making flippant references to the coming match. “Should be an easy game,” he said, holding his folded arms to his chest for warmth. “We put heaps on that team last time.” But nobody pursued the conversation. They weren’t over keen to do anything much, except perhaps to go home.
“Fuller’s late.”
“Maybe we’re early.”
“Huh!”
“Be nice if training gets called off today.”
But at that moment, a car pulled up beside the boundary fence and a familiar figure stepped out. As if on cue, the black clouds gave way and rain started to fall.
There was a chorus of groans.
“What’s wrong with you lot?” Fuller demanded when he reached them. He had an overcoat on and a large black umbrella perched above his head. “Get those pyjama things off.” He jabbed an impatient finger at the tracksuits. More groans.
The rain drummed louder and louder on to the open umbrella and, with it, Fuller’s voice seemed to get louder. “Right, get moving!” he commanded.
“Where, Mr Fuller?”
“Around the oval, of course. Jogging!”
“How many times?”
“Until I tell you to stop!”
The rain continued to fall, and bare heads and jerseys were getting wetter by the second. The team set off in a reluctant jog.
“Lift those feet!” came the voice behind them. “A bit more speed.”
Fuller seemed more impatient than usual. In fact, he’d been like this all day, giving everyone a hard time at school. The weather didn’t seem to be worrying him too much, equipped as he was with overcoat and umbrella. But his impatience had an edge of real anger about it today, and even now his voice was rarely dropping below a half-shout. Something seemed set to happen.
The team, if they noticed this at all, weren’t going to say much. The drizzle of rain had reduced them to subdued irritation.
“You cold, Scotty?”
“Freezing. My legs are gonna drop off any minute.”
“Shut up, McKay! Maybe Fuller’ll let us off early.”
“Huh. Maybe.”
Any other day it would have been a mere warm-up, but the jog today was cold and exhausting. Each lap of the oval seemed more like three, and each time they passed by Fuller with his umbrella they were commanded on.
“Another lap, Under Twelves. Keep those feet going!”
So they ran on, a wet, straggling bunch of fed-up kids.
Martin tried relieving the boredom.
“Come on, Huon. You’re weak!”
Trevor was too breathless to respond. He shot Martin a reproachful glance, and concentrated on keeping up with everyone else.
“Your legs are too short, Huon.”
“So’s the rest of him,” someone else added. At this, the team almost found an excuse for laughter, but instead were silenced by Fuller’s glare as they passed him yet again. The rain still drizzled and the ground turned to mud beneath their feet. They even lost count of the number of laps they’d managed to run around the oval. Each time around became slower and slower, until Fuller cut the exercise short.
“What’s the matter, then?” he called to the team as they assembled wearily nearby. “A few of us can’t take it, eh? What happens when we’re playing the big game and it starts raining? You bunch of flowers wouldn’t last till half-time.”
The team regarded him silently. Today they were not in the mood for pep talks; that could wait until the Saturday match.
Meanwhile, parents had begun to arrive, thinking that the rain would bring training to an early finish. They assembled with raincoats and umbrellas at the boundary fence, and amid the huddle of cars and mums, Trevor could see the kombi.
But Fuller was not finished. “Right!” he said crisply, “I want to see two even lines. Facing me.”
Uncertain of what was to happen, the team lined up.
“Mr Fuller,” someone said, “can we put our tracksuits back on?”
“No!” he shouted back. “Not until I’ve finished.” His eyes swept across the silent group, and the kids in turn watched him expectantly, waiting for whatever was to be said. For a minute or more this silence was maintained.
The rain came to a stop and Fuller slowly and methodically closed his black umbrella and laid it carefully on the ground. He renewed his icy stare then, looking without expression at the bedraggled team with their rain-soaked hair and faces, listening to the undercurrent of post-jogging puffing and breathing.
At last he spoke. “A fine lot you are–” although it was irrelevant to what was to follow. He shot them another icy look. “I thought you might all like to know something,” he added. “It has recently come to my attention that we have a troublemaker of sorts on our hands.”
He paused for a moment. The team returned his stare.
“To put it more simply, one of you is a liar.”
A few pairs of eyes instantly seemed to search out Trevor, who was standing in the back row beside Martin Grace.
Fuller continued. “One of this team – and I think most of you know who it is – has lied to you and has lied to me. We are now going to deal with this person.”
Trevor could only find the muddy ground to stare at. He could feel people looking at him, could see his hands trembling, and not just from the cold.
His mind was racing over what could now happen. Only one person could have told Fuller. Any confidence he might have felt towards Martin vanished and he angrily regretted having trusted anybody. He felt sick.
Fuller was speaking. “Come here, Trevor Huon.”
Trevor remained still.
“Come here!”
As he finally moved, Trevor caught a glimpse of the parents, who were attentively watching and listening to all that was happening. At the edge of the group, with an intrigued look on his face, was Buckley.
Do something, Dad, Trevor thought frantically as he felt Fuller grasp his shoulder. When at last he looked up, it was the team he came face to face with.
“Did you lie to us, Trevor Huon?” Fuller asked in a quiet voice. Trevor said nothing, switching his gaze from the perplexed team to his own muddy shoes.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” Trevor finally answered.
“Have you ever played football before, Huon? Seriously?”
Trevor took a deep breath. “No.”
“Why then have you been telling us otherwise?”
“I don’t know.” It was barely a whisper.
“Speak up!”
“I don’t know,” he repeated, stifling the tears that were rising in his eyes, the pain in his throat. Whatever fraction of pride he had left was not going to let him cry in front of everyone.
“Well,” Fuller turned away from Trevor a
nd faced the team. “So much for our new player.” There was sarcasm in the coach’s voice, and he let it occupy another moment of silence.
The team remained in their two even lines, neither moving nor speaking. Their collective faces weren’t angry or even mocking, like Fuller’s. Instead they were subdued, confused and not entirely sure of what was happening.
Fuller was not yet finished, and he spoke now, crisp and businesslike.
“Well, Under Twelves. What are we going to do with this … liar? Allow him to remain in disgrace on our team? Letting us down? Or shall we ask him to leave altogether, and just forget it ever happened?”
Fuller’s jaw was set, and he seemed to have already made his own decision. The team looked across uncomfortably at Trevor, looked down at their boots, shot shrugging glances at each other.
“Well?” Fuller asked of them.
Trevor remained perfectly still, eyes cast downward.
“Well?” Fuller demanded again.
At last, someone spoke. “Let him stay. He’s a good runner.” Martin Grace’s voice.
Fuller almost shouted. “What was that?”
“Let him stay,” Martin said once more, his voice muffled by uncertainty. But at that moment, a new voice cut in.
“Just what the hell is going on here?”
Everyone’s attention switched from Fuller to Buckley. An angry-faced Buckley, with his cement-dusty boots and his hands on his hips.
“Well? Is this a training session or a court martial?”
“Your son,” Fuller said with sudden politeness, “has deliberately misled us. I felt it was time his teammates found out. Before it became more of a problem.”
“What d’you mean, ‘more of a problem’?” Buckley snapped angrily. “If you couldn’t even tell he hadn’t played before, I can’t see what the problem is!”
“I don’t like dishonesty, Mr Huon.”
“Does that mean you make an example of my son like this? Surely there are better ways of dealing with the situation.”
A dull flush spread over Fuller’s face. “Mr Huon, I’ll thank you to leave the disciplining of my team to me,” he said through tight lips.
Buckley paused, looking sidelong at the blank faces of the team, and then at Trevor, who had his hands stuffed into his pockets and his gaze still fixed at his feet.